I wanted to like this place. It looked hip, modern yet romantic, full of cool Parisians and some random New Yorkers. The menu was reasonable, the décor cozy (reminded me of the store Anthropologie), and the waiters young and attractive. Buuutttt…is it fair to complain about horrible customer service in Paris? I’ve had great service here as well (granted, from an Italian establishment) but this place was just a little too cool for school. The food had the potential to be great but failed on many accounts.
We both ordered soup of the day (5 Euros) but it arrived lukewarm. Our red wine (half carafe for 12) was extremely cold. And our dessert (ordered an apple crumble but got cherry for some reason) was scalding hot. And we were pretty much ignored. My Montreal friend spoke excellent French so I don’t think anything got lost in translation.
Granted, the place was slammed on a Saturday night around 9, and there were only three waiters working the place. But, with all the wonderful places in Paris, I don’t think I’ll be back.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Getting Ladylike
My review of a cafe Leora and I cozied up at the other night...
Okay I’ve officially entered “hibernation mode” in Paris. I know it’s only October but for a Texan, this feels like the icy depths of hell and I want to bury under the covers and not come up until April. Seeing as how that’s not an option, I decided I can at least have a happy medium by holing up in cozy cafes for hours with good friends and hot drinks. Enter L’Oisive Café. A delicious combination of tea house and knitting store, this place screams “I am girlie and I like tea caddies and kittens and reading fashion magazines and knitting hats for my dad.”
I knew places like this existed in Portland, Oregon, but I didn’t expect them in Paris. I’m not sure the whole “hipster knitting” has caught on here. Nevertheless, it is alive and well near the Place d’Italie metro. This area was filled with cute shops and restaurants, but the tea shop is my favorite. Not only do they serve a fixed menu brunch on weekends, but they appeared to have a daily special: 5.50 for a tiny coffee, your choice of cookie/pain d’epice/citrus cake, some fruit, and a teeny bowl of spiced ice cream—make that 7.50 for a pot of tea.
And the tea options are overwhelming. In fact I was so overwhelmed I got the coffee. Lame, I know. But I know I’ll be back. Seeing as how the place is quite small, I would show up early, as it appeared to be packed all the time, and god knows I wasn’t going to sit outside.
Bring your best girlfriend or mum when it’s absolutely nasty outside. My only complaint: no comfy, squashy armchairs to lounge in and knit….
Okay I’ve officially entered “hibernation mode” in Paris. I know it’s only October but for a Texan, this feels like the icy depths of hell and I want to bury under the covers and not come up until April. Seeing as how that’s not an option, I decided I can at least have a happy medium by holing up in cozy cafes for hours with good friends and hot drinks. Enter L’Oisive Café. A delicious combination of tea house and knitting store, this place screams “I am girlie and I like tea caddies and kittens and reading fashion magazines and knitting hats for my dad.”
I knew places like this existed in Portland, Oregon, but I didn’t expect them in Paris. I’m not sure the whole “hipster knitting” has caught on here. Nevertheless, it is alive and well near the Place d’Italie metro. This area was filled with cute shops and restaurants, but the tea shop is my favorite. Not only do they serve a fixed menu brunch on weekends, but they appeared to have a daily special: 5.50 for a tiny coffee, your choice of cookie/pain d’epice/citrus cake, some fruit, and a teeny bowl of spiced ice cream—make that 7.50 for a pot of tea.
And the tea options are overwhelming. In fact I was so overwhelmed I got the coffee. Lame, I know. But I know I’ll be back. Seeing as how the place is quite small, I would show up early, as it appeared to be packed all the time, and god knows I wasn’t going to sit outside.
Bring your best girlfriend or mum when it’s absolutely nasty outside. My only complaint: no comfy, squashy armchairs to lounge in and knit….
Where the eff is Dita Von Teese?
Back in August, I was informed by a Dita Von Teese newsletter that she was opening a private bar in Paris—sponsored by Cointreau—in Montmartre. Well, that sounded just absolutely fabulous and glamorous as I sat sweating away in my parent’s house in Austin, TX. But, like most things in this city, it’s one of those things that sounds amazing and then you get there and you’re alone and uncomfortable and everyone is cooler than you and speaking a language you just can’t grasp.
However, I had RSVP’d, received a special bracelet in the mail, and it was opening night—where drinks and food were free. So I forced myself to make the trek to Montmartre at night (a fifty minute journey, minimum.) Of course the place was “hidden” off the Lamarck Caulaincourt metro, and I could have easily gotten lost. But the Parisian gods worked with me, and I eventually found a red carpet surrounded by burly bodyguards and elegant PR girls huddled around the list.
I shuffled up, feeling about twenty pounds too fat and extremely under-dressed. (And I rarely EVER feel under-dressed in the States. In fact, I’m known as the “Dress Up” girl. I’m not tooting my horn, I’m just saying that it kills me that I am kind of schlumpy here, thanks to a small wardrobe/budget/transportation options.)
But, the girls did let me in and I walked up a cobblestone street to a three story house filled with violet light and beautiful people. And I do mean beautiful. There were girls wearing mink coats and black velvet pumps and exquisitive vintage beaded dresses. I was wearing a black dress and boots and feeling green with envy. But how the fuck do you ride the metro and walk around Montmartre in heels?
I helped myself to champagne and foie gras hor’doeuvres and found a chair in the corner. And people watched. For a long time. In the states, I’ve gone to events by myself and had a pretty decent time. Especially when there was free booze. I would eventually strike up a conversation with someone, meet some nice people, and drive myself home whenever. But this…this was different. Intimidating. Even if I had felt comfortable talking to one of the glamorous girls, I COULDN’T. It was so awfully frustrating. Who wants to speak to an under-dressed American who knows fifty words of French? And trust me, no one tried to talk to me—expect for a nice Irish man and his Filipino wife. They had flown in from Ireland just for the night.
Unfortunately, there was no sighting of Dita, but when I climbed the precarious tiny steps to the top floor, I spotted C-Lister Mischa Barton chillaxing and taking awkward pictures. That excitement lasted about five minutes. The servers were all dressed as flappers, and one of them made the mistake of setting a tray of cheese and quiche cubes next to me…I think that about sums up my night. I cut myself after three drinks (didn’t want to end up in a cop car again) and headed back home.
It’s funny, you can tell someone: “Oh yeah, I went to the private bar Dita Von Teese opened in Montmartre and saw Mischa Barton” and it probably sounds really fucking cool and glamorous…but it was actually one of my loneliest nights in Paris. (Cue Emo tear.)
However, I had RSVP’d, received a special bracelet in the mail, and it was opening night—where drinks and food were free. So I forced myself to make the trek to Montmartre at night (a fifty minute journey, minimum.) Of course the place was “hidden” off the Lamarck Caulaincourt metro, and I could have easily gotten lost. But the Parisian gods worked with me, and I eventually found a red carpet surrounded by burly bodyguards and elegant PR girls huddled around the list.
I shuffled up, feeling about twenty pounds too fat and extremely under-dressed. (And I rarely EVER feel under-dressed in the States. In fact, I’m known as the “Dress Up” girl. I’m not tooting my horn, I’m just saying that it kills me that I am kind of schlumpy here, thanks to a small wardrobe/budget/transportation options.)
But, the girls did let me in and I walked up a cobblestone street to a three story house filled with violet light and beautiful people. And I do mean beautiful. There were girls wearing mink coats and black velvet pumps and exquisitive vintage beaded dresses. I was wearing a black dress and boots and feeling green with envy. But how the fuck do you ride the metro and walk around Montmartre in heels?
I helped myself to champagne and foie gras hor’doeuvres and found a chair in the corner. And people watched. For a long time. In the states, I’ve gone to events by myself and had a pretty decent time. Especially when there was free booze. I would eventually strike up a conversation with someone, meet some nice people, and drive myself home whenever. But this…this was different. Intimidating. Even if I had felt comfortable talking to one of the glamorous girls, I COULDN’T. It was so awfully frustrating. Who wants to speak to an under-dressed American who knows fifty words of French? And trust me, no one tried to talk to me—expect for a nice Irish man and his Filipino wife. They had flown in from Ireland just for the night.
