I could really go for some Carpenters right about now. It’s dark, cold, rainy—a lethal combination that ensures I will never go out again! So I was supposed to have brunch and see a Karl Lagerfeld photography exhibit with Mike Fink, a Romanian/Parisian I met at my very first meetup today. However, I had my reservations as I’m not at all interested in the guy (duh) but I wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking. We had had dinner before (was supposed to be coffee but turned into dinner…) and he was very courteous, helping me put my coat on and such. But my feminine instinct told me the dude was probably interested. I’m starting to think I should slap a stupid “in a relationship” option on my Facebook profile just to get it over with.
It’s tough, you’re so desperate to make friends here that you accept any invitation you receive. I want to make friends, not date people. But is it possible to go out one-on-one with a guy here? I guess not, unless it’s just coffee and during the day. ANNOYING. It seems like all my friends will most likely be very young au pairs. But I digress. So when Mike called me Saturday night to confirm, I casually mentioned I had a girlfriend I hadn’t seen in awhile (little white lie, as I had just seen Kacy hours ago) and would like to bring her along to brunch. I felt this sent an effective message that I just wanted to be friends.
He got all blustery and told me to forget about our brunch, we could do it another time. Huh. But THEN (this is the clincher) told me this was “strike one.” Ahem. I really felt like telling him off at this point but I just politely ignored it. And he then proceeded to tell me a sexist joke about a cowboy and his strikes. Alrighty. Not even worth keeping as a friend at this point. Which is a shame because I really would have liked a native Parisian friend who would have helped me get my iPhone unlocked.
Men are so typical. They get so sensitive and touchy when a woman isn’t interested. You’re immediately not worth their time and they want nothing to do with you. I started overanalyzing the situation and thinking of the guy as a major creep: what kind of local loser goes to ex-pat meetups if only to pray on lonely Americans who jump at the chance for any kind of social invitation? In the States I more than likely would not have chatted as long, let alone agree to a coffee/dinner date. Sigh. Can I just wear a button that says “Not interested. Just here to make friends.”
I guess this is a stupid thing to complain about. I should be flattered, right? But I’m still just effing annoyed. It’s the sense of entitlement men get when they ask a girl out. You’re not the first guy, and you’re definitely not the last. Ugh. Annoyed. I thought about writing a very blunt email telling him exactly what I thought, but I figured that was too “forward American” behavior and I should probably just ignore his calls from now on. How do you say “passive aggressive” en Francais?
Thursday, September 30, 2010
My first and last Parisian nightclub
I met this girl named Alexia at the Jardin du Luxembourg because she wanted to practice her English. We had an awkward conversation and I left thinking I didn’t much care for her and she probably felt the same way. But now she invites me to clubs, her birthday party, and other nightlife events. Maybe she wants the novelty of an American friend, even though we have nothing in common? I finally relented to one of her requests to go to a private club called Les Bonheurs des Dames near the Champs Elysees on Thursday night. She warned me the dress code would be very demanding but the drinks free. Hmmm I do like free things.
But I didn’t pack extravagant clothes for my stay here. No heels, no silky frocks. I knew I would end up wearing hoodies and flats every day. So when I told her I would just a dress and boots, her reply tickled me:
"yes the dress code is VERY VERY FANCY everything is based on what you are wearing to get in so you need to wear a dress and a black jacket, jewelries, make up, and the highest hill yo have but no boots, boots are fashion, but not fancy, and take a brand bag if you have if not a small one,
see you tomorrow!! "
Designer bag? Fancy not fashion? Why did I have a feeling tonight would not work out? Luckily Kacy was up for the challenge, and we met up early as Alexia was running late. Not knowing where to go, we ended up following a fleet of ridiculously gorgeous teenager models, who of course all ended up going to the same place as we. Thus, the line was ridiculous, it started to rain, and we just weren’t feeling it. Plus I had to pee as usual. We ducked into a sexily chic restaurant next door called Boudoir and had our requisite cheap cups of espresso. (I swear to god, I think every night out will involve me and Kacy being cheapasses, drinking coffee, and all dressed up with nowhere to go.)
Thinking we had struck out for the night (and totally pissed I was wearing heeled boots, a minidress, and shitloads of eye makeup for no reason) we were pleasantly surprised by a glamorous, skeletal older woman approaching us. Speaking in a posh English accent, she demanded to know who we were and what our story was: “DAHLING! YOU’RE EXQUISITE! YOU MUST GO TO AU BONHEUR!”
I informed her of the long wait. Our chances didn’t look good.
“Dahling, just tell Mathieu at the door you know Vicki! Then give him a big kiss! He’ll let you in. Then come back later and join us at Eno’s.”
We decided this isn’t a bad idea. We air kiss Vicki goodbye and head back to club, meeting Alexia on the way. They are turning everyone away at this point, and though Kacy attempts to wheedle her way in with Mathieu, our attempts are in vain. Mathieu isn’t having it, unless Vicki personally calls him.
I’m at the “Fuck it I’m going home” stage so we slowly walk back until Kacy does a 180 and runs back into Boudoir to tell Vicki Cotton what happened. Vicki is indignant, but insists we stay at the restaurant until she's done with dinner, and then follow her to the club. Not knowing how long their extravagant dinner will last, we reluctantly sit at a table next door, order the cheapest drink there is (a verre du vin rouge) and munch on a bowl of pretzel sticks. Alexia and Kacy aren’t getting along, for various cultural and girl reasons. An hour later, we follow Vicki to the club. She flirts with the bouncer, gets us in past the red carpet, and we walk downstairs…to a basically empty club. It’s only midnight, after all. People don’t start here until 1am. We are treated to a glass of excellent champagne and watch the middle-aged DJ with wild Andy Warhol hair begin his stuff. He isn’t bad, and the room slowly fills with people. It’s a definite higher ratio of attractive people than I’ve seen in most places. Apparently a Belgian soap opera star was there, along with an Italian singer. There were girls dressed in Britney Spears schoolgirl outfits who had no job other than to sullenly bump their hips and look around the room. The requisite Guidos were the only ones buying drinks, and it was only bottle service at that.
The most entertaining aspect was Vicki herself. Balanced precariously on stiletto booties, she threw herself into a Ecstasy-filled rhythmic dry-hump sort of dancing that led her from the middle of the dance floor to the top of the couches to the DJ’s speakers. It was a sight to behold. I tried to avoid eye contact as I did not want to be dragged into the elastic-limbed dance. Maybe after a couple more glasses of champagne, which I definitely could not afford, and which no one was going to buy for us.
An hour passed, my feet began hurting, and the metro had stopped running. At the end of the day, all nightclubs are the same, full of wealthy creepy dudes and beautiful, naïve young women. It was time to go. Luckily, Alexia knew the Nocturne (night buses) very well and put me on the right one. Crowded and full of angry-looking ethnic men, I was just happy to have a seat and be on the road home. It took about forty minutes, dropped me a mile from my house, and then the skies opened up. Yes, I walked home in the chilling rain, feet throbbing, and cursing the day I was born. Well, more the day I decided to come to Paris. As horrid as those nights are, it’s almost worth it for the ecstasy I feel when finally getting home. My shitty hovel has never looked so cozy, and my cup of tea has never tasted so good.
I crawled into bed around 3am and promised myself never to go to a nightclub again.
But I didn’t pack extravagant clothes for my stay here. No heels, no silky frocks. I knew I would end up wearing hoodies and flats every day. So when I told her I would just a dress and boots, her reply tickled me:
"yes the dress code is VERY VERY FANCY everything is based on what you are wearing to get in so you need to wear a dress and a black jacket, jewelries, make up, and the highest hill yo have but no boots, boots are fashion, but not fancy, and take a brand bag if you have if not a small one,
see you tomorrow!! "
Designer bag? Fancy not fashion? Why did I have a feeling tonight would not work out? Luckily Kacy was up for the challenge, and we met up early as Alexia was running late. Not knowing where to go, we ended up following a fleet of ridiculously gorgeous teenager models, who of course all ended up going to the same place as we. Thus, the line was ridiculous, it started to rain, and we just weren’t feeling it. Plus I had to pee as usual. We ducked into a sexily chic restaurant next door called Boudoir and had our requisite cheap cups of espresso. (I swear to god, I think every night out will involve me and Kacy being cheapasses, drinking coffee, and all dressed up with nowhere to go.)
Thinking we had struck out for the night (and totally pissed I was wearing heeled boots, a minidress, and shitloads of eye makeup for no reason) we were pleasantly surprised by a glamorous, skeletal older woman approaching us. Speaking in a posh English accent, she demanded to know who we were and what our story was: “DAHLING! YOU’RE EXQUISITE! YOU MUST GO TO AU BONHEUR!”
I informed her of the long wait. Our chances didn’t look good.
“Dahling, just tell Mathieu at the door you know Vicki! Then give him a big kiss! He’ll let you in. Then come back later and join us at Eno’s.”
We decided this isn’t a bad idea. We air kiss Vicki goodbye and head back to club, meeting Alexia on the way. They are turning everyone away at this point, and though Kacy attempts to wheedle her way in with Mathieu, our attempts are in vain. Mathieu isn’t having it, unless Vicki personally calls him.
I’m at the “Fuck it I’m going home” stage so we slowly walk back until Kacy does a 180 and runs back into Boudoir to tell Vicki Cotton what happened. Vicki is indignant, but insists we stay at the restaurant until she's done with dinner, and then follow her to the club. Not knowing how long their extravagant dinner will last, we reluctantly sit at a table next door, order the cheapest drink there is (a verre du vin rouge) and munch on a bowl of pretzel sticks. Alexia and Kacy aren’t getting along, for various cultural and girl reasons. An hour later, we follow Vicki to the club. She flirts with the bouncer, gets us in past the red carpet, and we walk downstairs…to a basically empty club. It’s only midnight, after all. People don’t start here until 1am. We are treated to a glass of excellent champagne and watch the middle-aged DJ with wild Andy Warhol hair begin his stuff. He isn’t bad, and the room slowly fills with people. It’s a definite higher ratio of attractive people than I’ve seen in most places. Apparently a Belgian soap opera star was there, along with an Italian singer. There were girls dressed in Britney Spears schoolgirl outfits who had no job other than to sullenly bump their hips and look around the room. The requisite Guidos were the only ones buying drinks, and it was only bottle service at that.
The most entertaining aspect was Vicki herself. Balanced precariously on stiletto booties, she threw herself into a Ecstasy-filled rhythmic dry-hump sort of dancing that led her from the middle of the dance floor to the top of the couches to the DJ’s speakers. It was a sight to behold. I tried to avoid eye contact as I did not want to be dragged into the elastic-limbed dance. Maybe after a couple more glasses of champagne, which I definitely could not afford, and which no one was going to buy for us.
An hour passed, my feet began hurting, and the metro had stopped running. At the end of the day, all nightclubs are the same, full of wealthy creepy dudes and beautiful, naïve young women. It was time to go. Luckily, Alexia knew the Nocturne (night buses) very well and put me on the right one. Crowded and full of angry-looking ethnic men, I was just happy to have a seat and be on the road home. It took about forty minutes, dropped me a mile from my house, and then the skies opened up. Yes, I walked home in the chilling rain, feet throbbing, and cursing the day I was born. Well, more the day I decided to come to Paris. As horrid as those nights are, it’s almost worth it for the ecstasy I feel when finally getting home. My shitty hovel has never looked so cozy, and my cup of tea has never tasted so good.
I crawled into bed around 3am and promised myself never to go to a nightclub again.
Monday, September 27, 2010
A Field Trip to the French Countryside
I thought I was a field trip kind of person...but I'm actually the worst because I hate running on other people's schedules, not being able to pee when I want to, and standing around listening to stuff when I'd rather wander off by myself and take pictures of rotting logs. BUT when I saw the flyer at my French language school for a day trip to Giverny, Normandy, and some serious chateau-viewing, I signed up--and convinced my friend Kacy to as well.
