PART 1
Cher peuple de Leeds, bonjour. Je m’appelle Naomi, j’ai trente ans et je suis française. Oui, exactement : je suis une Froggie.
Got it? Fret not; I’m teasing you—breathe and have a seventh cuppa tea, for I promise you that I will not write this entire article in my mother tongue. I don’t miss it enough to do so— not yet. However, beware: if I am ever lucky enough to write for you again, if the memories of a crunchy baguette and the typical French bad mood become too difficult to bear as well as subjects of heart-tearing homesickness, I might be tempted by the surprising challenge.
in July 2024
For now, as I said, I don’t miss French yet. I landed in Leeds from Paris on the seventeenth of August and by now I am familiar enough with most British things to feel comfortable amidst them.
(Naomi’s words are translated as ‘Dear people of Leeds, hi. My name is Naomi, I’m thirty and French. Yes, that’s right: I’m a Froggie.’)
This is exactly why, almost a year ago, I decided to embark on the journey of trying to live elsewhere and embrace a new environment—because I had begun to feel enough at ease with your beautiful, wet, odd, quirky, Marmite-loving, historically and literally astounding country. You could easily compare it to the moment in a relationship during which you feel ready—or sort of expected to, depends—to reach the next step with your romantic partner
and move in with them. It was time.
Ten years ago, though, I was not. Holy moly, I sure wasn’t. At twenty-one, the gap year I spent in Glasgow between my degrees was an absolute disaster. No offence, Glaswegians and other haggis-enthusiasts—but yeah, it was proper torture. I was too young, too dependent on my family still, too shy, too shocked by the Scottish accent that was smashing all the confidence I had in my knowledge of English, too annoyed by the staggering torrential rain that ruined my hair and shoes, in too much mourning for an éclair au chocolat stuffed with proper custard—and not whipped cream. I was a giant baby Froggie being eaten alive by Nessie and just wanted to go back home.
In October 2023, however, after the boyfriend I had spent the entire summer with cowardly sent me a letter to put an end to our relationship that I was desperately trying to make sense of or find the words myself to get rid of him, something seemed to have “clicked” in my head. That was it – I had had enough. After tumultuous relationships that had only made me weep for months and with a job that stressed and bored me to the extreme, the survival part of my brain eventually decided that, yep, that was it. Sick of this, done with this. I needed some fresh air.
I needed novelty, change, a challenge, risk. I was a teacher and the French educational system had sent me to various Northern and Western parts of my dear country to teach the mini-us (full of hormones, nonchalance, boredom and silly giggles commonly known as teenagers) the delicate international language that English is.
For seven years, I was, therefore, never able to choose where I would work and live. For seven years, every summer, I was transferred to different towns, sometimes regions, had to find new places within a month and move. I could never properly settle, develop relationships and start the adult life I had dreamed of. And I absolutely hated that those invisible, almighty instances had the power of decision over the most basic parts of my life.
I wanted to quit several times—but then what would I do? How would I pay the bills? Except for English and books, I did not know a single thing in the world—never ever could I have worked with my hands. I knew who I was—I was not a teacher, not a manual person either; I was a writer. That had always been my calling. Yet, writing, in most cases, does not pay your rent or put food on your plate. In a word, I was scared.
Until I wasn’t. Last year, then, I traded all the safe aspects of my life for a new one. What does one do when one can’t see any prospects for oneself where one is? One pisses off. Where would I piss off to get new prospects? To the UK, of course! Scotland, even after ten years of not being in touch, was still too painful a memory to be considered. Wales …
Heavens, I did not know a thing about Wales—that was perhaps too drastic a change. Northern Ireland was tempting, but if I had to move to the green island, that I knew and loved already, why not pick the Republic? Moving to an EU country, after all, would have made my plan so much easier. I knew it back then; I am shocked at how much it’s true today.