Unfortunately, there was no sighting of Dita, but when I climbed the precarious tiny steps to the top floor, I spotted C-Lister Mischa Barton chillaxing and taking awkward pictures. That excitement lasted about five minutes. The servers were all dressed as flappers, and one of them made the mistake of setting a tray of cheese and quiche cubes next to me…I think that about sums up my night. I cut myself after three drinks (didn’t want to end up in a cop car again) and headed back home.
It’s funny, you can tell someone: “Oh yeah, I went to the private bar Dita Von Teese opened in Montmartre and saw Mischa Barton” and it probably sounds really fucking cool and glamorous…but it was actually one of my loneliest nights in Paris. (Cue Emo tear.)
Please don’t visit me.
I feel like such a bitch for complaining…but I had a friend from college visit me this week and it was the most physically and mentally exhausting 3.5 days in Paris so far. In my defense, I feel if it’s not your best friend, mother, or boyfriend, you can’t really hang out non-stop with someone and share a stupidly small attic room without wanting to kill them. The guilty party was an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in two years and hadn’t really talked to until right before Barcelona. So it was awkward. And I got grumpy. And annoyed. Until a point where I went into “quiet, brooding, homicidal tendencies” mode. When someone looks around in disgust at your life, proclaims “If my parents saw me living like this, they would pull me out and take me home” it’s more than a little offensive. First off, my “friend,” you have a free place to stay in an incredibly expensive city. Secondly, I’m spending every second of my free time taking you to crowded, obnoxious tourist shit that I’ve already seen a bazillion times and costs me money I don’t have. Then I’m having to rush home and take care of two bratty kids (while you relax and take a nap upstairs), and then immediately go out with you in the evening, all the while trying to plan outings and make sure you have a good time.
Plus, she is the type of person who walks up to people and demands loudly, “Hi! Do you speak English?” or exclaims in the metro, “OMG! I smell pee! I think it’s that homeless guy” and points at the dude or has to buy three huge Eiffel Tower statues that you then carry in your backpack all day or asks you every five minutes “How long is this gonna take? Have I seen everything? Can you take my picture five times with two different cameras?” GOD I know I’m a monstrous bitch. I don’t deserve to have friends.
So I basically felt like an au pair nonstop this week with not a single moment to myself. Let’s also add in the fact that my French dad had eye surgery this week and was HOME ALL WEEK. That meant I couldn’t even wake up in the morning, go down in my pajamas, play on Internet, and call boyfriend and family. It was absolute torture. I’ve grown so accustomed to complete independence and alone time, plus having the mornings to myself, that it was very difficult. The plus side to all this complaining? I’ll appreciate the upcoming week (all alone, no dad cramping my style) soooo much more. Plus, it’s hard enough taking care of kids, but having a dad in the kitchen eavesdropping on my shitty au pair-ness was excruciating. Most of the time I’m 60% mentally there with the kids, usually zoning out while they watch BBC cartoons or try to kill each other with pillow fights. But with him right there, I actually had to pretend to like the kids and take care of them! Hard!
There’s been strikes all week and I was stricken with fear my friend’s train to Switzerland would get canceled. One more day with her and I might have checked myself into a hostel to get away. But she did indeed finally leave (not without asking me to escort her to train station and wait up until the second she left) and I celebrated by meeting up with Leora at absolutely cozy, charming tea shop near Place d’Italie. It was very much a girlie kind of hangout, as they also sold yarn and had little cakes and cookies. It reminded me of a tea/yarn shop Andrea and I visited a long time ago in Portland, Oregon.
I miss Andrea. She’s my best friend of 18 years and it’s hard to believe only a few months ago we actually lived in the same town, on the same street. Like much of that former life, I took it all for granted. We’d wake up at 6:15 on cold, winter mornings to force ourselves to walk a mile or two, then head back to her place for coffee and delicious Hazelnut creamer full of corn syrup and hydrogenated oils and talk about our shitty jobs.
I was so unhappy in Dallas. I felt like I was suffocating. I felt like I was losing my identity in my job. I felt like I could never decompress and just breathe and not check my email on a Friday night. And I was only 25. Was it really as bad as I thought it was? Or should I just have gotten on anti-anxiety medicine and dealt with it? Looking back it, my life there doesn’t seem so bad. But I remember calling my mom on my lunch breaks and sobbing about how much I hated it there. I wish I had done this au pair job first thing out of college. Not to harp on about it, but there are days where I really felt I am regressing. I went from being financially independent, own apartment, own car, successful job, single lady…to living in a shitty attic, getting paid shit, starting all over living in a difficult city where I barely understand the language and every minor errand can turn into a bureaucratic nightmare. To sum it all up in one word: humbling.
Yeah, I can sit at home and feel sorry for myself (which I definitely do), or I can learn from this experience. First and foremost, there is no perfect job or city or significant other. I have a tendency to run away from my problems, especially when things get too hard or demanding. But I can’t spend my whole life changing cities and jobs. I often wonder if I spend a lot of my energy fighting my true self. Am I secretly a homebody, a creature of habit who wants to settle down in a rambling old country home with a vegetable garden and be domestic with a husband and two pugs and just a couple close friends and family near me? Or do I secretly crave a “glamorous” job writing for a sitcom in LA, hobnobbing with “important” people and being fiercely independent—but I deny myself this existence because I don’t have the ego to withstand the rejection and soulless existence that it requires? Is there a happy medium? Maybe songwriting in Nashville? Or am I just a spoiled brat who wants to have their cake and eat it, too?
Why can’t I just be happy to know I have these options? I could be a Chinese indentured servant having my father make all my decisions for me. Why can’t I just relax in Paris these next two months, knowing it won’t last forever, know that by Christmas I’ll be back home with my family and then moving in with a guy who’s crazy about me and knows all the bad stuff about me and still likes me? Two factors would really help me in Paris: good weather and more money. When it’s fucking cold and blustery outside and I have to walk twenty minutes to the metro and it’s dark by 7pm and I am burning through my precious savings and can’t even have coffee and dessert with my friends without feeling guilty…that’s when I hate Paris.
Plus, she is the type of person who walks up to people and demands loudly, “Hi! Do you speak English?” or exclaims in the metro, “OMG! I smell pee! I think it’s that homeless guy” and points at the dude or has to buy three huge Eiffel Tower statues that you then carry in your backpack all day or asks you every five minutes “How long is this gonna take? Have I seen everything? Can you take my picture five times with two different cameras?” GOD I know I’m a monstrous bitch. I don’t deserve to have friends.
So I basically felt like an au pair nonstop this week with not a single moment to myself. Let’s also add in the fact that my French dad had eye surgery this week and was HOME ALL WEEK. That meant I couldn’t even wake up in the morning, go down in my pajamas, play on Internet, and call boyfriend and family. It was absolute torture. I’ve grown so accustomed to complete independence and alone time, plus having the mornings to myself, that it was very difficult. The plus side to all this complaining? I’ll appreciate the upcoming week (all alone, no dad cramping my style) soooo much more. Plus, it’s hard enough taking care of kids, but having a dad in the kitchen eavesdropping on my shitty au pair-ness was excruciating. Most of the time I’m 60% mentally there with the kids, usually zoning out while they watch BBC cartoons or try to kill each other with pillow fights. But with him right there, I actually had to pretend to like the kids and take care of them! Hard!
There’s been strikes all week and I was stricken with fear my friend’s train to Switzerland would get canceled. One more day with her and I might have checked myself into a hostel to get away. But she did indeed finally leave (not without asking me to escort her to train station and wait up until the second she left) and I celebrated by meeting up with Leora at absolutely cozy, charming tea shop near Place d’Italie. It was very much a girlie kind of hangout, as they also sold yarn and had little cakes and cookies. It reminded me of a tea/yarn shop Andrea and I visited a long time ago in Portland, Oregon.