We met up at 7am on Saturday morning. That is to say, I was the only one there on time, and everyone else strolled in around 7:45am. I'm learning that time is very flexible for French people--especially when it's an early Saturday morning. It was an odd group, old and young, mostly awkward, about 15 in all. I thought Kacy and I would meet a ton of people, but we ended up becoming buddy buddy with a lovely girl from Nottingham, England named Annabelle. Everyone else was weird in that "smelly freshman in a dorm" kind of way.
We hopped on a huge bus (I secretly love them, as you are high up on the road and can see everything) and traveled about an hour out of Paris. It was really nice to get away from the city, and see it from a different angle. To be honest, it looks kind of industrial and shitty when you drive into it.
Though it was cold and damp, Giverny was a magical place. Monet's gardens were exquisite, and his house gets 5 out of 5 cuteness points. It was a rambling old cottage painted pink with green shutters. Inside, the paint schemes were like one delicious pastel ice cream color after another. His kitchen, decorated with copper pots and blue mosaic tile, was a country girl's dream. The more I live in this big city, the more I long for the countryside. It's just so much more relaxing and tranquil. I hate waking up to the sound of construction, people yelling, motorbikes speeding, sirens going off. I have such cliche dreams about having a country cottage with a husband and a couple of pugs. No more big cities after this.
After that we went to a tiny town in Normandy, which was the picturesque small French village. We bought some amazing French Neufchâtel cheese from an old lady in the market. It's similar to Camembert, but more earthy. It's usually made in the shape of hearts. I also bought a la chouquette (a delicate fluff ball of pastry) and decided I would rather stay in the village than go back to Paris. There is something so appealing to me about having one patisserie, one boulangerie, and one farmer's market. You get to know everyone by name, and you never have to walk far. My ideal!
Back in the bus to a ruined old castle that to be honest was not that interesting. Oh, I should also mention the entire tour was conducted in French. Guess how much I got out of it? Maybe twenty words. The woman would babble in French, and I would turn to Kacy and say, "So, this castle is really old, it used to have three stories, and there were flowers somewhere."
Kind of annoying to pay money for a tour and not get anything out of it, but I should have known, as it IS a French language school. We all sat down in an underground portion of the castle and lunched on baguettes, super stinky Camembert, hard-boiled eggs, and cider. The best part was the apple tart and hot coffee they served afterward.
The next chateau was more impressive as it was still standing and filled with relics. The Normandy fashion back in the day was really unusual. Large capes, super tall bonnets, and huge jewelry. My favorite part were the ancient "toys" for children back then. One consisted of a wooden runner you stuck the kid in and forced them to run up and down a span of three feet for hours. Ah, the good ole days! I truly believe children should be "seen and not heard." When are we gonna go back to the pioneer days of child-rearing when kids actually worked?
We picked some apples from the tree, bid adieu to the countryside, and I promptly fell asleep on the bus. Again, I love having a busy day and then getting home in time for dinner, hot tea, and reading. Much more preferable than going out in the evening.
We met up at 7am on Saturday morning. That is to say, I was the only one there on time, and everyone else strolled in around 7:45am. I'm learning that time is very flexible for French people--especially when it's an early Saturday morning. It was an odd group, old and young, mostly awkward, about 15 in all. I thought Kacy and I would meet a ton of people, but we ended up becoming buddy buddy with a lovely girl from Nottingham, England named Annabelle. Everyone else was weird in that "smelly freshman in a dorm" kind of way.
We hopped on a huge bus (I secretly love them, as you are high up on the road and can see everything) and traveled about an hour out of Paris. It was really nice to get away from the city, and see it from a different angle. To be honest, it looks kind of industrial and shitty when you drive into it.
Though it was cold and damp, Giverny was a magical place. Monet's gardens were exquisite, and his house gets 5 out of 5 cuteness points. It was a rambling old cottage painted pink with green shutters. Inside, the paint schemes were like one delicious pastel ice cream color after another. His kitchen, decorated with copper pots and blue mosaic tile, was a country girl's dream. The more I live in this big city, the more I long for the countryside. It's just so much more relaxing and tranquil. I hate waking up to the sound of construction, people yelling, motorbikes speeding, sirens going off. I have such cliche dreams about having a country cottage with a husband and a couple of pugs. No more big cities after this.
After that we went to a tiny town in Normandy, which was the picturesque small French village. We bought some amazing French Neufchâtel cheese from an old lady in the market. It's similar to Camembert, but more earthy. It's usually made in the shape of hearts. I also bought a la chouquette (a delicate fluff ball of pastry) and decided I would rather stay in the village than go back to Paris. There is something so appealing to me about having one patisserie, one boulangerie, and one farmer's market. You get to know everyone by name, and you never have to walk far. My ideal!
Back in the bus to a ruined old castle that to be honest was not that interesting. Oh, I should also mention the entire tour was conducted in French. Guess how much I got out of it? Maybe twenty words. The woman would babble in French, and I would turn to Kacy and say, "So, this castle is really old, it used to have three stories, and there were flowers somewhere."
Kind of annoying to pay money for a tour and not get anything out of it, but I should have known, as it IS a French language school. We all sat down in an underground portion of the castle and lunched on baguettes, super stinky Camembert, hard-boiled eggs, and cider. The best part was the apple tart and hot coffee they served afterward.
The next chateau was more impressive as it was still standing and filled with relics. The Normandy fashion back in the day was really unusual. Large capes, super tall bonnets, and huge jewelry. My favorite part were the ancient "toys" for children back then. One consisted of a wooden runner you stuck the kid in and forced them to run up and down a span of three feet for hours. Ah, the good ole days! I truly believe children should be "seen and not heard." When are we gonna go back to the pioneer days of child-rearing when kids actually worked?
We picked some apples from the tree, bid adieu to the countryside, and I promptly fell asleep on the bus. Again, I love having a busy day and then getting home in time for dinner, hot tea, and reading. Much more preferable than going out in the evening.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Sri Lankans, cocaine, and the party that never existed.
I had to get up early on Saturday. Really ass-crack of dawn early. Like 5:30am. It involved walking a mile to the metro in the dark, ride it all the way to Champs-Elysees, and wait in line for FOUR HOURS to see the Palais de l'Élysée, the Presidential Palace of France. It's open one day a year to the public for French Heritage Weekend. Fine, I can force myself to do this. It's the "White House" of Paris, right? Maybe Carla Bruni will be serving coffee.
So I know I shouldn't go out Friday night. I don't even want to. I look gross, I'm wearing a baggy sweater and my requisite black leggings and glasses. But another au pair I hadn't yet met in real life invited me to meet up for a drink with her German couchsurfers and French boyfriend. Fine. I'll drag myself out, have one glass of wine, and head home, feeling sufficiently exhausted. I invite Kacy as well. But as I'm on my way to the place, the girl texts me saying they've moved on. I am immediately annoyed. This isn't America, where I can turn my car around, plug a new address in my GPS, and carry on. I was already at the correct metro, and I'm still new enough that I can't just go somewhere else without special, OCD instructions. Especially at night.
Once I meet Kacy we say "fuck it" and head to Oberkampf, hearing it's a good area for nightlife. Perhaps it is, but as we walked around, we didn't see much. Then again, most people don't party until after midnight and it was....10pm. I'm a grandma! We are about to give up but stop in at some brasserie for a cheap cafe. (Yes, it's all I can afford.) We are about to leave when a Sri Lankan comes up and tells me I look like Lily Allen. Okay, great. He offers to buy us a drink. Mmmm, not sure. Then he casually works in that he is a DJ heading to a private party. Would we like to join? Here is where my bad judgment comes in. I admit, I hate going out. But once I'm out and about and it's late and I'm there...I'm game for anything. I'd rather go out and have a shitty time and have a funny story later than nothing at all. So we agree.
We have a couple glasses of wine at the bar and talk to his weird, small friends. Then we head to Grands Boulevards metro stop. When we get out, it's hopping. But...(as we all knew was coming) we don't head for the party first. Oh no, we must first make a "stop" at a "friend's house." This involves stealthily creeping into a semi-decent apartment, but my instinct is already saying...bad idea. Bad. You should probably run home now. We walk into a shitty apartment full of creepy Sri Lankans giving us the evil eye. They then proceed to snort a lot of coke. We are offered some, but politely decline. I'm feeling weird and say, "Okay, let's go to that party now!!!"
So the guy walks out with us, but then says..."Let's stop at this pub to meet some other friends." It's a crowded Irish pub with a long line and more like a shitty bar on Sixth Street than anything else. We cut in line and go into a dance floor filled with sweaty study-abroad kids and a stereo blasting Top 40 hits from 2003. Oh, god. My worst nightmare. I sip at the glass of wine the guy bought me and think, game over. I find the restroom in the basement, take care of business, and then begin trying to convince Kacy to leave. That's one annoying thing about going out with someone. You can't just LEAVE when you want to. You have to beg, cajole, and demand to leave. She is having drinks bought for her (albeit by a creepy guy) so I have to physically pull her. No goodbyes, let's just walk quickly to the metro. I'm over it. I was over it an hour ago.
The guy follows us, but I ignore his pleas to stay. Once we get to the metro Kacy has no idea how to get home and calls her French boyfriend Michael for directions. His English is very poor so this doesn't work so well, especially in a crowded station, especially as she is a bit intoxicated. I'm a terrible friend, as I know exactly how to get home, and I just want to go. NOW. Once she seems to comprehend what's happening, I run all the way to my train.
I get home around 2:30 and wake up three hours later feeling, no surprise, like shit. BUT I'm proud of myself for getting up and actually going. It was a five hour trek in all, but I met some nice older ladies and we ended up going out for lunch afterward. I joked that only older women would get up this early on a Saturday just to view a fancy house. I love old lady friends! I need more--preferably a group of Jewish women from Brooklyn that like to tour museums and then sit around and complain about Paris. That would be my ideal.
So I know I shouldn't go out Friday night. I don't even want to. I look gross, I'm wearing a baggy sweater and my requisite black leggings and glasses. But another au pair I hadn't yet met in real life invited me to meet up for a drink with her German couchsurfers and French boyfriend. Fine. I'll drag myself out, have one glass of wine, and head home, feeling sufficiently exhausted. I invite Kacy as well. But as I'm on my way to the place, the girl texts me saying they've moved on. I am immediately annoyed. This isn't America, where I can turn my car around, plug a new address in my GPS, and carry on. I was already at the correct metro, and I'm still new enough that I can't just go somewhere else without special, OCD instructions. Especially at night.
Once I meet Kacy we say "fuck it" and head to Oberkampf, hearing it's a good area for nightlife. Perhaps it is, but as we walked around, we didn't see much. Then again, most people don't party until after midnight and it was....10pm. I'm a grandma! We are about to give up but stop in at some brasserie for a cheap cafe. (Yes, it's all I can afford.) We are about to leave when a Sri Lankan comes up and tells me I look like Lily Allen. Okay, great. He offers to buy us a drink. Mmmm, not sure. Then he casually works in that he is a DJ heading to a private party. Would we like to join? Here is where my bad judgment comes in. I admit, I hate going out. But once I'm out and about and it's late and I'm there...I'm game for anything. I'd rather go out and have a shitty time and have a funny story later than nothing at all. So we agree.
We have a couple glasses of wine at the bar and talk to his weird, small friends. Then we head to Grands Boulevards metro stop. When we get out, it's hopping. But...(as we all knew was coming) we don't head for the party first. Oh no, we must first make a "stop" at a "friend's house." This involves stealthily creeping into a semi-decent apartment, but my instinct is already saying...bad idea. Bad. You should probably run home now. We walk into a shitty apartment full of creepy Sri Lankans giving us the evil eye. They then proceed to snort a lot of coke. We are offered some, but politely decline. I'm feeling weird and say, "Okay, let's go to that party now!!!"
