I Moved To Paris Age 19 And My Life Turned Around

Why all young people should leave home … for a while

When I was 17, I failed my A levels at school, the British exams that you need for university. I didn’t just fail, I got ‘unclassified’, not even worthy of a mark.

As I had done well in my high school exams, age 15, and didn’t know what to do next, I stayed on for two years to study for A levels. I was unprepared for the extra work I’d have to put in. When I failed them, I had no choice but to enter the world of work.

My family life at the time was a little complicated, my mother was away a lot, my father suffered from depression and my sister and I had no other family.

It was the late 1980s and we lived in the London suburbs. Both parents were in the Netherlands quite a lot. Weekends were spent driving to huge raves in secret rural locations. I enjoyed earning money to party.

At some point, I grew bored. My office work wasn’t challenging, I saw the same faces every day, plus strip lighting, grey faces and chit-chat, punctuated by tea runs and bathroom breaks.

At some point during my time as a temporary secretary, I remember sitting in the bathroom sobbing quietly. Was this life?

Sure, partying was fun, but I could see that it wasn’t going to end well for some, and I knew I was capable of more.

I had been good at French at school, and my Dutch mother was a former air stewardess who spoke five languages. Our family had travelled through France to the Netherlands every summer, so trying life in another country didn’t scare me. In fact, my mother had been an ‘au pair’, a low-paid home help, when she was young.

So, with her encouragement, I placed an ad in a national French newspaper offering myself as an au pair to a French family. I figured I’d practice my school French, live in a fabulous city, see new things and go shopping.

I couldn’t imagine it would change my life.

Just three days after placing the advert, I found myself on the short flight from London to Paris, ready for four months living in the centre of the city. The parents were a French-Chinese couple in the financial sector and my charges were 4-year-old twin boys. They had me, a Moroccan maid and parents they mainly saw at weekends.

I worked long hours, doing more than an au pair usually would, and the parents did not want me going out after dark. Fair enough, I guess. I was over 18, but they probably didn’t want trouble.

The French people I met always asked which university I planned to attend back in the UK. Everyone assumed I would continue my education.

When I heard myself explaining it just wasn’t my thing, over and over, I realised how ridiculous it sounded. University education in the UK back then was totally free, and I had my parents’ support.

Maybe I thought it was not for the cool kids.

Less than 25% of the UK population went to university back then, so I wasn’t unusual. Now, over half of all young Brits continue their education, despite the fact it is no longer totally free.

Those short months of living another life, in another culture, with different values, showed me the world. Literally.

They showed me the limitations of never leaving home, never questioning your view of the world, never knowing that your identity is shaped, but not fixed, that we have to leave ourselves to know ourselves.

When I returned to the UK that autumn, I immediately registered for a one-year intensive course, to study and pass the exams I had previously failed.

When I walked back into the local bar that had been my weekend home, and saw the same old crowd, I felt taller and it seemed smaller. I loved seeing my friends, but I’d seen a bigger world now, and I wanted more.

Thanks to the Paris experience, I sailed through my exams the following year, and then spent three years studying politics at university, a year of that in Santa Barbara, California.

Travelling became a passion and I’ve travelled so much more since. I worked for years in educational travel and with young people taking their first trips outside the USA. What a privilege to witness. So many times I heard them utter (while learning flamenco steps in Spain or market shopping in the south of France) — ‘This is the best day of my life’.

I know the feeling. The day I landed in Paris was maybe mine. It was the day my life really began.

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