I miss Andrea. She’s my best friend of 18 years and it’s hard to believe only a few months ago we actually lived in the same town, on the same street. Like much of that former life, I took it all for granted. We’d wake up at 6:15 on cold, winter mornings to force ourselves to walk a mile or two, then head back to her place for coffee and delicious Hazelnut creamer full of corn syrup and hydrogenated oils and talk about our shitty jobs.
I was so unhappy in Dallas. I felt like I was suffocating. I felt like I was losing my identity in my job. I felt like I could never decompress and just breathe and not check my email on a Friday night. And I was only 25. Was it really as bad as I thought it was? Or should I just have gotten on anti-anxiety medicine and dealt with it? Looking back it, my life there doesn’t seem so bad. But I remember calling my mom on my lunch breaks and sobbing about how much I hated it there. I wish I had done this au pair job first thing out of college. Not to harp on about it, but there are days where I really felt I am regressing. I went from being financially independent, own apartment, own car, successful job, single lady…to living in a shitty attic, getting paid shit, starting all over living in a difficult city where I barely understand the language and every minor errand can turn into a bureaucratic nightmare. To sum it all up in one word: humbling.
Yeah, I can sit at home and feel sorry for myself (which I definitely do), or I can learn from this experience. First and foremost, there is no perfect job or city or significant other. I have a tendency to run away from my problems, especially when things get too hard or demanding. But I can’t spend my whole life changing cities and jobs. I often wonder if I spend a lot of my energy fighting my true self. Am I secretly a homebody, a creature of habit who wants to settle down in a rambling old country home with a vegetable garden and be domestic with a husband and two pugs and just a couple close friends and family near me? Or do I secretly crave a “glamorous” job writing for a sitcom in LA, hobnobbing with “important” people and being fiercely independent—but I deny myself this existence because I don’t have the ego to withstand the rejection and soulless existence that it requires? Is there a happy medium? Maybe songwriting in Nashville? Or am I just a spoiled brat who wants to have their cake and eat it, too?
Why can’t I just be happy to know I have these options? I could be a Chinese indentured servant having my father make all my decisions for me. Why can’t I just relax in Paris these next two months, knowing it won’t last forever, know that by Christmas I’ll be back home with my family and then moving in with a guy who’s crazy about me and knows all the bad stuff about me and still likes me? Two factors would really help me in Paris: good weather and more money. When it’s fucking cold and blustery outside and I have to walk twenty minutes to the metro and it’s dark by 7pm and I am burning through my precious savings and can’t even have coffee and dessert with my friends without feeling guilty…that’s when I hate Paris.
Muchath grathiath, Barthelona
Barcelona…perhaps the most unique, bizarre, earthy, wild city I’ve been to so far. Such a contrast to Paris, and only a 1.5 hour flight away…Paris is old and austere and romantic and aloof. Barcelona was hot, dirty, sexy…more Old World. More Third World. The architecture was like a fairy tale on acid. It’s funny, you worry you’re becoming jaded when traveling but then you go somewhere with hardly any preconceived notions or mental images and get pleasantly surprised. I’m actually glad I did no research on the city. Because when we walked out of the metro and I saw the Sagrada Familia…I actually felt a little dumbstruck. That occurs less and less the older you get. It was like the first time I saw the Epcot Center at DisneyWorld in second grade. My friends Erin and Rachel thought it was hideous, but I loved the way the church looked so bizarre and unsettling—rather like it was melting in the hot sun and demons were trying to escape. Take that, Notre Dame!
From there we walked to Parc Guell which was also a treat. I could have spent all the day there squelching my sandals in the mud and taking pictures, but the girls didn’t last long. It’s funny, I spend so much time by myself now, absolutely on my schedule doing whatever I want whenever I want for however long I want…sometimes it’s tough to hang out with other people and give in to their suggestions. Two and a half full days with them and I was ready for some alone time. It was really nice to hang out with some fellow Texans though. Sadly, we didn’t find any amazing tapas bar…more like medicocre. And some decent but not extraordinary paella. Twice we went to a supermarket and bought Rochefort cheese and dried ham and 0.80 Euro wine in a box (which was awesome) for our dinner.
Besides walk a shit-ton and look at churches and panoramic views and take a million pictures, we didn’t get into too much trouble in Barcelona—a first for me. We went out to some bars, drank awesome Estrella beer, had some marvelous olives, 3.50 mojitos, met dudes from the British Army, walked along the beach and looked at old boobies. The weirdest part was probably walking back to our hotel around 4pm and seeing a deranged man approaching us. There was something…weird about his crotch. After we passed the girls and I exchanged looks of horror. Apparently he was exposing himself, but it looked really weird because he was holding it straight up. Needless to say I didn’t really give it a good look, but it was still mentally scarring. Less than two months in Europe and I’ve already experienced two weird public penis situations. Please god, don’t let there be a third.
Rachel (one of the girls from Houston) is coming to stay with me on Wednesday. I’m worried I won’t be able to show her that good a time. I can’t afford to really go out, and I’m not at that point where I know where to go and when. I suck at being a Parisian. Hopefully my au pair friends will rally and we can show her a decent time. And I wouldn’t mind her hanging out with me and the kids…maybe they would behave with a stranger around.
Oh, and apparently if you google “Paris au pair help” you might find my blog…again, I forgot that anyone in the world actually reads this. It’s kind of disconcerting. I’m so whiny and moody and pity party that I fear I don’t give off the best impression. But, I randomly got an email from another au pair in Paris that reads my blog! What a pleasant surprise. We’re meeting for coffee tomorrow. Thanks, Internet, for finding me friends!
From there we walked to Parc Guell which was also a treat. I could have spent all the day there squelching my sandals in the mud and taking pictures, but the girls didn’t last long. It’s funny, I spend so much time by myself now, absolutely on my schedule doing whatever I want whenever I want for however long I want…sometimes it’s tough to hang out with other people and give in to their suggestions. Two and a half full days with them and I was ready for some alone time. It was really nice to hang out with some fellow Texans though. Sadly, we didn’t find any amazing tapas bar…more like medicocre. And some decent but not extraordinary paella. Twice we went to a supermarket and bought Rochefort cheese and dried ham and 0.80 Euro wine in a box (which was awesome) for our dinner.
Besides walk a shit-ton and look at churches and panoramic views and take a million pictures, we didn’t get into too much trouble in Barcelona—a first for me. We went out to some bars, drank awesome Estrella beer, had some marvelous olives, 3.50 mojitos, met dudes from the British Army, walked along the beach and looked at old boobies. The weirdest part was probably walking back to our hotel around 4pm and seeing a deranged man approaching us. There was something…weird about his crotch. After we passed the girls and I exchanged looks of horror. Apparently he was exposing himself, but it looked really weird because he was holding it straight up. Needless to say I didn’t really give it a good look, but it was still mentally scarring. Less than two months in Europe and I’ve already experienced two weird public penis situations. Please god, don’t let there be a third.
Rachel (one of the girls from Houston) is coming to stay with me on Wednesday. I’m worried I won’t be able to show her that good a time. I can’t afford to really go out, and I’m not at that point where I know where to go and when. I suck at being a Parisian. Hopefully my au pair friends will rally and we can show her a decent time. And I wouldn’t mind her hanging out with me and the kids…maybe they would behave with a stranger around.
Oh, and apparently if you google “Paris au pair help” you might find my blog…again, I forgot that anyone in the world actually reads this. It’s kind of disconcerting. I’m so whiny and moody and pity party that I fear I don’t give off the best impression. But, I randomly got an email from another au pair in Paris that reads my blog! What a pleasant surprise. We’re meeting for coffee tomorrow. Thanks, Internet, for finding me friends!
Friday, October 8, 2010
Fear in my eyes
So I went for my first official “posing nude for an artist and getting paid for it” gig. And…I kind of failed at it. Which shocks me. I thought the hardest part would just be getting naked. But no. There’s more. First off, I forgot where Hashpa lived and spent ten minutes ringing every door of the apartment, next door nervously asking “J’ai trouve Hashpa?” only to hear “Quoi? Non!” Oops. Wrong building. I finally find the right one where Hashpa and his feral cat are waiting.