So the guy walks out with us, but then says..."Let's stop at this pub to meet some other friends." It's a crowded Irish pub with a long line and more like a shitty bar on Sixth Street than anything else. We cut in line and go into a dance floor filled with sweaty study-abroad kids and a stereo blasting Top 40 hits from 2003. Oh, god. My worst nightmare. I sip at the glass of wine the guy bought me and think, game over. I find the restroom in the basement, take care of business, and then begin trying to convince Kacy to leave. That's one annoying thing about going out with someone. You can't just LEAVE when you want to. You have to beg, cajole, and demand to leave. She is having drinks bought for her (albeit by a creepy guy) so I have to physically pull her. No goodbyes, let's just walk quickly to the metro. I'm over it. I was over it an hour ago.
The guy follows us, but I ignore his pleas to stay. Once we get to the metro Kacy has no idea how to get home and calls her French boyfriend Michael for directions. His English is very poor so this doesn't work so well, especially in a crowded station, especially as she is a bit intoxicated. I'm a terrible friend, as I know exactly how to get home, and I just want to go. NOW. Once she seems to comprehend what's happening, I run all the way to my train.
I get home around 2:30 and wake up three hours later feeling, no surprise, like shit. BUT I'm proud of myself for getting up and actually going. It was a five hour trek in all, but I met some nice older ladies and we ended up going out for lunch afterward. I joked that only older women would get up this early on a Saturday just to view a fancy house. I love old lady friends! I need more--preferably a group of Jewish women from Brooklyn that like to tour museums and then sit around and complain about Paris. That would be my ideal.
Children are gross.
This is not breaking news, but rather a thought that goes through my head about 58 times a day. Children are gross. They pick their nose while watching TV, idly eating what they find as though it were a potato chip. Every time a bowel movement is imminent, they announce it loudly to the world, "I have to take a little caca!"
They leave the door open during this intimate act. Sometimes they even sing during it. They don't flush.
If they eat something they don't like, they say, "I'm just going to make a little vomit," and on the plate a half-masticated piece of cucumber goes.
If these children were my own flesh and blood, surely I would still be disgusted, right? I mean, just because they're short and wear cute little jumpers and say nonsensical comments about puppy dogs flying doesn't mean they aren't as disgusting as Hobo Jim shitting himself in some street alley.
The End.
They leave the door open during this intimate act. Sometimes they even sing during it. They don't flush.
If they eat something they don't like, they say, "I'm just going to make a little vomit," and on the plate a half-masticated piece of cucumber goes.
If these children were my own flesh and blood, surely I would still be disgusted, right? I mean, just because they're short and wear cute little jumpers and say nonsensical comments about puppy dogs flying doesn't mean they aren't as disgusting as Hobo Jim shitting himself in some street alley.
The End.
A shitty poem I wrote because I was bored on the metro.
Always bring a book or an iPod. You never know when your train will break down, the huddled masses of unwashed bodies will press against you, and you fear this is your last memory before the terrorist's bomb goes off!
Ahem.
Narrow, chipped, cobblestone streets
Cigarette smoke wafts through the air
Intermingled with fruit stands and dog excrement in the streets
Men stare openly
Women glance in a bored, offhand way
The metro is suffocatingly sweaty and international
Raised voices provide a cacophony of different languages
All harshly alien to your own ears
Window displays filled with tempting pastries
Glittering with hardened sugar shells like jewels
You dare not buy one
Only for special occasions, you sternly tell yourself
Every day you walk past some monument or statue or building of (probably) utmost historical significance and you don't even realize it
How funny to be in arguably the most romantic city in the world completely alone
Indifferent on your best days, miserable on your worst.
Ahem.
Narrow, chipped, cobblestone streets
Cigarette smoke wafts through the air
Intermingled with fruit stands and dog excrement in the streets
Men stare openly
Women glance in a bored, offhand way
The metro is suffocatingly sweaty and international
Raised voices provide a cacophony of different languages
All harshly alien to your own ears
Window displays filled with tempting pastries
Glittering with hardened sugar shells like jewels
You dare not buy one
Only for special occasions, you sternly tell yourself
Every day you walk past some monument or statue or building of (probably) utmost historical significance and you don't even realize it
How funny to be in arguably the most romantic city in the world completely alone
Indifferent on your best days, miserable on your worst.
Let's play "Spot the American!" game
When I first arrived in Paris, (feels like six months ago, was only three weeks) my first instinct was to talk to every American I saw. On the metro, in line at the Monoprix, walking down the Rue de Rivoli. Unless you're all gawking at the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, spotting an American isn't all that common. Especially where I am: the southeastern suburbs of Paris--Saint Mande.
This is why I like to play the game "Spot the American." I always lose. There can be some fatass with white Reeboks, cargo shorts, pink polo, and I think for sure I have him pegged...and then he opens his mouth and lets forth a spew of gutteral, angry French. Merde, indeed. So it's not about who's wearing Harvard sweatshirts or skinny black pants--it's their expression. You can see the most elegant slim brunette dressed to kill standing on the Champs-Elysees...but if she's smiling, expresses interest in her surroundings, and makes eye contact without a shudder of disgust...she's probably from Ohio.
So back to my urge to speak to Americans. You're so lonely, so miserable, so alienated that even some bumfuck from Tulsa (no offense, Tulsa, heart you!) looks absolutely charmante. But, you learn to fight the urge. Unless they're super attractive and it's a long metro ride with no one else onboard and you actually washed your hair that day. Because, God FORBID you open your mouth in front of other French people, betray your hideous American-ness, and lose face altogether.
This is why I like to play the game "Spot the American." I always lose. There can be some fatass with white Reeboks, cargo shorts, pink polo, and I think for sure I have him pegged...and then he opens his mouth and lets forth a spew of gutteral, angry French. Merde, indeed. So it's not about who's wearing Harvard sweatshirts or skinny black pants--it's their expression. You can see the most elegant slim brunette dressed to kill standing on the Champs-Elysees...but if she's smiling, expresses interest in her surroundings, and makes eye contact without a shudder of disgust...she's probably from Ohio.
So back to my urge to speak to Americans. You're so lonely, so miserable, so alienated that even some bumfuck from Tulsa (no offense, Tulsa, heart you!) looks absolutely charmante. But, you learn to fight the urge. Unless they're super attractive and it's a long metro ride with no one else onboard and you actually washed your hair that day. Because, God FORBID you open your mouth in front of other French people, betray your hideous American-ness, and lose face altogether.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
French children are racist.
It's true. I experience it every day. Not on the the receiving end, but as an innocent bystander when we walk to the park or the ludothèque (a weird playhouse for urban children filled with games, dirty costumes, children, and other depressed au pairs.) Need proof? Here are my favorite examples:
Two Jewish men walked past us. "Look! They're Jewish! They're wearing little hats on their heads," M1 (Monster #1) yelled. Yes, thank you, now the whole neighborhood is aware as well.
M2: "See those people?" Points out two black women walking past us on our way home from school. "They're not French because they're black."
We're watching a British show featuring wild animals. Footage of a man wrestling an alligator is shown. The man is black. Little girl points at TV and says, "See, he's African. That's what they do. Wrestle gators."
A group of people with Down's Syndrome walked past us: "See them? They're sick in the head," M1 pointed out helpfully. (Okay, this isn't racist, but obviously the children are not being taught tolerance and discretion. These comments are all made very loudly and within full earshot of the Jewish/black/mentally disabled people.)
Obviously, I'm just as bad, because I'm now going to make blanket statements insulting all French children as a result of my interaction with two slightly horrid ones on an everyday basis.
Two Jewish men walked past us. "Look! They're Jewish! They're wearing little hats on their heads," M1 (Monster #1) yelled. Yes, thank you, now the whole neighborhood is aware as well.
M2: "See those people?" Points out two black women walking past us on our way home from school. "They're not French because they're black."
We're watching a British show featuring wild animals. Footage of a man wrestling an alligator is shown. The man is black. Little girl points at TV and says, "See, he's African. That's what they do. Wrestle gators."
A group of people with Down's Syndrome walked past us: "See them? They're sick in the head," M1 pointed out helpfully. (Okay, this isn't racist, but obviously the children are not being taught tolerance and discretion. These comments are all made very loudly and within full earshot of the Jewish/black/mentally disabled people.)
Obviously, I'm just as bad, because I'm now going to make blanket statements insulting all French children as a result of my interaction with two slightly horrid ones on an everyday basis.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
I thought taking care of kids was hard sober....
And then I tried it hungover. Like, the hungover where you can't walk, you can't brush your teeth, and your eyes are so swollen you look like a battered Chinese housewife. (Was that offensive? It's okay, I'm French now and can say racist things without worrying.)
How did this happen? I partied with an American band in Paris, that's how. A Texan band...even worse. My friend, the synthesizer and tambourine girl, was nice enough to meet up with me at the venue beforehand, a teeny tiny place called Espace B in the 19th arr. It was a bit of a dodgy area, and took three metro lines to get to. That is two transfers too many for lazy American me. We started off drinking whiskey, and then switched to pastis: a pretty-sounding anise-flavored liquor mixed with water and ice and magically turned white. They're mostly drunk in the South of France as an aperitif.
Then, the band ate dinner while I drank their bottle of wine. First mistake. (But how cool is it that you can eat dinner, drink wine, and then see a band all in a building the size of a one-bedroom American apartment?) The show was great, intimately sweaty and filled with front-row study abroad students screaming, "BROOOKLYYYNNNN!" Felt like I was back at SXSW all over again.
After the show my friend kept bringing me drinks, and with much variety. Always a mistake. From beer to wine to more pastis...I lost count. I seem to recall smoking cigarettes with some Turkish girls (who were really shitty come to think of it) and then I woke up in a cab. No idea how I got there, but the price was rather large. 30-something Euros. I only had 20. Here's where it gets really sad. I seem to recall trying to run away (I was drunk, didn't get very far) and then the mean cabbie grabbing me. At this point I think I began crying and rested my head on the trunk of the car. Here we remained, locked in a romantic tangle at 4am somewhere near my neighborhood.
We stayed there forever it seemed. I kept thinking, "Okay on the count of three...I'm gonna kick him in the shins really hard with my steel-toe boots and then run like the dickens!" But, sadly, I was so drunk/tired/disoriented I couldn't even lift my head. Then I remember blue lights...like an angel, but the Parisian police angels. They showed up, looked in my wallet, laughed at my silly American tears, and drove me home. Then I woke up the next morning and cursed the day I was ever born.
Getting blackout drunk in a foreign city alone is really stupid. Never again. Firstly, I can't afford it. Secondly, I can't handle my liquor. Thirdly, a wrestling match with an Algerian cabbie does not a fun Paris memory make. And you can bet my Tuesday with the kids was like dying a slow death. I can barely manage their high-pitched squeals when I'm healthily sober...when hungover, I thought about burying them in the sand at the playground and running until I puked out the evil inside me.
There is no moral to this story. On the plus side, M1 told me he hated me yesterday, so we've reached a new milestone! It's like the army...break them down, then build them back up. He's obviously realized I will not put up with his shit, so he can either back down or we will continue to make each other's lives miserable until one admits defeat. (Wanna guess which one? Yeah, it's no secret.)
How did this happen? I partied with an American band in Paris, that's how. A Texan band...even worse. My friend, the synthesizer and tambourine girl, was nice enough to meet up with me at the venue beforehand, a teeny tiny place called Espace B in the 19th arr. It was a bit of a dodgy area, and took three metro lines to get to. That is two transfers too many for lazy American me. We started off drinking whiskey, and then switched to pastis: a pretty-sounding anise-flavored liquor mixed with water and ice and magically turned white. They're mostly drunk in the South of France as an aperitif.