PART 2
And yet, despite it all, England has got something, hasn’t it? I knew it, had been to all its biggest places; it was a challenge, yet not too unreachable a goal. Plus, it was closer to France if something went wrong, in case the Hundred Years’ War somehow got back to where it finished, actually made it to become a hundred years’ conflict and I had to run and swim back to Normandy to save my skin.
So, l’Angleterre (England), apparently for survival reasons, became my main target. Throughout all autumn, I sent hundreds of job applications. I was realistic enough to know that I would need employment to last in the long run. Not to mention that the consequences of Brexit would have stopped me in my dreamy boldness anyway had I considered emigrating to Britain without a contract signed beforehand—I imagined Brexit as a broad lad, frowning and obviously not very happy about me coming to invade his great nation, stretching his immense and very white arm in my direction, and marking a STOP with his hand. Fair enough, big bloke. Show me your rules—I’m incredibly stubborn, you shall not keep me out for long.
And the big bloke did.
Then the small French girl I am seemed to shrink once faced with the list of requirements. La vache! (blimey!) Did I really need all that? I was literally a neighbour and it felt like I had to tick a hundred boxes and show a million documents to cross the road that the Channel could have been. I was, though, still determined and realised that the appropriate visa for me was the one they call “the Skilled Worker visa”. None of the others could have suited, for my British ancestors, as far as the DNA test I took for fun some years ago said, only included either a bunch of peasants who must have settled in Normandy in the Middle Ages, or some mysterious Briton who must have caught the eye of one of my Norman great great great great Nannas who did not ignore him for long.
I was not a political or war refugee, nor a brilliant artist or internationally acclaimed athlete. In other words, clearly not a priority for the UK, which was understandable. The only things I could give to Big Lad in exchange of a resident card were my hands and brain. Dear God help us all. Yet I did give them to him. Along with over £3,500. Immigration has a cost. In all shapes and forms.
But that was months after I somehow got the perfect job for me: a secondary school in Leeds accepted my application for the librarian post they had a vacancy for after a video job interview in December. And they were the only ones. The hundreds of applications, CVs and motivation letters I sent to London, Bath, Manchester, Brighton, Exeter, Bristol, Lincoln, Birmingham, Stoke-on-Trent, Bradford, Plymouth, Southampton, Portsmouth—and nonetheless Cardiff, Edinburgh, Belfast, too—were, despite my tenacity and qualifications, either rejected or remained answered. The problem, surely, was that I did not have the right to work in the UK yet. However, I needed a job to earn that right … I was trapped in a vicious circle. Until that school in Leeds gave me a chance and, still today, after my first week with them, I feel incredibly grateful.
Then it was all a matter of hoping that everything would be fine, of remaining patient, of chasing French
references to send to my Leeds employer even though references aren’t a thing in France, of waiting for codes
and magic numbers which would act as keys able to open the doors of the UK to my humble little person.
Then of a day trip to Leeds after New Year’s to visit the City with my English best friend—who since then has become my unofficial husband-to-be—and then later trips from my hometown, Rouen, to Paris in order to complete my online application for a visa.
In Paris, in the queue with tens of other people whose minds and hearts were probably filled with dreams similar to mine, I felt astonished by their courage. I had found the steps to the UK borders tricky; and yet I spoke English, had the financial resources to apply for a visa and book return train tickets to Paris and back, was emigrating alone and had nobody but myself to worry about. They were bloody warriors. They had mountains to move—I had barely moved an inch. Although I obviously failed drastically in the hours that followed, I promise I took the solemn vow, at that moment, to never complain about the realisation of my project again.
PART 3
All in all, after months and months of preparation, I finally booked my single plane ticket and started the journey of my life in August, leaving my grandmother in tears at the French customs—time and distance seem to be experienced differently by loving grandparents, for I am seeing her in a couple of weeks.
I travelled, finally making my dream come true … with five enormous suitcases following me like a curse—although a nice enough curse, made of books, sulphate-free shampoo, cherished clothes and electric adaptors (told you, I was definitely the VIP-kind-of immigrant).