We greet one another, he hangs up my coat, we sit down in his studio and awkwardly chat for a long time. This time I really can’t understand him and it’s frustrating. I really just want to say, “Okay, buddy, time is money. Can I take off my clothes and get this over with?”
He finally pulls out a brown, battered blanket that has seen better days, lays it on the floor, and walks away—-presumably to give me privacy while I get naked. I quickly take off my clothes, sit down, and strike an artistic, noble pose. Legs propped up, arms crossed, looking pensively into the distance. But alas, it is not to be.
Hashpa walks in and shakes his head, “Non, no! Allange! Allange!” he gestures that I lay down.
Mmmm. Laying down. Head on dirty carpet. Feel defenseless. No like. But I do it. I awkwardly move my body around while he gesticulates where to put an arm and leg. Finally, he begins to sketch, and I try to relax, even though I’m on my stomach with my legs spread a little too wide for comfort. This is probably more than even my gynecologist has seen.
And let us not forget the feral cat has now begun attacking me. It’s highly disconcerting to have a cat scratching and biting you when you are completely nude. I began to freak out thinking about, well, what if the cat, like, scratches me down there and I get a terrible infection and I have no health insurance and oh sweet jesus I’m gonna get a staph infection in my….
“Un autre chose!” declares Habash.
Oh, I get to pick a pose. Let’s do the fetal position.
“Pas mal,” he grunts.
We go on like this for awhile, I choosing a pose, Habash critiques and rearranges, and I think everything is hunky dory. Until…he stops.
“Non, non. Ees no good. You are very sensual, nice body nice hair nice eyes nice face…but ees no good! You have fear in your eyes. No good.” He gazes with frustration at his sketches. I think they look quite lovely and would love to frame one for the memories—fearful eyes and all.
“You are young, ees first time, we try again. You bring ami with you?” he asks hopefully.
There’s a thought. Would posing nude with a friend of mine be more or less comfortable? Depends on the friend I guess. When’s the last time I was naked with a girlfriend? Fifth grade? Hashpa would probably make us embrace each other and I just don’t know if I have anyone who’d be down with that. I tell him I will ask my friends and see what they say. He seemed very pleased.
He offered me some wine, I drank a couple glasses naked, and then got dressed. He paid me twenty Euros for my time and I went to walk the streets buzzed once again.
I felt kind of sad, actually. I failed as a nude model. Of course there is fear in my eyes, I can’t exactly be smiling with joy when I lay on a dirty blanket in some Parisian studio with a cat dangerously close to my nether regions. I thought I could just naked and phone this shit in. Why does Habash have to be a real artist? Why can’t I just fake it in Paris? Don’t they know that’s what America was built on? Pretending you got it when you don’t? Merde.
We greet one another, he hangs up my coat, we sit down in his studio and awkwardly chat for a long time. This time I really can’t understand him and it’s frustrating. I really just want to say, “Okay, buddy, time is money. Can I take off my clothes and get this over with?”
He finally pulls out a brown, battered blanket that has seen better days, lays it on the floor, and walks away—-presumably to give me privacy while I get naked. I quickly take off my clothes, sit down, and strike an artistic, noble pose. Legs propped up, arms crossed, looking pensively into the distance. But alas, it is not to be.
Hashpa walks in and shakes his head, “Non, no! Allange! Allange!” he gestures that I lay down.
Mmmm. Laying down. Head on dirty carpet. Feel defenseless. No like. But I do it. I awkwardly move my body around while he gesticulates where to put an arm and leg. Finally, he begins to sketch, and I try to relax, even though I’m on my stomach with my legs spread a little too wide for comfort. This is probably more than even my gynecologist has seen.
And let us not forget the feral cat has now begun attacking me. It’s highly disconcerting to have a cat scratching and biting you when you are completely nude. I began to freak out thinking about, well, what if the cat, like, scratches me down there and I get a terrible infection and I have no health insurance and oh sweet jesus I’m gonna get a staph infection in my….
“Un autre chose!” declares Habash.
Oh, I get to pick a pose. Let’s do the fetal position.
“Pas mal,” he grunts.
We go on like this for awhile, I choosing a pose, Habash critiques and rearranges, and I think everything is hunky dory. Until…he stops.
“Non, non. Ees no good. You are very sensual, nice body nice hair nice eyes nice face…but ees no good! You have fear in your eyes. No good.” He gazes with frustration at his sketches. I think they look quite lovely and would love to frame one for the memories—fearful eyes and all.
“You are young, ees first time, we try again. You bring ami with you?” he asks hopefully.
There’s a thought. Would posing nude with a friend of mine be more or less comfortable? Depends on the friend I guess. When’s the last time I was naked with a girlfriend? Fifth grade? Hashpa would probably make us embrace each other and I just don’t know if I have anyone who’d be down with that. I tell him I will ask my friends and see what they say. He seemed very pleased.
He offered me some wine, I drank a couple glasses naked, and then got dressed. He paid me twenty Euros for my time and I went to walk the streets buzzed once again.
I felt kind of sad, actually. I failed as a nude model. Of course there is fear in my eyes, I can’t exactly be smiling with joy when I lay on a dirty blanket in some Parisian studio with a cat dangerously close to my nether regions. I thought I could just naked and phone this shit in. Why does Habash have to be a real artist? Why can’t I just fake it in Paris? Don’t they know that’s what America was built on? Pretending you got it when you don’t? Merde.
Getting in touch with my USA-ness
The further away from home you are, the more you crave it. It’s a stupid fact of life I can’t avoid. When I’m in Texas, surrounded by Republican hicks and big loud trucks and outlet malls and fast food obesity and suffocating summer heat waves, I get so sick of it. But the goddamn second I leave it becomes this charming place that I wax poetic about almost daily. And of course I miss my mom and dad and Gram and P-paw and Pooky the pug and the freedom to get in a car and go to a Super Wal-Mart at midnight and buy really cheap crap just because I can.
It’s funny, you might think if you’re a socially liberal, culturally minded, and so-called “foodie” that you would thrive in Europe. Not so. To be honest, I’m not sure what kind of ex-pats do thrive here. I think it’s either a.) really naïve young girls that are so happy to be independent for their first time in their life, thus throwing themselves into the nightlife, drinking heavily, and eagerly flirting with any young Euro guys whose accents they find adorable. Or b.) it’s people that forsake their American identity, refuse to speak in English, and are probably pretentious assholes. Haven’t really met any of those yet. So no, France has not taken me in its socialist arms and cradled me and made me see the light. It’s actually made me realize that I’m an American, for better or for worse. Yeah, my country has problems. Lots of ‘em. I don’t even have health care coverage right now. But that’s where I was born, that’s where my life is, and I don’t want to leave it for very long.
It’s actually very comforting to realize this. Everyone goes through that trite period of college where you think, “Man, fuck this country! I wanna go to Spain and work 30 hours a week cause they work to live, man, not live to work like these Puritanical killjoys in America.”
And there’s truth in that. But honestly, you’re not going to truly fit in and enjoy that lifestyle (or even attain it) unless, well, you’re French. Or Spanish. You can’t just breeze on into Paris in your twenties, land a great job, fit right in, make tons of friends, and start a family. It’s not that open of a society or culture. And I don’t want to. It’s not me. Is it premature for me to make these blanket statements when I’ve been here less than two months? Of course it is. But I like to think I can make pretty good first judgments.
It’s funny what I crave here. When I ride the metro or walk around the cobblestone, rain-drenched streets of Paris, I listen to Tammy Wynette, Patsy Cline, Dolly Parton, even…gasp…Katy Perry. It’s just so damn comforting. And movies. I just watched “My Own Private Idaho.” It doesn’t get any more American than a gay hustler road movie set in the Pacific Northwest. I have no desire to listen to Serge Gainsbourg or watch a Truffaut film. Hell, if you plopped a Big Mac combo meal in my lap right now I’d be ecstatic.
Now, I know I’ll be complaining about America as soon as I get back, but right now, it feels so good to romanticize about my country across the pond. I’ll be so ready to return.
