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?
Showing posts with label Paris. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Paris. Show all posts
Monday, September 13, 2010
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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