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(Paperback)
At the age of twenty-eight, stuck in a dead-end job in London, and on the run from a broken heart, Bryce Corbett takes a job in Paris, home of l’amour and la vie boheme; he is determined to make the city his own—no matter how many bottles of Bordeaux it takes. He rents an apartment in Le Marais, the heart of the city’s gay district, hardly the ideal place for a guy hoping to woo French women. He quickly settles into the French work/life balance with its mandatory lunch hour and six weeks of paid vacation. Fully embracing his newfound culture, Corbett frequents smoky cafes, appears on a television game show, hobnobs with celebrities at Cannes, and attempts to parse the nuances behind French politics and why French women really don’t get fat. When he falls in love with a Parisian showgirl, he realizes that his adopted city has become home.
As lively and winning as Peter Mayle’s A Year in Provence and Sarah Turnbull’s Almost French, Sex and the City of Light evokes the beauty, delights, and charms of Paris for an ever-eager audience of armchair travelers.
a refreshing variation on a shopworn theme: the Anglophone at large in the French capital, coping with the language barrier, inaccessible Gallic women and bad plumbing.
More Reviews and RecommendationsBRYCE CORBETT is an Australian journalist and former newspaper gossip columnist living in Paris. He worked in London for two years, including at The Times, and has written for a variety of international publications including People, Harper's Bazaar and Vogue.
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June 02, 2008: A Town Like Paris must rank as one of the most pointless books I have ever read. The advertising makes out that Bryce Corbett has a fantastic adventure in France, learns the culture and eventually marries a dancer in a Paris cabaret. The truth is not so exotic or adventurous. He goes to Paris as a bored bureaucrat, admits that he has maybe one French friend and his wife is Australian. The worst of the many faults with A Town Like Paris is the boredom it induces. Corbett's 'adventures' are quite dull. He explains nothing about Paris that I didn't already know or couldn't find in a Lonely Planet guidebook. He has so little to say about the city that he has to resort to writing about his family and some old cliches about Australia, such as the notion that we are obsessed with renovation and Aussie men can't express emotion. When you realise that the many chapters on Australia are based on cliches from the 1980s you have to think that what Corbett says about Paris is just as unoriginal. Then there is the fact that Corbett happily says he is a conniving person. He provides plenty of examples of the way he is just in it for himself. The reader is expected to believe that such a selfish person would write an honest account of his experiences. I have serious doubts that is the case. To top it all off the writing is bland and inelegant. Which is only fitting for a book that scores very low when it comes to class and style.