Reading Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast” makes me feel better about staying home all day and writing. It’s not lazy. I’m a working author. I haven’t had a moment of quiet at home, on my computer, with no distractions in a week. So tomorrow I’d like nothing better than to sleep in, make a big cup of instant coffee (yup, that’s all I get) and not do shit. Right now I always feel pressure to go out, see stuff, take pictures, EXPERIENCE PARIS!!!! When does that feeling go away? Will it ever feel like home? I doubt it.
So I’m definitely staying in Friday night, because Saturday I am going to a house party. Mike, a short bro I met at petanque, invited a group of us. But I’m mostly going because it is ridiculously close to where I live. My only standard for going out is that it must be close, and cheap. No idea what the crowd will be, but I’m actually looking forward to it. I’m pretty proud of myself for going out there, talking to strangers, answering emails, doing cheesy shit like meetup.com. It’s like the more you do it the easier you gets. And, really, once you’ve met around twenty people, you connect with their friends and then your work is done. Sure, I’d like someone I could really connect to (on a friend level) but I’m happy for now.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Deep in thought at the playground.
While the weather is nice, we go to the playground a lot. I don’t mind it, it’s time for me to zone out, think about deep, important, grown-up things (like what I’ll make for lunch tomorrow) and not have to talk to the children. Much. Nolan runs off to play soccer with other heathens, while Dara gets in the sand with other little girls. I’m about as irresponsible as you can be. There have been times when I’ve often thought about sneaking out, going pee, getting a snack, while they play? How long would it take them to realize I’m gone?
This is when having an au pair friend would really come in handy. Everyone else but me has a friend there. They gossip, probably talk about how spoiled the children are and how ridiculous the parents are.
Au pairs range from young and slutty, constantly texting on their phones to old, haggard, Eastern European ones (and probably illegal to boot.) And of course you’ve got your North African mix as well. Then there’s the weird American outcast. Me. But I’ve heard that having an American au pair is quite the status symbol. So I am a prize, as valued as a BMW 5-series sedan. Keeping up with the Joneses indeed.
But, I did finally make another au pair friend. Only problem is that she lives in far west Paris—as far away from Saint-Mande as you can get. She’s very young (only 20) and fresh from Utah. Mormon, of course. A bit boy crazy and silly, but I am glad to have met her. We went shopping today, as is typical for a new girlfriend bonding experience, and I spent a bunch of money I don’t have. So, no more shopping. For nine months. It’s funny, you never know what you’ll want or how you’ll dress until you get somewhere. I packed lots of floral little dresses and tight jeans and I don’t want to wear any of them. It’s no fun walking a mile, sweating or freezing, standing in a crowded, sweaty metro, and sitting on the floor with kids. So basically I will be wearing black leggings, long T-shirts, and baggy sweaters for a year. Harem pants (or MC Hammer pants) as I call them are quite popular here. But, of course, they only look good if you’re ninety pounds or less.
I asked Kacy (new au pair friend) if she wanted to go to a lesbian cabaret tonight. Shake her Mormonism up a little bit. We’re meeting at nine at the Palais Royal stop. Hopefully we won’t get lost. Hopefully it’s free. Hopefully it’s very entertaining and young, beautiful, Swedish women will buy drinks for me all night. But I’ll settle for 2 out of 3. I’m assuming it’ll be more of a KD Lang/Vanessa Redgrave kind of shindig.
I talked to my mom about Nolan’s increasingly bad behavior and she made me feel better. Key quote: “You’re 25, you’ve got lots of options. You don’t have to be doing this. I’m not saying come home, but you don’t owe them anything.” Wow, thanks, Mom. Nothing makes me feel better than when my mom says I can bow out gracefully of something. And, it made me feel okay about staying. Does that make sense? I just needed her permission to know it was okay to struggle, to have doubts, but to keep trying. And, shit, that kid IS awful. Today he threw a toy at me, screamed in my face, told his sister “TA GEULE!” multiple times and told me everything was crap. Charming.
