La famille recomposée

It isn’t just the Sarkozys whose domestic affairs are complex, writes Janine di Giovanni. They’re all at it. Modern French life is a potage of wives, exes, new babies and grown-up kids

The wan grey light at Gare du Nord at Christmastime always reminds me of my move to Paris six years ago. I was heavily pregnant, weeks away from birth in a foreign country. The train ride across the Channel with my new French husband was swift, but I was acutely aware of the 20 years of life I was leaving behind in London as we passed the wet, snowy flatlands of northern France. How naive I was. I truly believed, having spent most of my life outside the country of my birth, and even then, being the daughter of an Italian who immigrated to America, that I would adapt easily to a new culture. I had lived and worked all over the world, and survived some of the worse conflicts and wars. What could be so complicated about the French? I had grown up with French films, books and culture. My first perfume was Chanel No 5. My favourite writers were French.

I will not bore you with the details of my birth in a French public hospital, which was more shocking than any emergency room in a war zone. Or fighting, and losing (but then winning — it’s a long story) the right to breastfeed in a country that discourages it because it ruins your figure. Even the bizarre experience of la rééducation périnéale — which for decency sake I am unable to explain in this magazine — paled in comparison to my lessons about French family life.

It started on the stretcher being wheeled into the delivery room. I mentioned — in between shrieks — that my mother had given birth to seven children.