It’s funny, you might think if you’re a socially liberal, culturally minded, and so-called “foodie” that you would thrive in Europe. Not so. To be honest, I’m not sure what kind of ex-pats do thrive here. I think it’s either a.) really naïve young girls that are so happy to be independent for their first time in their life, thus throwing themselves into the nightlife, drinking heavily, and eagerly flirting with any young Euro guys whose accents they find adorable. Or b.) it’s people that forsake their American identity, refuse to speak in English, and are probably pretentious assholes. Haven’t really met any of those yet. So no, France has not taken me in its socialist arms and cradled me and made me see the light. It’s actually made me realize that I’m an American, for better or for worse. Yeah, my country has problems. Lots of ‘em. I don’t even have health care coverage right now. But that’s where I was born, that’s where my life is, and I don’t want to leave it for very long.
It’s actually very comforting to realize this. Everyone goes through that trite period of college where you think, “Man, fuck this country! I wanna go to Spain and work 30 hours a week cause they work to live, man, not live to work like these Puritanical killjoys in America.”
And there’s truth in that. But honestly, you’re not going to truly fit in and enjoy that lifestyle (or even attain it) unless, well, you’re French. Or Spanish. You can’t just breeze on into Paris in your twenties, land a great job, fit right in, make tons of friends, and start a family. It’s not that open of a society or culture. And I don’t want to. It’s not me. Is it premature for me to make these blanket statements when I’ve been here less than two months? Of course it is. But I like to think I can make pretty good first judgments.
It’s funny what I crave here. When I ride the metro or walk around the cobblestone, rain-drenched streets of Paris, I listen to Tammy Wynette, Patsy Cline, Dolly Parton, even…gasp…Katy Perry. It’s just so damn comforting. And movies. I just watched “My Own Private Idaho.” It doesn’t get any more American than a gay hustler road movie set in the Pacific Northwest. I have no desire to listen to Serge Gainsbourg or watch a Truffaut film. Hell, if you plopped a Big Mac combo meal in my lap right now I’d be ecstatic.
Now, I know I’ll be complaining about America as soon as I get back, but right now, it feels so good to romanticize about my country across the pond. I’ll be so ready to return.
I Quit (kinda)
I’m a quitter. I have trouble staying with one city, one job, one boyfriend, one apartment. I think the only thing I’m faithful to right now is my hairstyle. But I think (hope?) I’m finally changing. Well, as soon as I quit the job and city I’m currently doing.
This past Wednesday was the rare occasion I had dinner with not just the kids, but the entire family. We’re sitting at the crowded IKEA wooden table, eating our fromage blanc for dessert, and I tell them I’d like to go over some “vacation dates”—i.e., tell them when friends/boyfriend coming to visit and therefore I WILL NOT WORK. We discuss my friend Rachel, my mom, and Colin coming. They made a big deal about my “boyfriend” coming. And then the subject of Christmas come up. At one point my parents considered flying here for Christmas. But, the more I thought about it, it seemed silly and much more expensive for them to come here. Multiple plane tickets, a hotel, cold and rainy Paris instead of mild Austin…hmmm, I quickly changed my mind about the whole thing. I mean, sure, if we were really loaded and could get a suite at the Ritz I’d be down. But that wasn’t happening. Plus, I wanted to go home. Get my hair cut, get more winter coats.
So my family asked if I was still bringing my parents over for Christmas.
“Actually,” I ventured, “I think I’d like to fly home for Christmas.”
They seemed mildly shocked. Apparently the other au pairs never had visitors, let alone went home once. Weird. Sorry, I’m a Texan who gets homesick!
They ask how long I’ll be gone. A week? And then they drop the bomb…
“So, are you buying a one-way ticket home?”
I laugh nervously. They don’t. We stare at each other.
The mom leans in: “If you are considering going home after Christmas, I need to know RIGHT NOW.”
Oh shit oh shit oh shit. I think this is called getting backed into a corner.
“Well,” I begin cautiously. “I have to admit, it’s crossed my mind. I am homesick and I miss my boyfriend and uh…you know.”
The mom gets upset. Understandably. “If you are breaking the contract, I am going to be very, very angry. But I need to know so we can prepare. It isn’t fair for the children! But that’s life…”
We’ve all stopped eating dinner and everyone is looking at me. Gulp. Well, let’s just bite the bullet: “Okay, I think I will be going home after Christmas.”
And then I blacked out from stress and confrontation. The family quickly left the table and I took my sweet time cleaning up the kitchen. I come out and the mom is putting the kids to the bed, the dad sits awkwardly on the couch.
“So! Are you and your boyfriend getting engaged then?” he asks.
Hmmm. This might make my reasons for leaving easier. You know, rather than your-kids-suck-and-I'm-not-into-Paris-that-much. “Yeah, you know, we’ve talked about it.”
He nods. ”Ah, young love…”
I laugh awkwardly. Wow, I’m pretty much lying to my family and telling them I’m engaged to be engaged. Let’s go with this angle. Much easier to swallow than I think your kids are shit and I hate taking care of them and quite frankly I feel my IQ rapidly denigrating just being around them.
“You know, I’m really sorry to do this, but I felt it wasn’t fair to the family or me if I’m unhappy,” I timidly say.
“Yes, well, I suppose we will have enough time to find someone else,” he says.
We stare into space and then I stand up abruptly: “Okay! I’m gonna head upstairs. See you tomorrow…”
And we haven’t talked about it since. I was nervous they would start treating me like shit since I’m no longer a permanent fixture, but we’ve just gone into the “friendly-nothing-is-wrong!” zone. We kind of left it that I would take care of the kids full-time the first week of Christmas vacation, which means I will be flying home Christmas Day.
As I headed upstairs, I did feel a big weight lift off my shoulders. Honestly, I think I knew going into this I wouldn’t last. Yes, the homesick might pass after several months. But taking care of kids as my job? I KNEW I wouldn’t be good at it. I’m not quite sure what made me do it. I guess I thought it wouldn’t be so hard, that it would occupy so little of my time that it wouldn’t affect me. But I suck at it. And doing a job you dislike every day gets to you after awhile. I try to like the kids. Sometimes. But…I just don’t. They don’t make it easy. Do you know how frustrating it is to ask a little kid every day brightly, “Hey! How was your day?” and for them to shrug, mumble some smartass response, and walk away? It’s like, why fucking bother? What happened to kids being generally happy bundles of joy? Are these kids just future Existentialists in the making? Hey punk, you’re nine years old, it’s MY TURN to be depressed, not yours. Save it for junior high.
I called Colin the next day—2am his time. I told him what had happened. It has big implications for us. We had discussed me moving in with him before I came, and it was also a possibility when my term was up in July. But now it was up…a lot sooner. But we both feel really good about it. I think we’re both nervous, as neither of us has done anything like this. We’ve avoided serious commitment for a long time. But…it’s taking a leap, and what’s the worst that could happen?
It’s funny, we’ve never dated in the same city, and now I’m moving in with him in three months. Right after New Year’s. To Chicago, a city I’m not in love with, but after Paris, I think it will seem so much easier to handle. And friendly. (You know there isn’t a French word for friendly? Because that concept of being generally nice to strangers doesn’t exist.) Yes, Chicago in January will be awful. But at least I’ll have someone to keep me warm at night. It’s funny, the thought of being domestic with someone finally sounds really appealing. I fought it for a long time, but I hope I’ve matured enough to a do a good job of it.
As far as taking all my shit to his apartment in Chicago, deciding whether to bring my car, if I want to “decorate” his place or wait until we get a new place…I guess I’ll save all that logistical crap for December! Knowing I’m only here until Christmas makes me much more relaxed. There is an immediate end, and now I can enjoy my time much more. Maybe it’ll even light a fire under me to get motivated and see as much of Paris as I can.
Must run now. I have a 1pm appointment with Hashpa today. Hope I’m actually posing today (read: getting paid.) I will mostly likely have a funny story about getting naked later.