Then, the band ate dinner while I drank their bottle of wine. First mistake. (But how cool is it that you can eat dinner, drink wine, and then see a band all in a building the size of a one-bedroom American apartment?) The show was great, intimately sweaty and filled with front-row study abroad students screaming, "BROOOKLYYYNNNN!" Felt like I was back at SXSW all over again.
After the show my friend kept bringing me drinks, and with much variety. Always a mistake. From beer to wine to more pastis...I lost count. I seem to recall smoking cigarettes with some Turkish girls (who were really shitty come to think of it) and then I woke up in a cab. No idea how I got there, but the price was rather large. 30-something Euros. I only had 20. Here's where it gets really sad. I seem to recall trying to run away (I was drunk, didn't get very far) and then the mean cabbie grabbing me. At this point I think I began crying and rested my head on the trunk of the car. Here we remained, locked in a romantic tangle at 4am somewhere near my neighborhood.
We stayed there forever it seemed. I kept thinking, "Okay on the count of three...I'm gonna kick him in the shins really hard with my steel-toe boots and then run like the dickens!" But, sadly, I was so drunk/tired/disoriented I couldn't even lift my head. Then I remember blue lights...like an angel, but the Parisian police angels. They showed up, looked in my wallet, laughed at my silly American tears, and drove me home. Then I woke up the next morning and cursed the day I was ever born.
Getting blackout drunk in a foreign city alone is really stupid. Never again. Firstly, I can't afford it. Secondly, I can't handle my liquor. Thirdly, a wrestling match with an Algerian cabbie does not a fun Paris memory make. And you can bet my Tuesday with the kids was like dying a slow death. I can barely manage their high-pitched squeals when I'm healthily sober...when hungover, I thought about burying them in the sand at the playground and running until I puked out the evil inside me.
There is no moral to this story. On the plus side, M1 told me he hated me yesterday, so we've reached a new milestone! It's like the army...break them down, then build them back up. He's obviously realized I will not put up with his shit, so he can either back down or we will continue to make each other's lives miserable until one admits defeat. (Wanna guess which one? Yeah, it's no secret.)
Monday, September 13, 2010
So apparently I suck at ironing.
Sunday mornings are best spent in bed with a cup of tea and a stupid chick-lit book. Especially if it’s raining, I can tell myself it’s perfectly acceptable to not leave the house all day, unless I need to buy groceries. The au pair before me left behind “Confessions of a Shopaholic.” I will probably read the whole thing in three hours. If a fun little cotton candy book like this can succeed and become a movie, maybe my not-so-great American novel about being an au pair has a shot of at least being on Midwestern ladies’ book club list, right?
I spent my Saturday with my French mom and Dara, the daughter. She somewhat helpfully get a cell phone and plan here (still absolutely confused on how the pay-as-you-go plan works) and am slightly devastated at what a step back I’m taking with modern conveniences in my life. Perhaps it’s silly, but not having Wi-Fi access in my room or the ability to get it when I need it is quite awful. Unless I’m home during the day in the family’s apartment, I am disconnected and it sucks. I have no way of looking up fun stuff to do or talking to friends on Facebook or getting directions. I know it sounds like first-world problems, and I hope I will get over it soon and move on with my life. It’s just hard to have all those things and then give them up in a strange and foreign city.
And while I do like the parents of my charges better than the kids themselves, lately things have been a bit strained. For example, yesterday FM (French Mom) asked me if I had trouble with the iron.
“No,” I said. “It worked great!”
“Oh, mmmm. Well, then, we need to discuss the ironing. Lucius looked at the kids’ clothing and wondered, ‘Is this how they iron in Texas?!’ “
Mmmmm, indeed. It is part of my duties to iron the kid’s clothing once a week. Apparently I did a shiteous job, probably because I was talking to my mom at the same time. So, what I did wrong was not iron T-SHIRTS. T-shirts, for God’s sake. Oh, and apparently I need to fold the kids’ clothes like fucking sweaters at Gap. All so within two hours of wearing them they can rub Milka chocolate bars into them.
And later, when I casually mentioned I was going to a party that night and was looking forward to it, she says, “Oh, Lucius and I were going to the cinema.”
First of all, they said I would be rarely working Saturday nights. And, they went out last Saturday night. And, you would think they would give me a couple days advance warning so I wouldn’t make plans. Nice. But I didn’t back down, I just apologized. But, I did offer to babysit Sunday night, which is pretty shitty come to think of it, because that’s supposed to be my one guaranteed day off. So, we’ll see how often they pull this “we never go out but we’re going out the next six Saturdays in a row” crap. Maybe they’re trying to take advantage of me being a friendless loser while I’m still new here, before I’m so busy they can’t get ahold of me. I think that’s what the other au pairs did. While in reality, I’ll lie and say I’m going out, and then read Hillary Clinton’s memoirs in bed. (That’s the only English book I could find in their house. That, and a book of Irish jokes.)
So last night I met up with Mike from Ohio and Vadim from Ukraine. We got a glass of wine at a bar near the Ledru Rollin metro stop before going to the housewarming party. I wouldn’t go so far as to call Mike an asshole, but he’s one of those bros that thinks they are too cool for school and takes himself way too seriously. My theory is because he’s short and not that interesting, so he has to make up for it by being an aloof dick. He did seem very interested when I told him about the young Romanian girls I met at my French school.
I was hoping the guy having the housewarming party would be cool, as he is within walking distance of me and therefore convenient to have as a friend. Instead, he was a nice enough greasy Frenchman with bad teeth. But he did have lots of snacks lying about, which I appreciated. And, in a “the world is so small” kind of way, he actually knew the girl who was my family’s previous au pair. Weird. He constantly would do the “hook em” sign at me when we made eye contact, which is one American custom I really would not mind living without.
I met a very nice girl who was half French and half Australian (she was able to simultaneously possess both accents at once), and a young German girl whom I talked to for hours and didn’t understand half of what she said. She didn’t know any French, which made me feel better since she grew up literally next door and didn’t learn it. Most people there all knew each other from an improve class they take in Paris. When I think about it, that’s really something I should research. It’d let me get out my little acting bug which is still buried deep inside me, and meet a bunch of gregarious English-speaking narcissists. I met a guy from Chicago was very into Second City and invited me to see their teacher’s show on Wednesday. Of course, just talking about Chicago made me miss Colin.
After a couple glasses of wine and eating an embarrassing amount of cookies, I quietly excused myself to go home around 1am. I really do not enjoy the walk back home late at night from the Metro. It’s very dark, very quiet, and one or two guys will insistently exclaim, “BONSOIR!” to you as you walk. I am never so happy as to when I punch in the code, slam the front door, and run up six flights of stairs to my hovel.
I spent my Saturday with my French mom and Dara, the daughter. She somewhat helpfully get a cell phone and plan here (still absolutely confused on how the pay-as-you-go plan works) and am slightly devastated at what a step back I’m taking with modern conveniences in my life. Perhaps it’s silly, but not having Wi-Fi access in my room or the ability to get it when I need it is quite awful. Unless I’m home during the day in the family’s apartment, I am disconnected and it sucks. I have no way of looking up fun stuff to do or talking to friends on Facebook or getting directions. I know it sounds like first-world problems, and I hope I will get over it soon and move on with my life. It’s just hard to have all those things and then give them up in a strange and foreign city.
And while I do like the parents of my charges better than the kids themselves, lately things have been a bit strained. For example, yesterday FM (French Mom) asked me if I had trouble with the iron.
“No,” I said. “It worked great!”
“Oh, mmmm. Well, then, we need to discuss the ironing. Lucius looked at the kids’ clothing and wondered, ‘Is this how they iron in Texas?!’ “
Mmmmm, indeed. It is part of my duties to iron the kid’s clothing once a week. Apparently I did a shiteous job, probably because I was talking to my mom at the same time. So, what I did wrong was not iron T-SHIRTS. T-shirts, for God’s sake. Oh, and apparently I need to fold the kids’ clothes like fucking sweaters at Gap. All so within two hours of wearing them they can rub Milka chocolate bars into them.
And later, when I casually mentioned I was going to a party that night and was looking forward to it, she says, “Oh, Lucius and I were going to the cinema.”
First of all, they said I would be rarely working Saturday nights. And, they went out last Saturday night. And, you would think they would give me a couple days advance warning so I wouldn’t make plans. Nice. But I didn’t back down, I just apologized. But, I did offer to babysit Sunday night, which is pretty shitty come to think of it, because that’s supposed to be my one guaranteed day off. So, we’ll see how often they pull this “we never go out but we’re going out the next six Saturdays in a row” crap. Maybe they’re trying to take advantage of me being a friendless loser while I’m still new here, before I’m so busy they can’t get ahold of me. I think that’s what the other au pairs did. While in reality, I’ll lie and say I’m going out, and then read Hillary Clinton’s memoirs in bed. (That’s the only English book I could find in their house. That, and a book of Irish jokes.)
So last night I met up with Mike from Ohio and Vadim from Ukraine. We got a glass of wine at a bar near the Ledru Rollin metro stop before going to the housewarming party. I wouldn’t go so far as to call Mike an asshole, but he’s one of those bros that thinks they are too cool for school and takes himself way too seriously. My theory is because he’s short and not that interesting, so he has to make up for it by being an aloof dick. He did seem very interested when I told him about the young Romanian girls I met at my French school.
I was hoping the guy having the housewarming party would be cool, as he is within walking distance of me and therefore convenient to have as a friend. Instead, he was a nice enough greasy Frenchman with bad teeth. But he did have lots of snacks lying about, which I appreciated. And, in a “the world is so small” kind of way, he actually knew the girl who was my family’s previous au pair. Weird. He constantly would do the “hook em” sign at me when we made eye contact, which is one American custom I really would not mind living without.
I met a very nice girl who was half French and half Australian (she was able to simultaneously possess both accents at once), and a young German girl whom I talked to for hours and didn’t understand half of what she said. She didn’t know any French, which made me feel better since she grew up literally next door and didn’t learn it. Most people there all knew each other from an improve class they take in Paris. When I think about it, that’s really something I should research. It’d let me get out my little acting bug which is still buried deep inside me, and meet a bunch of gregarious English-speaking narcissists. I met a guy from Chicago was very into Second City and invited me to see their teacher’s show on Wednesday. Of course, just talking about Chicago made me miss Colin.
After a couple glasses of wine and eating an embarrassing amount of cookies, I quietly excused myself to go home around 1am. I really do not enjoy the walk back home late at night from the Metro. It’s very dark, very quiet, and one or two guys will insistently exclaim, “BONSOIR!” to you as you walk. I am never so happy as to when I punch in the code, slam the front door, and run up six flights of stairs to my hovel.
"A Moveable Feast"
Reading Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast” makes me feel better about staying home all day and writing. It’s not lazy. I’m a working author. I haven’t had a moment of quiet at home, on my computer, with no distractions in a week. So tomorrow I’d like nothing better than to sleep in, make a big cup of instant coffee (yup, that’s all I get) and not do shit. Right now I always feel pressure to go out, see stuff, take pictures, EXPERIENCE PARIS!!!! When does that feeling go away? Will it ever feel like home? I doubt it.
So I’m definitely staying in Friday night, because Saturday I am going to a house party. Mike, a short bro I met at petanque, invited a group of us. But I’m mostly going because it is ridiculously close to where I live. My only standard for going out is that it must be close, and cheap. No idea what the crowd will be, but I’m actually looking forward to it. I’m pretty proud of myself for going out there, talking to strangers, answering emails, doing cheesy shit like meetup.com. It’s like the more you do it the easier you gets. And, really, once you’ve met around twenty people, you connect with their friends and then your work is done. Sure, I’d like someone I could really connect to (on a friend level) but I’m happy for now.