As soon as he turns 18 I’m sending a pile of steaming dog poop to his house. And you don’t have to go far to find dog poop. It’s every two feet in Paris.
Last night I went to a meetup.com one-man show titled “How to Become Parisienne in one hour.” Typical potty/sex humor with lots of American stereotypes. I enjoyed it, would have liked it more if it wasn’t 15 Euros. Met a nice older woman from Barcelona and another Indian guy. They flock to me like ducks to stale bread at a park. At first the three of us were heading to a bar, then the woman had to go. So…awkward one-on-one time with guy who’s name I can’t pronounce. He was very nice and knowledgable about traveling through Paris. Half the time I couldn’t understand him. Points off for telling me I drank my wine too fast and asking if he could take a picture of me. (Yeah, yeah, you’re a professional photographer…I get it.)
This is when having an au pair friend would really come in handy. Everyone else but me has a friend there. They gossip, probably talk about how spoiled the children are and how ridiculous the parents are.
Au pairs range from young and slutty, constantly texting on their phones to old, haggard, Eastern European ones (and probably illegal to boot.) And of course you’ve got your North African mix as well. Then there’s the weird American outcast. Me. But I’ve heard that having an American au pair is quite the status symbol. So I am a prize, as valued as a BMW 5-series sedan. Keeping up with the Joneses indeed.
But, I did finally make another au pair friend. Only problem is that she lives in far west Paris—as far away from Saint-Mande as you can get. She’s very young (only 20) and fresh from Utah. Mormon, of course. A bit boy crazy and silly, but I am glad to have met her. We went shopping today, as is typical for a new girlfriend bonding experience, and I spent a bunch of money I don’t have. So, no more shopping. For nine months. It’s funny, you never know what you’ll want or how you’ll dress until you get somewhere. I packed lots of floral little dresses and tight jeans and I don’t want to wear any of them. It’s no fun walking a mile, sweating or freezing, standing in a crowded, sweaty metro, and sitting on the floor with kids. So basically I will be wearing black leggings, long T-shirts, and baggy sweaters for a year. Harem pants (or MC Hammer pants) as I call them are quite popular here. But, of course, they only look good if you’re ninety pounds or less.
I asked Kacy (new au pair friend) if she wanted to go to a lesbian cabaret tonight. Shake her Mormonism up a little bit. We’re meeting at nine at the Palais Royal stop. Hopefully we won’t get lost. Hopefully it’s free. Hopefully it’s very entertaining and young, beautiful, Swedish women will buy drinks for me all night. But I’ll settle for 2 out of 3. I’m assuming it’ll be more of a KD Lang/Vanessa Redgrave kind of shindig.
I talked to my mom about Nolan’s increasingly bad behavior and she made me feel better. Key quote: “You’re 25, you’ve got lots of options. You don’t have to be doing this. I’m not saying come home, but you don’t owe them anything.” Wow, thanks, Mom. Nothing makes me feel better than when my mom says I can bow out gracefully of something. And, it made me feel okay about staying. Does that make sense? I just needed her permission to know it was okay to struggle, to have doubts, but to keep trying. And, shit, that kid IS awful. Today he threw a toy at me, screamed in my face, told his sister “TA GEULE!” multiple times and told me everything was crap. Charming.
As soon as he turns 18 I’m sending a pile of steaming dog poop to his house. And you don’t have to go far to find dog poop. It’s every two feet in Paris.
Last night I went to a meetup.com one-man show titled “How to Become Parisienne in one hour.” Typical potty/sex humor with lots of American stereotypes. I enjoyed it, would have liked it more if it wasn’t 15 Euros. Met a nice older woman from Barcelona and another Indian guy. They flock to me like ducks to stale bread at a park. At first the three of us were heading to a bar, then the woman had to go. So…awkward one-on-one time with guy who’s name I can’t pronounce. He was very nice and knowledgable about traveling through Paris. Half the time I couldn’t understand him. Points off for telling me I drank my wine too fast and asking if he could take a picture of me. (Yeah, yeah, you’re a professional photographer…I get it.)