This past Wednesday was the rare occasion I had dinner with not just the kids, but the entire family. We’re sitting at the crowded IKEA wooden table, eating our fromage blanc for dessert, and I tell them I’d like to go over some “vacation dates”—i.e., tell them when friends/boyfriend coming to visit and therefore I WILL NOT WORK. We discuss my friend Rachel, my mom, and Colin coming. They made a big deal about my “boyfriend” coming. And then the subject of Christmas come up. At one point my parents considered flying here for Christmas. But, the more I thought about it, it seemed silly and much more expensive for them to come here. Multiple plane tickets, a hotel, cold and rainy Paris instead of mild Austin…hmmm, I quickly changed my mind about the whole thing. I mean, sure, if we were really loaded and could get a suite at the Ritz I’d be down. But that wasn’t happening. Plus, I wanted to go home. Get my hair cut, get more winter coats.
So my family asked if I was still bringing my parents over for Christmas.
“Actually,” I ventured, “I think I’d like to fly home for Christmas.”
They seemed mildly shocked. Apparently the other au pairs never had visitors, let alone went home once. Weird. Sorry, I’m a Texan who gets homesick!
They ask how long I’ll be gone. A week? And then they drop the bomb…
“So, are you buying a one-way ticket home?”
I laugh nervously. They don’t. We stare at each other.
The mom leans in: “If you are considering going home after Christmas, I need to know RIGHT NOW.”
Oh shit oh shit oh shit. I think this is called getting backed into a corner.
“Well,” I begin cautiously. “I have to admit, it’s crossed my mind. I am homesick and I miss my boyfriend and uh…you know.”
The mom gets upset. Understandably. “If you are breaking the contract, I am going to be very, very angry. But I need to know so we can prepare. It isn’t fair for the children! But that’s life…”
We’ve all stopped eating dinner and everyone is looking at me. Gulp. Well, let’s just bite the bullet: “Okay, I think I will be going home after Christmas.”
And then I blacked out from stress and confrontation. The family quickly left the table and I took my sweet time cleaning up the kitchen. I come out and the mom is putting the kids to the bed, the dad sits awkwardly on the couch.
“So! Are you and your boyfriend getting engaged then?” he asks.
Hmmm. This might make my reasons for leaving easier. You know, rather than your-kids-suck-and-I'm-not-into-Paris-that-much. “Yeah, you know, we’ve talked about it.”
He nods. ”Ah, young love…”
I laugh awkwardly. Wow, I’m pretty much lying to my family and telling them I’m engaged to be engaged. Let’s go with this angle. Much easier to swallow than I think your kids are shit and I hate taking care of them and quite frankly I feel my IQ rapidly denigrating just being around them.
“You know, I’m really sorry to do this, but I felt it wasn’t fair to the family or me if I’m unhappy,” I timidly say.
“Yes, well, I suppose we will have enough time to find someone else,” he says.
We stare into space and then I stand up abruptly: “Okay! I’m gonna head upstairs. See you tomorrow…”
And we haven’t talked about it since. I was nervous they would start treating me like shit since I’m no longer a permanent fixture, but we’ve just gone into the “friendly-nothing-is-wrong!” zone. We kind of left it that I would take care of the kids full-time the first week of Christmas vacation, which means I will be flying home Christmas Day.
As I headed upstairs, I did feel a big weight lift off my shoulders. Honestly, I think I knew going into this I wouldn’t last. Yes, the homesick might pass after several months. But taking care of kids as my job? I KNEW I wouldn’t be good at it. I’m not quite sure what made me do it. I guess I thought it wouldn’t be so hard, that it would occupy so little of my time that it wouldn’t affect me. But I suck at it. And doing a job you dislike every day gets to you after awhile. I try to like the kids. Sometimes. But…I just don’t. They don’t make it easy. Do you know how frustrating it is to ask a little kid every day brightly, “Hey! How was your day?” and for them to shrug, mumble some smartass response, and walk away? It’s like, why fucking bother? What happened to kids being generally happy bundles of joy? Are these kids just future Existentialists in the making? Hey punk, you’re nine years old, it’s MY TURN to be depressed, not yours. Save it for junior high.
I called Colin the next day—2am his time. I told him what had happened. It has big implications for us. We had discussed me moving in with him before I came, and it was also a possibility when my term was up in July. But now it was up…a lot sooner. But we both feel really good about it. I think we’re both nervous, as neither of us has done anything like this. We’ve avoided serious commitment for a long time. But…it’s taking a leap, and what’s the worst that could happen?
It’s funny, we’ve never dated in the same city, and now I’m moving in with him in three months. Right after New Year’s. To Chicago, a city I’m not in love with, but after Paris, I think it will seem so much easier to handle. And friendly. (You know there isn’t a French word for friendly? Because that concept of being generally nice to strangers doesn’t exist.) Yes, Chicago in January will be awful. But at least I’ll have someone to keep me warm at night. It’s funny, the thought of being domestic with someone finally sounds really appealing. I fought it for a long time, but I hope I’ve matured enough to a do a good job of it.
As far as taking all my shit to his apartment in Chicago, deciding whether to bring my car, if I want to “decorate” his place or wait until we get a new place…I guess I’ll save all that logistical crap for December! Knowing I’m only here until Christmas makes me much more relaxed. There is an immediate end, and now I can enjoy my time much more. Maybe it’ll even light a fire under me to get motivated and see as much of Paris as I can.
Must run now. I have a 1pm appointment with Hashpa today. Hope I’m actually posing today (read: getting paid.) I will mostly likely have a funny story about getting naked later.
Nudity and an old Czechoslovakian artist named Hashpa
I can’t believe I just did what I just did. What I did was look up “creative gigs” on Craigslist. My au pair job pays me 375 Euros a month. That is diddly squat. I can barely feed myself on that, let alone enjoy the city. I need extra income, something that is easy with flexible hours and I don’t have to speak a lot of French. So it’s prostituting myself or…nude modeling! Ideally, I wanted to be in a highly regarded art school, posing demurely in an academic setting while gay guys in Tom Ford eyewear idly drew me in pen and ink. And make 20 Euros an hour. Safe, neutral, non-sexy setting. But that wasn’t on Craigslist. It was mostly fetish photography, but one stood out as a semi-legitimate ad. I emailed it to myself and reread it for several days, pondering if I should answer it. The ad read:
Painter and photographer seeks female models for personal work and live nude drawing classes. Studio is located in the Marais, near Place des Vosges. Please call Hashpa at 01.40.27.00.95 (sorry, no email).
Compensation is 20-40 euros/hour.
My biggest worry was that I couldn’t email. I would have to call a number. And speak…in French? More like Franglais? Fuck it, I thought after looking at the ad for four days. What do I have to lose? Dignity? Already lost that the first time I tried to order three McDonald’s Happy Meals with the kids. So I call and (thank heavens) reach an answering machine. I say my first line in French: “J’appelle l’annonce dans le craiglist. Um, Sorry, I don’t speak very good French, I am calling about ad in Craigslist. Please call me back at….(oh crap, lost number, search desperately)…this number! Bye!”
I receive a call a couple hours later.
“Hello? This is Hashpa. You call about Craigslist, yes?”
“Yes. Um. Oui.”
He then babbles on in French and I think I hear the word “massage” and get really freaked out thinking it’s some sex shop. I don’t wanna be an imported Thai prostitute like those sad strip mall massage parlors in Houston. But I realize it’s the word “message.” Okay, we’re cool again.
He continues to speak quickly in French though I tell him I really have no idea what he is saying. We finally agree on a time to meet. Tomorrow, at noon, in his studio near Place des Vosges. I hang up and think…shit. If this is legit, I’m gonna have to get nekkid tomorrow. In front of some old dude. In some old dank old studio. This is kind of crazy.
Friday morning arrives and I’m not gonna lie, I’m pretty nervous. But not nervous enough to shower or shave my legs. I mean, I’m not REALLY gonna have to get naked, right? Maybe I can just take off my sweater and he can see I’m not a leper and then, you know, I’ll deal with the naked stuff later when he’s teaching the class. I almost feel it’d be easier to be naked in front of a bunch of students rather than one old lecherous man. Of course I assume he’s lecherous. What kind of an old artist who paints nude women isn’t a womanizer?