So I’m definitely staying in Friday night, because Saturday I am going to a house party. Mike, a short bro I met at petanque, invited a group of us. But I’m mostly going because it is ridiculously close to where I live. My only standard for going out is that it must be close, and cheap. No idea what the crowd will be, but I’m actually looking forward to it. I’m pretty proud of myself for going out there, talking to strangers, answering emails, doing cheesy shit like meetup.com. It’s like the more you do it the easier you gets. And, really, once you’ve met around twenty people, you connect with their friends and then your work is done. Sure, I’d like someone I could really connect to (on a friend level) but I’m happy for now.
Deep in thought at the playground.
While the weather is nice, we go to the playground a lot. I don’t mind it, it’s time for me to zone out, think about deep, important, grown-up things (like what I’ll make for lunch tomorrow) and not have to talk to the children. Much. Nolan runs off to play soccer with other heathens, while Dara gets in the sand with other little girls. I’m about as irresponsible as you can be. There have been times when I’ve often thought about sneaking out, going pee, getting a snack, while they play? How long would it take them to realize I’m gone?
This is when having an au pair friend would really come in handy. Everyone else but me has a friend there. They gossip, probably talk about how spoiled the children are and how ridiculous the parents are.
Au pairs range from young and slutty, constantly texting on their phones to old, haggard, Eastern European ones (and probably illegal to boot.) And of course you’ve got your North African mix as well. Then there’s the weird American outcast. Me. But I’ve heard that having an American au pair is quite the status symbol. So I am a prize, as valued as a BMW 5-series sedan. Keeping up with the Joneses indeed.
But, I did finally make another au pair friend. Only problem is that she lives in far west Paris—as far away from Saint-Mande as you can get. She’s very young (only 20) and fresh from Utah. Mormon, of course. A bit boy crazy and silly, but I am glad to have met her. We went shopping today, as is typical for a new girlfriend bonding experience, and I spent a bunch of money I don’t have. So, no more shopping. For nine months. It’s funny, you never know what you’ll want or how you’ll dress until you get somewhere. I packed lots of floral little dresses and tight jeans and I don’t want to wear any of them. It’s no fun walking a mile, sweating or freezing, standing in a crowded, sweaty metro, and sitting on the floor with kids. So basically I will be wearing black leggings, long T-shirts, and baggy sweaters for a year. Harem pants (or MC Hammer pants) as I call them are quite popular here. But, of course, they only look good if you’re ninety pounds or less.
I asked Kacy (new au pair friend) if she wanted to go to a lesbian cabaret tonight. Shake her Mormonism up a little bit. We’re meeting at nine at the Palais Royal stop. Hopefully we won’t get lost. Hopefully it’s free. Hopefully it’s very entertaining and young, beautiful, Swedish women will buy drinks for me all night. But I’ll settle for 2 out of 3. I’m assuming it’ll be more of a KD Lang/Vanessa Redgrave kind of shindig.
I talked to my mom about Nolan’s increasingly bad behavior and she made me feel better. Key quote: “You’re 25, you’ve got lots of options. You don’t have to be doing this. I’m not saying come home, but you don’t owe them anything.” Wow, thanks, Mom. Nothing makes me feel better than when my mom says I can bow out gracefully of something. And, it made me feel okay about staying. Does that make sense? I just needed her permission to know it was okay to struggle, to have doubts, but to keep trying. And, shit, that kid IS awful. Today he threw a toy at me, screamed in my face, told his sister “TA GEULE!” multiple times and told me everything was crap. Charming.
As soon as he turns 18 I’m sending a pile of steaming dog poop to his house. And you don’t have to go far to find dog poop. It’s every two feet in Paris.
Last night I went to a meetup.com one-man show titled “How to Become Parisienne in one hour.” Typical potty/sex humor with lots of American stereotypes. I enjoyed it, would have liked it more if it wasn’t 15 Euros. Met a nice older woman from Barcelona and another Indian guy. They flock to me like ducks to stale bread at a park. At first the three of us were heading to a bar, then the woman had to go. So…awkward one-on-one time with guy who’s name I can’t pronounce. He was very nice and knowledgable about traveling through Paris. Half the time I couldn’t understand him. Points off for telling me I drank my wine too fast and asking if he could take a picture of me. (Yeah, yeah, you’re a professional photographer…I get it.)
This is when having an au pair friend would really come in handy. Everyone else but me has a friend there. They gossip, probably talk about how spoiled the children are and how ridiculous the parents are.
Au pairs range from young and slutty, constantly texting on their phones to old, haggard, Eastern European ones (and probably illegal to boot.) And of course you’ve got your North African mix as well. Then there’s the weird American outcast. Me. But I’ve heard that having an American au pair is quite the status symbol. So I am a prize, as valued as a BMW 5-series sedan. Keeping up with the Joneses indeed.
But, I did finally make another au pair friend. Only problem is that she lives in far west Paris—as far away from Saint-Mande as you can get. She’s very young (only 20) and fresh from Utah. Mormon, of course. A bit boy crazy and silly, but I am glad to have met her. We went shopping today, as is typical for a new girlfriend bonding experience, and I spent a bunch of money I don’t have. So, no more shopping. For nine months. It’s funny, you never know what you’ll want or how you’ll dress until you get somewhere. I packed lots of floral little dresses and tight jeans and I don’t want to wear any of them. It’s no fun walking a mile, sweating or freezing, standing in a crowded, sweaty metro, and sitting on the floor with kids. So basically I will be wearing black leggings, long T-shirts, and baggy sweaters for a year. Harem pants (or MC Hammer pants) as I call them are quite popular here. But, of course, they only look good if you’re ninety pounds or less.
I asked Kacy (new au pair friend) if she wanted to go to a lesbian cabaret tonight. Shake her Mormonism up a little bit. We’re meeting at nine at the Palais Royal stop. Hopefully we won’t get lost. Hopefully it’s free. Hopefully it’s very entertaining and young, beautiful, Swedish women will buy drinks for me all night. But I’ll settle for 2 out of 3. I’m assuming it’ll be more of a KD Lang/Vanessa Redgrave kind of shindig.
I talked to my mom about Nolan’s increasingly bad behavior and she made me feel better. Key quote: “You’re 25, you’ve got lots of options. You don’t have to be doing this. I’m not saying come home, but you don’t owe them anything.” Wow, thanks, Mom. Nothing makes me feel better than when my mom says I can bow out gracefully of something. And, it made me feel okay about staying. Does that make sense? I just needed her permission to know it was okay to struggle, to have doubts, but to keep trying. And, shit, that kid IS awful. Today he threw a toy at me, screamed in my face, told his sister “TA GEULE!” multiple times and told me everything was crap. Charming.
As soon as he turns 18 I’m sending a pile of steaming dog poop to his house. And you don’t have to go far to find dog poop. It’s every two feet in Paris.
Last night I went to a meetup.com one-man show titled “How to Become Parisienne in one hour.” Typical potty/sex humor with lots of American stereotypes. I enjoyed it, would have liked it more if it wasn’t 15 Euros. Met a nice older woman from Barcelona and another Indian guy. They flock to me like ducks to stale bread at a park. At first the three of us were heading to a bar, then the woman had to go. So…awkward one-on-one time with guy who’s name I can’t pronounce. He was very nice and knowledgable about traveling through Paris. Half the time I couldn’t understand him. Points off for telling me I drank my wine too fast and asking if he could take a picture of me. (Yeah, yeah, you’re a professional photographer…I get it.)
I am the worst au pair ever.
Monday I went to my France-Langue school and took my French placement test. A sobering experience to say the least. I’ve. Forgotten. Everything. I maybe got two things right. So I’ll be in the beginner’s class…which is fine. Maybe everyone will be from the Midwest! And therefore nice. Or it’ll be all the slutty Russian au pairs, which is fun, too. I talked to some cute English girls waiting in line. Hopefully at least one person will be cool in the upcoming classes. Hanging out with another au pair and bitching about our kids would be quite cathartic.
Tomorrow I have lots of errands I need to run, but guess what! The workers are going on strike! For two days! How French of them. So who knows if I’ll be able to go anywhere…and what a bummer, for I was going to another meetup thing on Wednesday night. Invited by Raj, a short Indian engineer I met. Let’s hope he’s not dumb enough to think it’s a date. “Sorry, Raj, not interested. Not matter how desperately lonely I get.”
On another note, when is it okay to physically grab your charges? Today I had to pull Nolan the Terrible away from Dara (all while they were screaming at disgustingly high decibles) and even though I grabbed him really hard, he was still pretty strong to hang on to the stair banister. At what point does it become abuse? Oh, and I might have yelled “SHUT UP!” That’s bad, right? Again, the worst nanny ever. Sometimes I wonder if I secretly want the kids to hate me so they’ll tell their parents to get someone new and fire me. Good plan? Or I can just let Nolan get hit by a car when he runs away from me on his scooter. Any nine-year-old boy that yells, “I NEED TO MAKE A LITTLE CACA!” at me deserves to get hit by a car a little bit.
Tomorrow I have lots of errands I need to run, but guess what! The workers are going on strike! For two days! How French of them. So who knows if I’ll be able to go anywhere…and what a bummer, for I was going to another meetup thing on Wednesday night. Invited by Raj, a short Indian engineer I met. Let’s hope he’s not dumb enough to think it’s a date. “Sorry, Raj, not interested. Not matter how desperately lonely I get.”
On another note, when is it okay to physically grab your charges? Today I had to pull Nolan the Terrible away from Dara (all while they were screaming at disgustingly high decibles) and even though I grabbed him really hard, he was still pretty strong to hang on to the stair banister. At what point does it become abuse? Oh, and I might have yelled “SHUT UP!” That’s bad, right? Again, the worst nanny ever. Sometimes I wonder if I secretly want the kids to hate me so they’ll tell their parents to get someone new and fire me. Good plan? Or I can just let Nolan get hit by a car when he runs away from me on his scooter. Any nine-year-old boy that yells, “I NEED TO MAKE A LITTLE CACA!” at me deserves to get hit by a car a little bit.
A day of free museums and petanque.
The first Sunday of every month in Paris offers free entry to a lot of museums. The Louvre, Musee d’Orsay, Rodin…all of these are gratuit! So what’s the catch? THE LINES. I headed out on a late Sunday morning armed with my SLR Pentax KX camera and walking shoes, ready to see beaucoup de musees! Alas, once I saw the line at the Louvre, I realized every other tourist on Labor Day weekend had the same idea. It was probably a good two hours long. Au revoir to the Louvre.
I walked down the Jardin de Tuileries, getting the white gravel dust all over my sandals, feet, and tights. Lovely. By the end I looked like a common peasant. It brought back a lot of memories; it seems like almost yesterday I was walking down there with three girls from my study abroad class in London. We came to Paris for a whirlwind weekend and walked from the Louvre to the Eiffel Tower. Then we bought really cheap, gross rose and lay out on the grass until it got dark. Oh, to have girlfriends again!
I walked until I saw another museum, the Petits Palais. Seeing how it was free, I walked in and was immediately scolded by an old, Asian security guard. Sorry, but yelling at me and pointing does not a translation make. I finally realized I had to check my backpack because I was a potential terrorists carrying biological weapons. I had to do this at every museum actually. The moral? Bring a large purse, no backpack.
The Petit Palais was a bit boring, as I can’t stand old Asian pottery, but there were some lovely French Revolution-era trinkets. Sure, it would be nice if I could read the descriptions, but it’s part of the fun of not speaking the language here!
I did a loop around the Seine, enjoying seeing other tourists buy crap from the guys on the quai. Little Eiffel Towers, shitty watercolor paintings, umbrellas with cherubs, all can be found here.