I am the worst au pair ever.
Monday I went to my France-Langue school and took my French placement test. A sobering experience to say the least. I’ve. Forgotten. Everything. I maybe got two things right. So I’ll be in the beginner’s class…which is fine. Maybe everyone will be from the Midwest! And therefore nice. Or it’ll be all the slutty Russian au pairs, which is fun, too. I talked to some cute English girls waiting in line. Hopefully at least one person will be cool in the upcoming classes. Hanging out with another au pair and bitching about our kids would be quite cathartic.
Tomorrow I have lots of errands I need to run, but guess what! The workers are going on strike! For two days! How French of them. So who knows if I’ll be able to go anywhere…and what a bummer, for I was going to another meetup thing on Wednesday night. Invited by Raj, a short Indian engineer I met. Let’s hope he’s not dumb enough to think it’s a date. “Sorry, Raj, not interested. Not matter how desperately lonely I get.”
On another note, when is it okay to physically grab your charges? Today I had to pull Nolan the Terrible away from Dara (all while they were screaming at disgustingly high decibles) and even though I grabbed him really hard, he was still pretty strong to hang on to the stair banister. At what point does it become abuse? Oh, and I might have yelled “SHUT UP!” That’s bad, right? Again, the worst nanny ever. Sometimes I wonder if I secretly want the kids to hate me so they’ll tell their parents to get someone new and fire me. Good plan? Or I can just let Nolan get hit by a car when he runs away from me on his scooter. Any nine-year-old boy that yells, “I NEED TO MAKE A LITTLE CACA!” at me deserves to get hit by a car a little bit.
Tomorrow I have lots of errands I need to run, but guess what! The workers are going on strike! For two days! How French of them. So who knows if I’ll be able to go anywhere…and what a bummer, for I was going to another meetup thing on Wednesday night. Invited by Raj, a short Indian engineer I met. Let’s hope he’s not dumb enough to think it’s a date. “Sorry, Raj, not interested. Not matter how desperately lonely I get.”
On another note, when is it okay to physically grab your charges? Today I had to pull Nolan the Terrible away from Dara (all while they were screaming at disgustingly high decibles) and even though I grabbed him really hard, he was still pretty strong to hang on to the stair banister. At what point does it become abuse? Oh, and I might have yelled “SHUT UP!” That’s bad, right? Again, the worst nanny ever. Sometimes I wonder if I secretly want the kids to hate me so they’ll tell their parents to get someone new and fire me. Good plan? Or I can just let Nolan get hit by a car when he runs away from me on his scooter. Any nine-year-old boy that yells, “I NEED TO MAKE A LITTLE CACA!” at me deserves to get hit by a car a little bit.
A day of free museums and petanque.
The first Sunday of every month in Paris offers free entry to a lot of museums. The Louvre, Musee d’Orsay, Rodin…all of these are gratuit! So what’s the catch? THE LINES. I headed out on a late Sunday morning armed with my SLR Pentax KX camera and walking shoes, ready to see beaucoup de musees! Alas, once I saw the line at the Louvre, I realized every other tourist on Labor Day weekend had the same idea. It was probably a good two hours long. Au revoir to the Louvre.
I walked down the Jardin de Tuileries, getting the white gravel dust all over my sandals, feet, and tights. Lovely. By the end I looked like a common peasant. It brought back a lot of memories; it seems like almost yesterday I was walking down there with three girls from my study abroad class in London. We came to Paris for a whirlwind weekend and walked from the Louvre to the Eiffel Tower. Then we bought really cheap, gross rose and lay out on the grass until it got dark. Oh, to have girlfriends again!
