France and I are getting to know each other all over again

Colin Randall

• Last Updated: April 07. 2009 9:30AM UAE / April 7. 2009 5:30AM GMT

The French are in one of their rebellious moods, taking to the streets and even taking bosses hostage as economic woes pile up. But two trips to France can still do wonders for the morale during a tricky period of resettlement.

Within a week of leaving Abu Dhabi, business has taken me to Paris and family duty to the western département of la Sarthe.

Since even a working visit to the City of Light can be a joy, especially in early spring, the need for a desperately early start seemed little hardship. After the mist that shrouded the green pastures of Kent, the morning sunshine illuminating the plains of Picardy came as a welcome sight.

France was looking good. I did not even know then that a treat was in store: a delicious, decorative plate of tapas at Hélène Darroze’s Michelin-starred Left Bank restaurant.

Maybe I had just needed cheering up. Departures from places of residence, study or work can be difficult and it would have been unnatural to leave the UAE without traces of regret. The sadness somehow deepened a couple of days after my flight to London when, out of the blue, an e-mail invited me to a meeting linked to my membership of a modest academic committee. I had agreed to join many months earlier, but the committee never quite got round to convening during my stay in the country.

The return to Europe had been made no smoother by the shopping experience. I swear I spent more in one visit to Tesco than on the combined checkout bills at LuLu and Spinneys in the preceding month. To be fair, I also established contact with a helpful executive who promised to resolve the long-running saga, mentioned here last week, of the gatepost rearranged by one of his home delivery drivers.

In these early days back in the West, I reflect constantly on the office camaraderie in Abu Dhabi, the friendships and associations made, all that travel around the region that I was able to make.

Swift reacquaintance with France, which I have come to regard as home, was therefore important therapy.

Another hurdle remains to be negotiated. Before moving to the UAE, I had at last started to feel reasonably comfortable in the language of Molière. I have never claimed fluency; reasonable comfort meant only that I spoke what I spoke with a passable accent, cutting corners and steering conversation in a direction consistent with my level of knowledge. But I got by, and was never reduced to the unattractive British habit of covering up linguistic shortcomings by speaking English louder and slower.

It took one phone call, albeit on a poor line to France from a London railway station, to show how rusty I had become. If I may be allowed to invent Easter resolutions, it is clear what mine must be. Now let us see: la plume de ma tante...