I stumbled upon the Musee D’Orsay, and though I hadn’t eaten in several hours and was feeling quite crappy, I forced myself to wait in the not-so-hideous line. The museum was, of course, gorgeous. Like an insanely embellished train station covered with gold and dotted with statues. And yet somehow modern. There was some really great Art Nouveau furniture pieces there. Sadly, my weak metabolism only let me stay an hour before I knew I had to go home and eat whatever shitty food I had in my baby fridge. I really need to start cooking here, I’m just lazy. All I have is a hot plate, so that’s basically grilling meat or making spaghetti. Lately I’ve been eating spreadable pate on white bread, followed by a dozen figs and then some plain yogurt. Living it up in Paris, FOR SURE.
Once I’d gotten home and eaten, I headed out yet again to meetup.com event proclaiming “FUN PARIS URBAN ADVENTURES!” How could I not go? For I truly love urban adventures with strangers I’ve just met…
When I got off the Laumiere stop in the 19th arr., it of course took forever to find the canal. And then I couldn’t find the right people. It’s like a blind date with twenty strangers. The courage (or whatever you call it) to finally walk up to them and say, “Um, hi, are you with…uh…meetup.com?” It takes a lot. Or at least it does for me.
But I found them, and it was an interesting mix of Canadians, Americans, British, French, and Israelites. Most seemed older. Without being too judgmental (oh, who am I kidding?) it was not exactly the “cool kids.” But am I complaining? Not at all.
So we played a couple bad games of petanque, which is a classic French game that consists of throwing silver balls at other balls and drinking. Quite pleasant. Seeing that a beer can costs at least five bucks, I sadly realized that I will not be getting drunk for the next nine months, unless I’m at home drinking a bottle of 2 Euro wine—which is probably more fun anyway.
After the games winded down, a group of us sat near the canal and talked. Mike, a guy from Ohio, has been here a year. A bit of an attitude, but he’s short, so that’s a given. Vladimir, a guy from Tel Aviv/San Diego who was quite nice, and Leora, a short, dykey girl from Montreal. We ended up going out to dinner and getting pizza at a place guaranteeing “feu au bois”—wood-fired pizza. It wasn’t that great, but hey! My first meal with friends!
We talked about conversion rates, cell phone plans, where we lived. Of course everyone enjoyed my masturbation story. Then we got on the metro and went our separate ways. I got home at a whopping 10pm! Wow! Late night! And I was in a good mental state of mind before I went to sleep, which is always nice. I like Leora. She’s your typical chill Canadian who is getting her doctorate in neuroscience. We were supposed to get a drink Monday night but she asked for a raincheck since she’s flying to Albania tomorrow. Glamorous.
I walked down the Jardin de Tuileries, getting the white gravel dust all over my sandals, feet, and tights. Lovely. By the end I looked like a common peasant. It brought back a lot of memories; it seems like almost yesterday I was walking down there with three girls from my study abroad class in London. We came to Paris for a whirlwind weekend and walked from the Louvre to the Eiffel Tower. Then we bought really cheap, gross rose and lay out on the grass until it got dark. Oh, to have girlfriends again!
I walked until I saw another museum, the Petits Palais. Seeing how it was free, I walked in and was immediately scolded by an old, Asian security guard. Sorry, but yelling at me and pointing does not a translation make. I finally realized I had to check my backpack because I was a potential terrorists carrying biological weapons. I had to do this at every museum actually. The moral? Bring a large purse, no backpack.
The Petit Palais was a bit boring, as I can’t stand old Asian pottery, but there were some lovely French Revolution-era trinkets. Sure, it would be nice if I could read the descriptions, but it’s part of the fun of not speaking the language here!
I did a loop around the Seine, enjoying seeing other tourists buy crap from the guys on the quai. Little Eiffel Towers, shitty watercolor paintings, umbrellas with cherubs, all can be found here.
I stumbled upon the Musee D’Orsay, and though I hadn’t eaten in several hours and was feeling quite crappy, I forced myself to wait in the not-so-hideous line. The museum was, of course, gorgeous. Like an insanely embellished train station covered with gold and dotted with statues. And yet somehow modern. There was some really great Art Nouveau furniture pieces there. Sadly, my weak metabolism only let me stay an hour before I knew I had to go home and eat whatever shitty food I had in my baby fridge. I really need to start cooking here, I’m just lazy. All I have is a hot plate, so that’s basically grilling meat or making spaghetti. Lately I’ve been eating spreadable pate on white bread, followed by a dozen figs and then some plain yogurt. Living it up in Paris, FOR SURE.
Once I’d gotten home and eaten, I headed out yet again to meetup.com event proclaiming “FUN PARIS URBAN ADVENTURES!” How could I not go? For I truly love urban adventures with strangers I’ve just met…
When I got off the Laumiere stop in the 19th arr., it of course took forever to find the canal. And then I couldn’t find the right people. It’s like a blind date with twenty strangers. The courage (or whatever you call it) to finally walk up to them and say, “Um, hi, are you with…uh…meetup.com?” It takes a lot. Or at least it does for me.
But I found them, and it was an interesting mix of Canadians, Americans, British, French, and Israelites. Most seemed older. Without being too judgmental (oh, who am I kidding?) it was not exactly the “cool kids.” But am I complaining? Not at all.
So we played a couple bad games of petanque, which is a classic French game that consists of throwing silver balls at other balls and drinking. Quite pleasant. Seeing that a beer can costs at least five bucks, I sadly realized that I will not be getting drunk for the next nine months, unless I’m at home drinking a bottle of 2 Euro wine—which is probably more fun anyway.
After the games winded down, a group of us sat near the canal and talked. Mike, a guy from Ohio, has been here a year. A bit of an attitude, but he’s short, so that’s a given. Vladimir, a guy from Tel Aviv/San Diego who was quite nice, and Leora, a short, dykey girl from Montreal. We ended up going out to dinner and getting pizza at a place guaranteeing “feu au bois”—wood-fired pizza. It wasn’t that great, but hey! My first meal with friends!
We talked about conversion rates, cell phone plans, where we lived. Of course everyone enjoyed my masturbation story. Then we got on the metro and went our separate ways. I got home at a whopping 10pm! Wow! Late night! And I was in a good mental state of mind before I went to sleep, which is always nice. I like Leora. She’s your typical chill Canadian who is getting her doctorate in neuroscience. We were supposed to get a drink Monday night but she asked for a raincheck since she’s flying to Albania tomorrow. Glamorous.
Lindsey's First Friday Night Out
I found this website called meet-up.com which encourages large group gatherings of like-minded individuals. Or something like that. As much as I hate cheesy forced shit, I knew the standards had to go. I found one for ex-pats, and they just happened to be having a get-together that night AND it was on my metro line. Okay, no reason for Lazy Lindsey not to drag herself out on a Friday night. Plus, I can’t have the parents thinking I have no life and want to take care of their children 24/7. I headed out around 9pm, and it took me about twenty minutes to get to the Bonne Nouvelle stop on Line 8. But then…I couldn’t find the damn bar. It was called Pranzo. I must have walked twenty minutes up and down the streets and side streets. I almost gave up and went to a McDonald’s to have an espresso and go home.
After having an iPhone with GPS for a year…not being able to instantly access information about where I am and where to go…it was such a slap in the face. I will never, EVER take Wi-Fi or a cell phone for granted again. I SWEAR, INTERNET GODS! Luckily, my instinct finally kicked in when I heard two girls speaking English. I followed them. And…they led me to the place. Which was probably two feet from my Metro stop. Typical me.
Went in, ordered a 1664 (6.50 E, Jesus! Can’t afford to drink here) and went upstairs. Oh, did I forget to mention it was stand-up comedy in English night? Sounds awful, right? But actually…it wasn’t bad. The French comedians were actually funnier than the Americans. They just complained about their girlfriends and made sex jokes in broken English.
Some guy kept making eyes at me during the show and sure enough, he approached me afterwards. Asked if I was with the “meet-up.” We talked for awhile and he asked if I wanted to go for a walk. Uh, no. I suggested we go downstairs and join the group. Even though he is French and has lived all over, he apparently likes going to these ex-pat meetups. Just what Ted Bundy would say, right?! He introduced me to the organizer, Raj, a guy from Atlanta, and a typical overachiever Indian Engineer mover and shaker.
I was hoping to talk to these two girls (one of whom I overheard was from Houston) but never got a chance. As the metro closed at 12:30am, I wasn’t going to hang around too long. The French guy (I forgot his name) walked me to my stop and I gave him my email, as he offered to show me around Paris. Is that a line? Probably. Am I desperate? You betcha. He was pretty generic French-looking, but taller than you would expect. I’ll probably have to tell him pretty soon I’m “currently in my bisexual phase and only interested in ladies but we can still be friends okay?!”
Think that’ll work?
So, after telling me they NEVER go out and I would pretty much always have weekends free…the parents announced they were going out tonight! And I could watch the kids! On Saturday night! Lucky me! Sadly, I don’t really care that much because any chance to get on Wi-Fi and talk to Colin/Andrea/my mom sounds better than going out at night. So I’ll be heading over there around 7. Maybe the kids can watch a movie without killing each other and I can make a phone call. Yes, I can call the US for free on their landline. Pretty nice.
Oh, but I’m forgetting the cherry on top of my sundae night! I was walking home around 12:30am, so happy with myself for going out, talking to people, maybe making friends, and as I rounded the corner…I see a guy in my courtyard. Two feet from the front door. Facing out to the street, pants down around his ankles…and masturbating. MASTURBATING TWO FEET FROM MY FRONT DOOR.
Keep in mind it’s dark, I’m the only person on the street, and what the fuck is happening. Luckily, I kept my cool, didn’t scream (because don’t they get off on that?) and just kept walking. I walked a block and stopped. What to do? Come back in five minutes? An hour? It was late, I was tired, and I just wanted to get in my bed. What are the odds a guy would be masturbating outside my front door? I know it’s Paris, but c’mon! I decided to take my high-heeled boots off, as they made too much noise. Maybe the clickety-clack turned him on even more. I started slowly walking back. I held my boots in my hand, as I planned to hit him in the face if need be. As I crossed my street, I’m pretty sure he walked past me. However, I didn’t quite get a good look at his face the first time, as he was MASTURBATING.
I ran to my front door, hurriedly pushed in the code, and slammed the door behind me. It wasn’t until I started up the stairs that I started shaking and crying. What a horrible way to end an okay night. And my first night out in Paris, no less. All I wanted to do was call Colin and I couldn’t. It sucked. But at least I was home safe.
So now I have to wonder…is this a nightly tradition for him? Or just Fridays, when he knows people are out late? Will it always be my courtyard, or does he like to mix it up?
I’m probably going to tell my French family, not like they can do anything about it, but they might as well know some dude is whacking it off outside their living room window. And, if I see him again, I’m going home. Take that, Paris! I don’t need your public penis wanking.
Okay, now I have to force myself to get dressed, go buy a day planner, and walk by the lake. I wish I could pay someone to be my friend right now.
After having an iPhone with GPS for a year…not being able to instantly access information about where I am and where to go…it was such a slap in the face. I will never, EVER take Wi-Fi or a cell phone for granted again. I SWEAR, INTERNET GODS! Luckily, my instinct finally kicked in when I heard two girls speaking English. I followed them. And…they led me to the place. Which was probably two feet from my Metro stop. Typical me.
Went in, ordered a 1664 (6.50 E, Jesus! Can’t afford to drink here) and went upstairs. Oh, did I forget to mention it was stand-up comedy in English night? Sounds awful, right? But actually…it wasn’t bad. The French comedians were actually funnier than the Americans. They just complained about their girlfriends and made sex jokes in broken English.
Some guy kept making eyes at me during the show and sure enough, he approached me afterwards. Asked if I was with the “meet-up.” We talked for awhile and he asked if I wanted to go for a walk. Uh, no. I suggested we go downstairs and join the group. Even though he is French and has lived all over, he apparently likes going to these ex-pat meetups. Just what Ted Bundy would say, right?! He introduced me to the organizer, Raj, a guy from Atlanta, and a typical overachiever Indian Engineer mover and shaker.
