Postcard #26: Hell is a cackling French girl

Standing in the corner next to the oven in the sprawling five bedroom apartment of a friend, abandoning the party on the rooftop terrace, I considered the many ways to live as an expat. The spindly French girl in the pilling, polyester red dress upstairs has been living here for two years. Every two to three months, she returns to France and despite all the culinary bounty available, she returns to Bangalore with a suitcase full of French breakfast cereal. From all evidence, she loves Coco Puffs, chain smoking and fast fashion.

Before I abandoned the cold terrace with it’s relentless mosquitos to stand next to the slowly cooling oven, we talked about the expat population of Bangalore. She lamented over the stay-at-home French MILF population who have nothing better to do than to organize charity or cultural functions, get their nails done and wait for their husbands to come home. According to her, once these women return home, their nails will be so perfect, they will be good on manicures for the next 15 years. Adding to her defaults, apparently she also doesn’t know how fingernails work. Later in the evening, this same French girl admitted to pursuing the 19 year-old intern and joked that she too was a MILF. We all go abroad for different reasons, but normally we have more wisdom or grace to show for it. Instead, some, cackle in the night air as they complain about the inconveniences of the country where they chose to live. 

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