Even though I was officially homeless, staying with my boyfriend in Lincoln—yes, the same person who had
accompanied me to Leeds in January—I was relieved I had booked some viewings for flats and studios in
advance. Crikey, I remember I thought, the rents are no joke here. I was worried my new salary would actually not enable me to afford something in town—and yet I didn’t have a car in England yet so it would simply have to do. I also knew about the cost of living in the UK, had heard about its “crisis”, and figures were running like headless chickens in my head—yet I would not surrender.
My resilience—or stubbornness, I suppose it depends on how you see things—cost me, not only a lot of money, but also a great deal of stress and doubt. I had papers, cash, my entire family’s and friends’ support, indubitably enough luggage and belongings to survive five years, and yet no place of my own. I couldn’t possibly travel from Lincoln to Leeds every working day. Yet having no address implied no bank account, no salary, no peace of mind and entailed complete instability, which frightened the reasonable, bookish, privileged me to the bone.
So the only thing I could do, since giving up and flying back to Papa et Maman’s (Dad and Mum’s) in a state
of despair was absolutely out of the question, was to book an Airbnb place in Leeds and view as many properties as I could before starting work.
Viewing places is fun: you can be nosy and are even expected to be so. Obtaining all the paperwork you need to sign a tenancy agreement and get the flat is, however, an earthly experience of hell. I had, again, no UK bank account, so couldn’t get any place whatsoever. Yet I couldn’t open an account unless I had an address in the UK. I had money for a deposit, had planned the whole thing in France—yet my cash kept being shrugged at and my suggestions of a transfer from my French account were just laughed at. I felt like British estate agents just enjoyed teasing my French, hot-tempered blood.
After nearly a week spent in that Airbnb room in Armley, I finally found a flat where I could live as long as my one-year visa allowed me to—and quite a lovely flat at that. It was an enormous relief indeed, for, just as mint sauce and the car-first-pedestrian-second thing are cultural shocks to me, the legal norms of rental accommodation in the UK sometimes made me speechless during viewings. Even in my hurry and anxiety, I had to turn down some places without a blink.
All is well now. Although opening a UK bank account feels like hiking the Mont Blanc—and I still haven’t as some new documents are now expected of me—all is well. I have started the job that acted, to me, as a bridge between our two countries. I have met my new colleagues who are simply adorable and whose West Yorkshire accents sound so exotic to my foreign ears. There is a Costa café only seven minutes from me and I can finally find proper veggie options in grocery shops. I know that, contrary to France, Christmas decorations will illuminate the City’s streets in less than six weeks. I had enough culot (nerve) in me to get in touch with Leeds Living and just point at myself, letting them know that some French girl right here was after any excuse to write. So, yes, all is well.
Driven by my naive ambition—which, surprisingly, has helped me get most of the things I now have—and by a
fresh vision that came with my new life and environment, making me feel like I was no longer chained to anything
and could start all over again, I also contacted various bookstores in Leeds and mentioned my published works to them. Who knows? Maybe you and I will meet some day at an open mic event or at a creative writing workshop organised by a cute, urban, indie bookshop. Until then, I will keep writing, and writing, and writing, enjoying my new job, learning new words, crossing my fingers each time I send my lately completed detective novel to British and Commonwealth literary agents and publishers, drinking too much latte and faithfully trying to figure out the appeal of Scotch eggs on my way out of Tesco before remembering that eating snails for a Christmas Eve starter is certainly at least barbaric than wrapping hard-boiled eggs in sausage and breadcrumbs—or, wait, is it?
For now, though, cher peuple de Leeds, please keep being so kind and welcoming. Although I’ll always be a Froggie swearing in French when I’m trying Marmite again and realising that, nope, that thing and I might never be friends, I promise I’ll do my best to become a good Yorkshire lass.
À bientôt (see you later)
Main image: The Leeds Library.