I was hoping to talk to these two girls (one of whom I overheard was from Houston) but never got a chance. As the metro closed at 12:30am, I wasn’t going to hang around too long. The French guy (I forgot his name) walked me to my stop and I gave him my email, as he offered to show me around Paris. Is that a line? Probably. Am I desperate? You betcha. He was pretty generic French-looking, but taller than you would expect. I’ll probably have to tell him pretty soon I’m “currently in my bisexual phase and only interested in ladies but we can still be friends okay?!”
Think that’ll work?
So, after telling me they NEVER go out and I would pretty much always have weekends free…the parents announced they were going out tonight! And I could watch the kids! On Saturday night! Lucky me! Sadly, I don’t really care that much because any chance to get on Wi-Fi and talk to Colin/Andrea/my mom sounds better than going out at night. So I’ll be heading over there around 7. Maybe the kids can watch a movie without killing each other and I can make a phone call. Yes, I can call the US for free on their landline. Pretty nice.
Oh, but I’m forgetting the cherry on top of my sundae night! I was walking home around 12:30am, so happy with myself for going out, talking to people, maybe making friends, and as I rounded the corner…I see a guy in my courtyard. Two feet from the front door. Facing out to the street, pants down around his ankles…and masturbating. MASTURBATING TWO FEET FROM MY FRONT DOOR.
Keep in mind it’s dark, I’m the only person on the street, and what the fuck is happening. Luckily, I kept my cool, didn’t scream (because don’t they get off on that?) and just kept walking. I walked a block and stopped. What to do? Come back in five minutes? An hour? It was late, I was tired, and I just wanted to get in my bed. What are the odds a guy would be masturbating outside my front door? I know it’s Paris, but c’mon! I decided to take my high-heeled boots off, as they made too much noise. Maybe the clickety-clack turned him on even more. I started slowly walking back. I held my boots in my hand, as I planned to hit him in the face if need be. As I crossed my street, I’m pretty sure he walked past me. However, I didn’t quite get a good look at his face the first time, as he was MASTURBATING.
I ran to my front door, hurriedly pushed in the code, and slammed the door behind me. It wasn’t until I started up the stairs that I started shaking and crying. What a horrible way to end an okay night. And my first night out in Paris, no less. All I wanted to do was call Colin and I couldn’t. It sucked. But at least I was home safe.
So now I have to wonder…is this a nightly tradition for him? Or just Fridays, when he knows people are out late? Will it always be my courtyard, or does he like to mix it up?
I’m probably going to tell my French family, not like they can do anything about it, but they might as well know some dude is whacking it off outside their living room window. And, if I see him again, I’m going home. Take that, Paris! I don’t need your public penis wanking.
Okay, now I have to force myself to get dressed, go buy a day planner, and walk by the lake. I wish I could pay someone to be my friend right now.
What have I done so far?
Going out, exploring, getting lost, riding the metro, buying a loofah…all these things pose certain challenges for me right now. I have to force myself to get dressed, look semi-cute, make sure I have my keys/purse/carte navigo/water bottle/hand sanitizer/camera, and actually leave my chamber de bonne. Once I’m walking, enjoying the fresh air and sunny, 70 degree weather, I begin to relax. I realize the weather right now can’t get any better, and I will really miss this come December. The idea of walking a mile to my metro stop will not sound so appetizing on a frigid winter night. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it!
My first outing was to Le Marais neighborhood. Apparently it’s quite the place of nightlife in Paris (especially the gay scene) but as I was there on a Sunday afternoon…I just walked around the Place des Vosges, an especially scenic square with many little shops and a garden in the middle. I also learned that “Hotel” in a name does not mean it’s an actual hotel. It’s usually just a big important building. I think. So when I walked into Hotel du Sully, it was a grand palatial home of an important French duke. Now…it’s a museum. Like a baby Versailles.
My second outing was this Thursday. First I went to the BNP Paribas bank to get a credit card and account. Thank god an older womean there spoke broken English. And because I’m under 29, the account was free. Thanks socialist French! Always looking out for those post-adolescents. My paycheck every month is 375 Euros. Wow…that’s…nothing! We’ll see how far that goes. As long as I don’t eat, travel, or shop, I’ll be fine. Then I took the Metro to Bastille, thinking it would be a short walk to the Pere Frachaise Cimetiere, the very famous cemetery where everyone who is anyone is buried. Short walk…more like 45 minutes! By the time I got there I didn’t have much time to explore, as I needed to pick up the kids up by 4.
But, I took some great pictures and of course had to make the “pilgrimage” to see Jim Morrison’s grave. A cliché for every American bro. There was a crowd of Anglo-Saxons there, just gazing lovingly at his simple grave covered with fake flowers and cheesy cards. Obviously, I’m not a Doors fan.
Thursday night with the kids, I finally lost my temper with Nolan. He either ignores me when I ask him to do something or screams/whines back. It’s quite charming. So when I asked him to go do his homework before watching TV, he yelled in my face and tried to storm off. I grabbed his arm, led him to his room, and yelled, “You’re going to your room and doing your homework RIGHT NOW. Jesus Christ, stop acting like such a little baby!”
Um…I don’t think I have yelled that loud in years. And, will I get in trouble for saying Jesus Christ? That kid is going to be death of me. Every day is a test with him. Perhaps he is too old for a tu-tu (what kids here call au pairs) but he still acts like a whiney, spoiled, manipulative brat—and that’s how I will treat him! I found out the dad is 51 years old, which in my opinion is just too damn old to have these little kids.
Friday! I found there is an elevated garden in Paris close to me, built upon an old tramway that was rotting away. The High Line in Chelsea (which everyone in New York brags about and Leanne took me to once) is based on it. I can literally walk from my front door to the start of it (or end of it, depending on where you come from.) It’s a great walk, lots of foliage and people about. No cars to worry about, and only a couple bicycles to run you over. In the middle you hit the Jardin de Reuilly which is basically a large lawn for everyone to lay out in their skimpy underwear and have an ice cream. I might have take some stalker pictures. You finally pop out in the middle of the Bastille Metro stop, which I then took back home. (What, you think I’m gonna walk the three miles back home?!) Sadly, all this walking is wearing my American legs out. I need to get strong! It’s pretty pathetic when a couple hours of walking and sight-seeing can tire a 25-year-old out.
I made it home just in time to pick the kids up and go to an always-crowded park near the house. Nolan played football with his friends while Dara played in the playground’s sandpile. I am probably the worst au pair in the world. Dara got her shoes wet while walking there and I just let her go barefoot. Barefoot on a huge metropolitan city street. What, I couldn’t carry her that far?! And, I pretty much lost her in the playground for twenty minutes and wasn’t even worried. I was just wondering if I had time to sneak off to the bathroom. Is this behavior normal?
My first outing was to Le Marais neighborhood. Apparently it’s quite the place of nightlife in Paris (especially the gay scene) but as I was there on a Sunday afternoon…I just walked around the Place des Vosges, an especially scenic square with many little shops and a garden in the middle. I also learned that “Hotel” in a name does not mean it’s an actual hotel. It’s usually just a big important building. I think. So when I walked into Hotel du Sully, it was a grand palatial home of an important French duke. Now…it’s a museum. Like a baby Versailles.
My second outing was this Thursday. First I went to the BNP Paribas bank to get a credit card and account. Thank god an older womean there spoke broken English. And because I’m under 29, the account was free. Thanks socialist French! Always looking out for those post-adolescents. My paycheck every month is 375 Euros. Wow…that’s…nothing! We’ll see how far that goes. As long as I don’t eat, travel, or shop, I’ll be fine. Then I took the Metro to Bastille, thinking it would be a short walk to the Pere Frachaise Cimetiere, the very famous cemetery where everyone who is anyone is buried. Short walk…more like 45 minutes! By the time I got there I didn’t have much time to explore, as I needed to pick up the kids up by 4.
But, I took some great pictures and of course had to make the “pilgrimage” to see Jim Morrison’s grave. A cliché for every American bro. There was a crowd of Anglo-Saxons there, just gazing lovingly at his simple grave covered with fake flowers and cheesy cards. Obviously, I’m not a Doors fan.
Thursday night with the kids, I finally lost my temper with Nolan. He either ignores me when I ask him to do something or screams/whines back. It’s quite charming. So when I asked him to go do his homework before watching TV, he yelled in my face and tried to storm off. I grabbed his arm, led him to his room, and yelled, “You’re going to your room and doing your homework RIGHT NOW. Jesus Christ, stop acting like such a little baby!”
Um…I don’t think I have yelled that loud in years. And, will I get in trouble for saying Jesus Christ? That kid is going to be death of me. Every day is a test with him. Perhaps he is too old for a tu-tu (what kids here call au pairs) but he still acts like a whiney, spoiled, manipulative brat—and that’s how I will treat him! I found out the dad is 51 years old, which in my opinion is just too damn old to have these little kids.
Friday! I found there is an elevated garden in Paris close to me, built upon an old tramway that was rotting away. The High Line in Chelsea (which everyone in New York brags about and Leanne took me to once) is based on it. I can literally walk from my front door to the start of it (or end of it, depending on where you come from.) It’s a great walk, lots of foliage and people about. No cars to worry about, and only a couple bicycles to run you over. In the middle you hit the Jardin de Reuilly which is basically a large lawn for everyone to lay out in their skimpy underwear and have an ice cream. I might have take some stalker pictures. You finally pop out in the middle of the Bastille Metro stop, which I then took back home. (What, you think I’m gonna walk the three miles back home?!) Sadly, all this walking is wearing my American legs out. I need to get strong! It’s pretty pathetic when a couple hours of walking and sight-seeing can tire a 25-year-old out.
I made it home just in time to pick the kids up and go to an always-crowded park near the house. Nolan played football with his friends while Dara played in the playground’s sandpile. I am probably the worst au pair in the world. Dara got her shoes wet while walking there and I just let her go barefoot. Barefoot on a huge metropolitan city street. What, I couldn’t carry her that far?! And, I pretty much lost her in the playground for twenty minutes and wasn’t even worried. I was just wondering if I had time to sneak off to the bathroom. Is this behavior normal?
Friday, September 3, 2010
When moving to a new country, lower your standards immediately.
It’s funny how your standards lower immediately when you are desperately lonely. At this point I would give anything to hang out with an ignorant hick from bumfuck Oklahoma who believes Obama is a Muslim sent to destroy us all. I’m desperate to get out, see the Seine, the Left Bank, the Louvre, sit in a café and eat six pain au chocolats in one day, but I’m foolishly waiting until I grow the balls to do it alone or meet some other sad sap to do it with me.
And then there’s the children. An hour with them feels like a whole day. It’s absolutely exhausting being around them, like walking on eggshells waiting for the next scream or temper tantrum to occur. I can’t tell if they’re normal children, just testing out the new nanny, or just spoiled brats with parents who had them a bit too late in life.
There’s simply no activity that will satisfy both a nine-year-old athletic boy and girlish five-year-old girl. Unless it’s eating bon bons until they’re sick and watching dubbed Scooby Doo cartoons. I already hate Scooby Doo and Looney Toons.
I think I will eventually grow to like the little girl, only because she likes me and occasionally hugs me and I can show her lip gloss and perfume to amuse her. But the little boy…what a spoiled little shit. Constantly testing me, needing to prove he is independent, running away, ignoring me when I call him, not helping me when we’re running errands and I need his French translation. It infuriates me to know he gets such a power trip that he can speak French, knows where everything is, and that ultimately he will win—if not every battle—the eventual war.