I take the metro to Bastille and find the place quite easily. It’s a dark, rotted old building that could quite easily be set in a Dickens novel 100 years ago and you wouldn’t know the difference. I climb the stairs with trepidation and see a door open, leading into a messy room filled with jars, brushes, stacks of books, and paintings everywhere. This must be the place.
Hashpa greets me cheerfully enough. “Ah! Yes! You are afraid of cat?” he gestures to a feral beast circling my legs.
“Um, nope. J’aime les chattes.”
Not true, I hate cats, but they are low on my list of worries today.
He is old, in his early sixties I would guess, with a white beard and a tall, solid figure. He bears a passing resemblance to Hemingway. Great, so I’ll just think of him as the kindly Papa and it’ll make this whole thing much easier. I’ll pretend we’re the Lost Generation and Gertrude Stein is making me tea in the next room.
Hashba gazes me at me intently, “Ah, tu es très jolie. Yes. Come. We talk.”
He grabs a bottle of wine and two glasses and leads me into his studio. Giant windows form one wall and the other three are covered with oil paintings—some good, some bad, some nude, some abstract. It’s the cliché of every European artist’s studio I’ve ever seen. I relax a wee bit, knowing at least he is a real artist and not some creeper with a web cam. I doubt this guy even has email. We sit in two tiny rickety chairs and face each other. He pours the wine, we toast.
“So, um, how many models are you looking for? And what days of the week and for how long? Oh, and how many students do you have?” I babble nervously.
He holds up his hand. “Stop, stop, Non! You. Speak. Slowly. I speak slowly. Then we can understand,yes?”
“Okay. Got it.”
“Okay. We meet. We talk. I have to look at you.”
“Um, you mean, like I have to take my clothes off? Like right now?”
“Oui, oui, c’est normale! It’s the body, I must see if I can paint you.”
Fuck, if I want this gig, I totally have to take my clothes off, don’t I?
“Je suis timide?” I venture cautiously. “Et, je suis Americaine!” (Obviously, just saying I’m American he will realize I am not comfortable with all things sexual and have lots of hang-ups with nudity.
“Bah!” he dismisses with his hand. “I know beaucoup d’Americans and they are crazy. You been with man before, yes? Or are you virgin?”
“Um, yeah, I’ve had a boyfriend, sure.”
“Just one?”
“No…”
He smiles and begins counting on his fingers, “Une, deux, trios, quatre…”
“Okay, sure. You can stop there.”
“Okay, so you can undress, it’s not the first time.”
Shit shit shit, let’s just get this over with. I slowly unwind my scarf and carefully place it on the chair next to me. One article of clothing down, six more to go…there goes the sweater. The tank top. My black leggings. I’m sitting in my underwear now. Phew. I look at him, “This is enough, right?”
“Non! C’est normale, I need to see everything.”
Okay, I’ve done topless beaches. Kind of. For like two seconds in the water once in Miami. It’s just nudity. He’s an artist. Sees it all the time. I take my bra off. Ta da! Pretty much naked now!
“C’est bien, c’est bien. You are…Renoir! Yes, I show you.” He pulls out a book from his stack and thumbs through it, finally stopping at a page of Renoir’s nudes. He shows me. I have to admit, I bear a passing resemblance to some of the women.
“Eh…Klimt? Tu sais?” He hands me another book. This one is mostly female nudes, pen and ink. I recognize some of them. I’m cool with it until I notice most of them are, uh, touching themselves. Spread eagle. I find a nice, tasteful, sitting down with all hands in appropriate places and point: “I like THIS ONE the best.”
“Ah, c’est bien. Eh…” he rifles through the book and stops at one. “This is self-portrait.”
Oh, very nice. Oh, it appears Klimt and his wife/girlfriend are both naked and he is holding…himself. Ah, yes. Rather a large one at that. Thought it was his hand at first.
“Well, that is interesting…”
Hasbah has one more to show me. It’s another drawing of a nude, the girl looks quite young. “This…sister!” he announces.
“Oh, he drew his sister nude? Ah, well…must have been awkward, don’t you think?”
“Yes, and then they had the sex!”
“Oh, he had sex with his sister? Hmmm, yeah, I’m not really sure I agree with that—incest, you know, not my cup of tea.”
He nods happily. We put the books away and he gestures at my underwear: “All of it.”
Uhhh. This means I have to sit bare-assed on a cold chair. But I’ve come this far…fuck it! I yank them off, place them on the rest of my clothes and realize…well, I’m naked. This is probably the weirdest moment of my life so far, but I’m doing it.
We continue chatting in broken English/French and for a couple minutes I almost forget I’m naked. Hey, this is relaxing! Just hanging out, being nude, talking about art. He does a pretty good job of maintaining eye contact, I have to say. To make me feel better he shows me naked pictures of his wife. She is Asian, sitting in a pool, and looks about twenty. Huh.
He asks about a boyfriend and I tell him about Colin in Chicago. Of this he strongly disapproves.
“How old is boy?”
“He’s 31.”
“Ah! 31. He needs the sex every day. Every day.”
“Well, yeah, but he can’t so, you know, we just have to wait until we see each other again…”
“No! Man cannot wait. Not healthy. Is healthy to have sex every day. You, you may wait. But he needs it.”
“Well, we don’t have a choice---“
“How long you in France for?”
I say six months, which isn’t quite true, but close enough.
“Too long! Monogamy…ce n’est pas normale. I…four girlfriends. Five wives. People in America…how you say, Mormon? They have polygamy—lots of wives! It’s good, no?”
“Uh, sure, but it’s not really fair to the wife…”
“Bah!” he waves his hand. “No. Not fair. But that’s life. You in France now, you young, must experience…the French!”
On this we must agree to disagree.
But back to the reason I’m there, still sitting nude, sipping on my wine. He tells me his wife also makes art, especially using photographs. “If you are comfortable, she take your photograph. We see. I only use old Russian cameras. No automatic. But model must choose own pose.”
Hmmm…photography. A bit more permanent and realistic than a blurry Impressionist nude painting of me. But--we’ll see. I’ve always wanted nude photographs of me, provided they’re tastefully done and make me look phenomenal. I try to pin down a time for me to come every week. He tells me he won’t need me for his weekly classes, as he wants to “keep me for himself.” (All the better to rape me!, I think.) Which I guess is flattering except for the fact that I would like to work as much as possible because in the end…muse or not, I need beaucoup d’argent. But artists don’t like to talk about money, do they?
He asks for me to come on Sunday, but I’m not sure what my day will hold (supposed to be having brunch with Mike, going to an exhibition of Karl Lagerfeld photographs, open house at American Library…) so I say next time. He says he will call me. I eagerly put my clothes back on, fight off his feral cat, we shake hands, and I let myself out. I’m walking in the busy streets of Le Marais, slightly buzzed on wine, laughing to myself. Well, I finally conquered one of my biggest fears and fantasies. And I don’t mean sexual fantasy, but rather doing something I’d always wondered about but never actually done. Posing nude for an artist. It took a lot of guts and a lot of awkwardness…but I did it. My first Parisian success?
Painter and photographer seeks female models for personal work and live nude drawing classes. Studio is located in the Marais, near Place des Vosges. Please call Hashpa at 01.40.27.00.95 (sorry, no email).
Compensation is 20-40 euros/hour.
My biggest worry was that I couldn’t email. I would have to call a number. And speak…in French? More like Franglais? Fuck it, I thought after looking at the ad for four days. What do I have to lose? Dignity? Already lost that the first time I tried to order three McDonald’s Happy Meals with the kids. So I call and (thank heavens) reach an answering machine. I say my first line in French: “J’appelle l’annonce dans le craiglist. Um, Sorry, I don’t speak very good French, I am calling about ad in Craigslist. Please call me back at….(oh crap, lost number, search desperately)…this number! Bye!”
I receive a call a couple hours later.
“Hello? This is Hashpa. You call about Craigslist, yes?”
“Yes. Um. Oui.”
