Pitching in Paris
Woke up in plenty of time feeling rested and calm. Then I realised my reading specs had gone AWOL. Had to get down on my knees, shining my iPhone under the bed, and checked the room over a dozen times before I found them wedged between the wall and the top of bed after twenty minutes my stress levels were restored. Hotel staff were very friendly at The Best Western Diva Opera close to La Folies Bergère, which I could just glimpse if I craned my head out of one of the windows.
All business for me, and I trundled my case around the corner to Rue Papillon where the little agency was, noticing how stylish everyone looked and hoping I didn't look like a tramp in my Berghaus dragging my cheap case. There, after going into the wrong door, I found Valérie, originally from Quebec, who introduced me to her team and gave me chouquette for breakfast with a cup of tea, bless her. I liked Val and her project manager Marie right away. And it seemed the most natural thing in the world to go outside with them to watch them smoke cigarettes, and later share a fast carnivorous lunch at a nearby bistro called the Albion. I had a millefeuille of peach, foie gras and mushroom, for starter and a steak of black pork, which I think may be wild boar, on a bed of creamy rice artfully strewn with artichoke and pea shoots. Both plates looked fantastic and tasted amazing. Small portions but a perfect amount for lunch. Also a small glass of good red wine and a delicious coffee. All this in the company of two charming and chatty Parisian ladies was rather splendid.
Other than this interlude, we worked hard refining the concepts we were going to pitch with. Had to type some stuff on Val's laptop and discovered I was typing gobbledegook. I never knew that French keyboards are configured differently to UK ones. Then in the afternoon we jumped into a cab across town affording me a mini tour of Paris. I'd not been there since my twenties. Newsflash: Hitler was right. Paris is a beautiful city, and needs protecting. The Champs-Élysées was decked out with French and Spanish flags after a state visit, everything gleaming and lovely and Val and Marie pointed out points of interest as we went.
Did the pitch. Valérie is really excellent. This is a woman who could sell snow to the Inuit. I did okay too I think. Really nice clients, and good chemistry.
Fond farewells with Valérie and Marie, who couldn't have been nicer or more friendly. I felt like I knew them really well by the end of the day. They showed me to a cab which took me to Gare du Nord despite nosing slowly through the traffic. In the cab I reflected on how the thought of going to Paris, pitching with a team I'd never met, to a client I'd never met was far more stressful than the reality. I found lots of people spoke to me in English after I'd assailed them with my French too, which is different to how I remember things being in my yoof.
Then the long journey home on Eurostar, focusing on Zombie Gunship on my iPhone while deep under the seabed of the channel. On balance, however, I think I prefer twenty minutes of dark dread to bucking and plunging in the sky. A snatched baguette at St Pancras, then a slow train home. The train stopped at Preston Park and I hurried up the hill, dragging my little case on its rollers behind me.
Home a little before 11 and finding myself delighted to be home in need of a glass of lager from the fridge, as I chatted with Lorraine and Betty. Meanwhile Betty had sprained her ankle today, falling over in the park on the way back from an annoying meeting in London. Lorraine getting very end of termish and giggling after a gin and tonic.
All business for me, and I trundled my case around the corner to Rue Papillon where the little agency was, noticing how stylish everyone looked and hoping I didn't look like a tramp in my Berghaus dragging my cheap case. There, after going into the wrong door, I found Valérie, originally from Quebec, who introduced me to her team and gave me chouquette for breakfast with a cup of tea, bless her. I liked Val and her project manager Marie right away. And it seemed the most natural thing in the world to go outside with them to watch them smoke cigarettes, and later share a fast carnivorous lunch at a nearby bistro called the Albion. I had a millefeuille of peach, foie gras and mushroom, for starter and a steak of black pork, which I think may be wild boar, on a bed of creamy rice artfully strewn with artichoke and pea shoots. Both plates looked fantastic and tasted amazing. Small portions but a perfect amount for lunch. Also a small glass of good red wine and a delicious coffee. All this in the company of two charming and chatty Parisian ladies was rather splendid.
Other than this interlude, we worked hard refining the concepts we were going to pitch with. Had to type some stuff on Val's laptop and discovered I was typing gobbledegook. I never knew that French keyboards are configured differently to UK ones. Then in the afternoon we jumped into a cab across town affording me a mini tour of Paris. I'd not been there since my twenties. Newsflash: Hitler was right. Paris is a beautiful city, and needs protecting. The Champs-Élysées was decked out with French and Spanish flags after a state visit, everything gleaming and lovely and Val and Marie pointed out points of interest as we went.
Did the pitch. Valérie is really excellent. This is a woman who could sell snow to the Inuit. I did okay too I think. Really nice clients, and good chemistry.
Fond farewells with Valérie and Marie, who couldn't have been nicer or more friendly. I felt like I knew them really well by the end of the day. They showed me to a cab which took me to Gare du Nord despite nosing slowly through the traffic. In the cab I reflected on how the thought of going to Paris, pitching with a team I'd never met, to a client I'd never met was far more stressful than the reality. I found lots of people spoke to me in English after I'd assailed them with my French too, which is different to how I remember things being in my yoof.
Then the long journey home on Eurostar, focusing on Zombie Gunship on my iPhone while deep under the seabed of the channel. On balance, however, I think I prefer twenty minutes of dark dread to bucking and plunging in the sky. A snatched baguette at St Pancras, then a slow train home. The train stopped at Preston Park and I hurried up the hill, dragging my little case on its rollers behind me.
Home a little before 11 and finding myself delighted to be home in need of a glass of lager from the fridge, as I chatted with Lorraine and Betty. Meanwhile Betty had sprained her ankle today, falling over in the park on the way back from an annoying meeting in London. Lorraine getting very end of termish and giggling after a gin and tonic.
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