If this all sounds a bit paranoid and overdramatic, I’m sure it is. But I can’t help but take everything personally right now. I waver between mean nanny who doesn’t let them do anything and “fuck it all” nanny who lets them buy six candies and watch TV until their brains rot, as long as I can get on Facebook and retain some sanity. I need adult conversation soon.
But back to the kitchen/washing dishes/crying part. I was immediately thrown into family activity time, eating meals, walking to the store, going to a restaurant. Which of course I couldn’t enjoy because I was jet-lagged and absolutely petrified of the whole situation. How bizarre to be suddenly “adopted” by some strange foreign family in a foreign land and given the job of watching over their most prized possession: two little monsters. The only thing I can compare it to is a mail-order bride.
So by the third day, I wanted out. I was done. I woke up in the mornings in a blind panic, asking myself what the hell was I doing? Spending nine months taking care of kids in a country where I barely spoke the language? And…I don’t even like children?! What sounded like a fun lark in June had now taken on cold reality. I began fantasizing getting a cheap plane ticket, leaving during the day, getting on a train and taking the first flight back to good ol’ USA. Hide with some friends for awhile, eventually tell my parents what I had done and hope they wouldn’t hate me too much. Even discussing it now makes all the more tempting. But…alas. There is is thing called responsibility. Called giving it a go. I figure everything deserves at least a couple months, right? Try to make it until Christmas, okay? Shit, I haven’t seen the damn city yet. At least get my fill of baguettes and cheap-ass delicious wine before throwing in the bag. And I have so many cute outfits I need to take out.
So,one day at a time. And every day I’m here is another day I’ve been in Paris.
And then there’s the children. An hour with them feels like a whole day. It’s absolutely exhausting being around them, like walking on eggshells waiting for the next scream or temper tantrum to occur. I can’t tell if they’re normal children, just testing out the new nanny, or just spoiled brats with parents who had them a bit too late in life.
There’s simply no activity that will satisfy both a nine-year-old athletic boy and girlish five-year-old girl. Unless it’s eating bon bons until they’re sick and watching dubbed Scooby Doo cartoons. I already hate Scooby Doo and Looney Toons.
I think I will eventually grow to like the little girl, only because she likes me and occasionally hugs me and I can show her lip gloss and perfume to amuse her. But the little boy…what a spoiled little shit. Constantly testing me, needing to prove he is independent, running away, ignoring me when I call him, not helping me when we’re running errands and I need his French translation. It infuriates me to know he gets such a power trip that he can speak French, knows where everything is, and that ultimately he will win—if not every battle—the eventual war.
If this all sounds a bit paranoid and overdramatic, I’m sure it is. But I can’t help but take everything personally right now. I waver between mean nanny who doesn’t let them do anything and “fuck it all” nanny who lets them buy six candies and watch TV until their brains rot, as long as I can get on Facebook and retain some sanity. I need adult conversation soon.
But back to the kitchen/washing dishes/crying part. I was immediately thrown into family activity time, eating meals, walking to the store, going to a restaurant. Which of course I couldn’t enjoy because I was jet-lagged and absolutely petrified of the whole situation. How bizarre to be suddenly “adopted” by some strange foreign family in a foreign land and given the job of watching over their most prized possession: two little monsters. The only thing I can compare it to is a mail-order bride.
So by the third day, I wanted out. I was done. I woke up in the mornings in a blind panic, asking myself what the hell was I doing? Spending nine months taking care of kids in a country where I barely spoke the language? And…I don’t even like children?! What sounded like a fun lark in June had now taken on cold reality. I began fantasizing getting a cheap plane ticket, leaving during the day, getting on a train and taking the first flight back to good ol’ USA. Hide with some friends for awhile, eventually tell my parents what I had done and hope they wouldn’t hate me too much. Even discussing it now makes all the more tempting. But…alas. There is is thing called responsibility. Called giving it a go. I figure everything deserves at least a couple months, right? Try to make it until Christmas, okay? Shit, I haven’t seen the damn city yet. At least get my fill of baguettes and cheap-ass delicious wine before throwing in the bag. And I have so many cute outfits I need to take out.
So,one day at a time. And every day I’m here is another day I’ve been in Paris.
How did I get here? (Paris that is)
When I told everyone I was going to Paris to be an au pair for a French family, after the initial “who what where why how?” questions were out of the way, most people assured me, “It’ll be SUCH a good experience.”
That tends to be the euphemism for most uncomfortable, frighteningly new, awkward situations I get myself into. No matter how much I detest the place or the people, I can tell myself I’m building character and will be strong and independent and ridiculously prepared for anything else that might come my way in the future. At least that’s what I’m telling myself as I wash dishes while crying in some stranger’s kitchen in Paris. Yup, crying sweet, self-pity tears seems to be the trend this summer.
I spent most of my summer traipsing around the country half-heartedly, half living with my parents in Austin, seeing friends on both coasts, and seeing a special someone multiple times in Chicago. (More on that later.) Finally, reality hit in August when I realized I had a visa, two crammed suitcases, and a plane ticket to Paris. And a family I had never met, only talked to less than ten times, waiting for me across the ocean. Days before, I had lost all will to go. The stress and anxiety involved with moving to a different country for practically a year…it wasn’t worth it. There was too much I didn’t know and weird situations I would have to deal with. The simplest things: groceries, asking for directions, riding the bus, getting a cell phone…I knew these would all be goals comparable to climbing a mountain over there.
Unfortunately, there was no escape plan. As much as I would have rather just flown to Tulsa in the end, I got on a plane by myself in DFW and flew 9.5 hours to Charles de Gaulle airport. I sniffled getting on, during, and upon landing. “Fuckfuckfuck,” I kept thinking to myself, “What the fuckityfuck am I DOING?”
My anxiety is never ending, it just rolls over to a new and stupid one. So once I decided I wasn’t going to die in a fiery plane crash in the cold Atlantic at 4am, I had to focus on meeting some weird Irish French blended family and become basically their second mum, their maid, the older sister, the errand-runner.
I heaved my bags onto a rolling cart and walked out the entrance. I vaguely knew what the family looked like from pictures and at once saw a tall, bald man heading toward me. We both smiled awkwardly.
“Hello! I’ll give you a European hello, then,” he proclaimed in a Northern Ireland accent before leaning in for that infamous two cheek kiss. “Come see the children.”
I was led to two timid, angelic-looking, dark-haired children sitting down.
“Give Lindsey a kiss, then!” They begrudgingly obliged.
We walked to the parking garage where I realized getting my suitcases in the tiny Citroen already showed my big stupid American state of mind.
Yes, everything in Europe is tiny. The toilets, the toilet paper, the people, the beds, the food servings. When I first saw my studio apartment on the sixth floor of the building, I was shocked. It was worse than a dorm room, crammed with a microwave, hot plate, a futon sorry excuse for a bed, and not-so-inviting shower smack dab in the room. And yet, the toilet was down the hall. My priorities would be toilet first, but this adventure was not about my priorities. Of course, now that I’m settled in the room feels fine. Granted, I don’t spend too much time in it. When I am in here, I am curled up in bed reading books about understanding the French culture that only seek to confuse and depress me more.
After spending some time studying abroad in London, I stupidly thought this would be no different. A great, beautiful, big city filled with museums and people intrigued by your American-ness and happy to talk to you. Go to pubs, hang out, meet people, ride the tube and buy lots of Cadbury candy. But it’s different here. I’ve never felt more like a retarted, bewildered alien here. Everything is difficult to me. Museums (unlike London) are not free here. And…everything is in French! And…I can barely read French! I know silly food vocabulary words and how to mumble “pardon” if I bump into somebody…but my two years in college are completely useless. As soon as someone talks to me, I freeze. When I realize I badly need to ask, “Where is the toilet?” or “How much is this?” “Or, one strawberry tart and a café, please” I turn into a bumbling fool. It’s all very frustrating. Is every language this intimidating or just France?
Of course Paris has a well-earned reputation for being chic, sophisticated, and somewhat unfriendly to tourists. If I have to feel like a tourist every day for nine months I might as well give up, put on some khaki shorts, dorky tennis shoes, and a sweatshirt with “Class of ‘89” emblazoned on it.
That tends to be the euphemism for most uncomfortable, frighteningly new, awkward situations I get myself into. No matter how much I detest the place or the people, I can tell myself I’m building character and will be strong and independent and ridiculously prepared for anything else that might come my way in the future. At least that’s what I’m telling myself as I wash dishes while crying in some stranger’s kitchen in Paris. Yup, crying sweet, self-pity tears seems to be the trend this summer.
I spent most of my summer traipsing around the country half-heartedly, half living with my parents in Austin, seeing friends on both coasts, and seeing a special someone multiple times in Chicago. (More on that later.) Finally, reality hit in August when I realized I had a visa, two crammed suitcases, and a plane ticket to Paris. And a family I had never met, only talked to less than ten times, waiting for me across the ocean. Days before, I had lost all will to go. The stress and anxiety involved with moving to a different country for practically a year…it wasn’t worth it. There was too much I didn’t know and weird situations I would have to deal with. The simplest things: groceries, asking for directions, riding the bus, getting a cell phone…I knew these would all be goals comparable to climbing a mountain over there.
Unfortunately, there was no escape plan. As much as I would have rather just flown to Tulsa in the end, I got on a plane by myself in DFW and flew 9.5 hours to Charles de Gaulle airport. I sniffled getting on, during, and upon landing. “Fuckfuckfuck,” I kept thinking to myself, “What the fuckityfuck am I DOING?”
My anxiety is never ending, it just rolls over to a new and stupid one. So once I decided I wasn’t going to die in a fiery plane crash in the cold Atlantic at 4am, I had to focus on meeting some weird Irish French blended family and become basically their second mum, their maid, the older sister, the errand-runner.
I heaved my bags onto a rolling cart and walked out the entrance. I vaguely knew what the family looked like from pictures and at once saw a tall, bald man heading toward me. We both smiled awkwardly.
“Hello! I’ll give you a European hello, then,” he proclaimed in a Northern Ireland accent before leaning in for that infamous two cheek kiss. “Come see the children.”
I was led to two timid, angelic-looking, dark-haired children sitting down.
“Give Lindsey a kiss, then!” They begrudgingly obliged.
We walked to the parking garage where I realized getting my suitcases in the tiny Citroen already showed my big stupid American state of mind.
Yes, everything in Europe is tiny. The toilets, the toilet paper, the people, the beds, the food servings. When I first saw my studio apartment on the sixth floor of the building, I was shocked. It was worse than a dorm room, crammed with a microwave, hot plate, a futon sorry excuse for a bed, and not-so-inviting shower smack dab in the room. And yet, the toilet was down the hall. My priorities would be toilet first, but this adventure was not about my priorities. Of course, now that I’m settled in the room feels fine. Granted, I don’t spend too much time in it. When I am in here, I am curled up in bed reading books about understanding the French culture that only seek to confuse and depress me more.
After spending some time studying abroad in London, I stupidly thought this would be no different. A great, beautiful, big city filled with museums and people intrigued by your American-ness and happy to talk to you. Go to pubs, hang out, meet people, ride the tube and buy lots of Cadbury candy. But it’s different here. I’ve never felt more like a retarted, bewildered alien here. Everything is difficult to me. Museums (unlike London) are not free here. And…everything is in French! And…I can barely read French! I know silly food vocabulary words and how to mumble “pardon” if I bump into somebody…but my two years in college are completely useless. As soon as someone talks to me, I freeze. When I realize I badly need to ask, “Where is the toilet?” or “How much is this?” “Or, one strawberry tart and a café, please” I turn into a bumbling fool. It’s all very frustrating. Is every language this intimidating or just France?
Of course Paris has a well-earned reputation for being chic, sophisticated, and somewhat unfriendly to tourists. If I have to feel like a tourist every day for nine months I might as well give up, put on some khaki shorts, dorky tennis shoes, and a sweatshirt with “Class of ‘89” emblazoned on it.
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