He then babbles on in French and I think I hear the word “massage” and get really freaked out thinking it’s some sex shop. I don’t wanna be an imported Thai prostitute like those sad strip mall massage parlors in Houston. But I realize it’s the word “message.” Okay, we’re cool again.
He continues to speak quickly in French though I tell him I really have no idea what he is saying. We finally agree on a time to meet. Tomorrow, at noon, in his studio near Place des Vosges. I hang up and think…shit. If this is legit, I’m gonna have to get nekkid tomorrow. In front of some old dude. In some old dank old studio. This is kind of crazy.
Friday morning arrives and I’m not gonna lie, I’m pretty nervous. But not nervous enough to shower or shave my legs. I mean, I’m not REALLY gonna have to get naked, right? Maybe I can just take off my sweater and he can see I’m not a leper and then, you know, I’ll deal with the naked stuff later when he’s teaching the class. I almost feel it’d be easier to be naked in front of a bunch of students rather than one old lecherous man. Of course I assume he’s lecherous. What kind of an old artist who paints nude women isn’t a womanizer?
I take the metro to Bastille and find the place quite easily. It’s a dark, rotted old building that could quite easily be set in a Dickens novel 100 years ago and you wouldn’t know the difference. I climb the stairs with trepidation and see a door open, leading into a messy room filled with jars, brushes, stacks of books, and paintings everywhere. This must be the place.
Hashpa greets me cheerfully enough. “Ah! Yes! You are afraid of cat?” he gestures to a feral beast circling my legs.
“Um, nope. J’aime les chattes.”
Not true, I hate cats, but they are low on my list of worries today.
He is old, in his early sixties I would guess, with a white beard and a tall, solid figure. He bears a passing resemblance to Hemingway. Great, so I’ll just think of him as the kindly Papa and it’ll make this whole thing much easier. I’ll pretend we’re the Lost Generation and Gertrude Stein is making me tea in the next room.
Hashba gazes me at me intently, “Ah, tu es très jolie. Yes. Come. We talk.”
He grabs a bottle of wine and two glasses and leads me into his studio. Giant windows form one wall and the other three are covered with oil paintings—some good, some bad, some nude, some abstract. It’s the cliché of every European artist’s studio I’ve ever seen. I relax a wee bit, knowing at least he is a real artist and not some creeper with a web cam. I doubt this guy even has email. We sit in two tiny rickety chairs and face each other. He pours the wine, we toast.
“So, um, how many models are you looking for? And what days of the week and for how long? Oh, and how many students do you have?” I babble nervously.
He holds up his hand. “Stop, stop, Non! You. Speak. Slowly. I speak slowly. Then we can understand,yes?”
“Okay. Got it.”
“Okay. We meet. We talk. I have to look at you.”
“Um, you mean, like I have to take my clothes off? Like right now?”
“Oui, oui, c’est normale! It’s the body, I must see if I can paint you.”
Fuck, if I want this gig, I totally have to take my clothes off, don’t I?
“Je suis timide?” I venture cautiously. “Et, je suis Americaine!” (Obviously, just saying I’m American he will realize I am not comfortable with all things sexual and have lots of hang-ups with nudity.
“Bah!” he dismisses with his hand. “I know beaucoup d’Americans and they are crazy. You been with man before, yes? Or are you virgin?”
“Um, yeah, I’ve had a boyfriend, sure.”
“Just one?”
“No…”
He smiles and begins counting on his fingers, “Une, deux, trios, quatre…”
“Okay, sure. You can stop there.”
“Okay, so you can undress, it’s not the first time.”
Shit shit shit, let’s just get this over with. I slowly unwind my scarf and carefully place it on the chair next to me. One article of clothing down, six more to go…there goes the sweater. The tank top. My black leggings. I’m sitting in my underwear now. Phew. I look at him, “This is enough, right?”
“Non! C’est normale, I need to see everything.”
Okay, I’ve done topless beaches. Kind of. For like two seconds in the water once in Miami. It’s just nudity. He’s an artist. Sees it all the time. I take my bra off. Ta da! Pretty much naked now!
“C’est bien, c’est bien. You are…Renoir! Yes, I show you.” He pulls out a book from his stack and thumbs through it, finally stopping at a page of Renoir’s nudes. He shows me. I have to admit, I bear a passing resemblance to some of the women.
“Eh…Klimt? Tu sais?” He hands me another book. This one is mostly female nudes, pen and ink. I recognize some of them. I’m cool with it until I notice most of them are, uh, touching themselves. Spread eagle. I find a nice, tasteful, sitting down with all hands in appropriate places and point: “I like THIS ONE the best.”
“Ah, c’est bien. Eh…” he rifles through the book and stops at one. “This is self-portrait.”
Oh, very nice. Oh, it appears Klimt and his wife/girlfriend are both naked and he is holding…himself. Ah, yes. Rather a large one at that. Thought it was his hand at first.
“Well, that is interesting…”
Hasbah has one more to show me. It’s another drawing of a nude, the girl looks quite young. “This…sister!” he announces.
“Oh, he drew his sister nude? Ah, well…must have been awkward, don’t you think?”
“Yes, and then they had the sex!”
“Oh, he had sex with his sister? Hmmm, yeah, I’m not really sure I agree with that—incest, you know, not my cup of tea.”
He nods happily. We put the books away and he gestures at my underwear: “All of it.”
Uhhh. This means I have to sit bare-assed on a cold chair. But I’ve come this far…fuck it! I yank them off, place them on the rest of my clothes and realize…well, I’m naked. This is probably the weirdest moment of my life so far, but I’m doing it.
We continue chatting in broken English/French and for a couple minutes I almost forget I’m naked. Hey, this is relaxing! Just hanging out, being nude, talking about art. He does a pretty good job of maintaining eye contact, I have to say. To make me feel better he shows me naked pictures of his wife. She is Asian, sitting in a pool, and looks about twenty. Huh.
He asks about a boyfriend and I tell him about Colin in Chicago. Of this he strongly disapproves.
“How old is boy?”
“He’s 31.”
“Ah! 31. He needs the sex every day. Every day.”
“Well, yeah, but he can’t so, you know, we just have to wait until we see each other again…”
“No! Man cannot wait. Not healthy. Is healthy to have sex every day. You, you may wait. But he needs it.”
“Well, we don’t have a choice---“
“How long you in France for?”
I say six months, which isn’t quite true, but close enough.
“Too long! Monogamy…ce n’est pas normale. I…four girlfriends. Five wives. People in America…how you say, Mormon? They have polygamy—lots of wives! It’s good, no?”
“Uh, sure, but it’s not really fair to the wife…”
“Bah!” he waves his hand. “No. Not fair. But that’s life. You in France now, you young, must experience…the French!”
On this we must agree to disagree.
But back to the reason I’m there, still sitting nude, sipping on my wine. He tells me his wife also makes art, especially using photographs. “If you are comfortable, she take your photograph. We see. I only use old Russian cameras. No automatic. But model must choose own pose.”
Hmmm…photography. A bit more permanent and realistic than a blurry Impressionist nude painting of me. But--we’ll see. I’ve always wanted nude photographs of me, provided they’re tastefully done and make me look phenomenal. I try to pin down a time for me to come every week. He tells me he won’t need me for his weekly classes, as he wants to “keep me for himself.” (All the better to rape me!, I think.) Which I guess is flattering except for the fact that I would like to work as much as possible because in the end…muse or not, I need beaucoup d’argent. But artists don’t like to talk about money, do they?
He asks for me to come on Sunday, but I’m not sure what my day will hold (supposed to be having brunch with Mike, going to an exhibition of Karl Lagerfeld photographs, open house at American Library…) so I say next time. He says he will call me. I eagerly put my clothes back on, fight off his feral cat, we shake hands, and I let myself out. I’m walking in the busy streets of Le Marais, slightly buzzed on wine, laughing to myself. Well, I finally conquered one of my biggest fears and fantasies. And I don’t mean sexual fantasy, but rather doing something I’d always wondered about but never actually done. Posing nude for an artist. It took a lot of guts and a lot of awkwardness…but I did it. My first Parisian success?
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