I walked until I saw another museum, the Petits Palais. Seeing how it was free, I walked in and was immediately scolded by an old, Asian security guard. Sorry, but yelling at me and pointing does not a translation make. I finally realized I had to check my backpack because I was a potential terrorists carrying biological weapons. I had to do this at every museum actually. The moral? Bring a large purse, no backpack.
The Petit Palais was a bit boring, as I can’t stand old Asian pottery, but there were some lovely French Revolution-era trinkets. Sure, it would be nice if I could read the descriptions, but it’s part of the fun of not speaking the language here!
I did a loop around the Seine, enjoying seeing other tourists buy crap from the guys on the quai. Little Eiffel Towers, shitty watercolor paintings, umbrellas with cherubs, all can be found here.
I stumbled upon the Musee D’Orsay, and though I hadn’t eaten in several hours and was feeling quite crappy, I forced myself to wait in the not-so-hideous line. The museum was, of course, gorgeous. Like an insanely embellished train station covered with gold and dotted with statues. And yet somehow modern. There was some really great Art Nouveau furniture pieces there. Sadly, my weak metabolism only let me stay an hour before I knew I had to go home and eat whatever shitty food I had in my baby fridge. I really need to start cooking here, I’m just lazy. All I have is a hot plate, so that’s basically grilling meat or making spaghetti. Lately I’ve been eating spreadable pate on white bread, followed by a dozen figs and then some plain yogurt. Living it up in Paris, FOR SURE.
Once I’d gotten home and eaten, I headed out yet again to meetup.com event proclaiming “FUN PARIS URBAN ADVENTURES!” How could I not go? For I truly love urban adventures with strangers I’ve just met…
When I got off the Laumiere stop in the 19th arr., it of course took forever to find the canal. And then I couldn’t find the right people. It’s like a blind date with twenty strangers. The courage (or whatever you call it) to finally walk up to them and say, “Um, hi, are you with…uh…meetup.com?” It takes a lot. Or at least it does for me.
But I found them, and it was an interesting mix of Canadians, Americans, British, French, and Israelites. Most seemed older. Without being too judgmental (oh, who am I kidding?) it was not exactly the “cool kids.” But am I complaining? Not at all.
So we played a couple bad games of petanque, which is a classic French game that consists of throwing silver balls at other balls and drinking. Quite pleasant. Seeing that a beer can costs at least five bucks, I sadly realized that I will not be getting drunk for the next nine months, unless I’m at home drinking a bottle of 2 Euro wine—which is probably more fun anyway.
After the games winded down, a group of us sat near the canal and talked. Mike, a guy from Ohio, has been here a year. A bit of an attitude, but he’s short, so that’s a given. Vladimir, a guy from Tel Aviv/San Diego who was quite nice, and Leora, a short, dykey girl from Montreal. We ended up going out to dinner and getting pizza at a place guaranteeing “feu au bois”—wood-fired pizza. It wasn’t that great, but hey! My first meal with friends!
We talked about conversion rates, cell phone plans, where we lived. Of course everyone enjoyed my masturbation story. Then we got on the metro and went our separate ways. I got home at a whopping 10pm! Wow! Late night! And I was in a good mental state of mind before I went to sleep, which is always nice. I like Leora. She’s your typical chill Canadian who is getting her doctorate in neuroscience. We were supposed to get a drink Monday night but she asked for a raincheck since she’s flying to Albania tomorrow. Glamorous.
I walked down the Jardin de Tuileries, getting the white gravel dust all over my sandals, feet, and tights. Lovely. By the end I looked like a common peasant. It brought back a lot of memories; it seems like almost yesterday I was walking down there with three girls from my study abroad class in London. We came to Paris for a whirlwind weekend and walked from the Louvre to the Eiffel Tower. Then we bought really cheap, gross rose and lay out on the grass until it got dark. Oh, to have girlfriends again!
I walked until I saw another museum, the Petits Palais. Seeing how it was free, I walked in and was immediately scolded by an old, Asian security guard. Sorry, but yelling at me and pointing does not a translation make. I finally realized I had to check my backpack because I was a potential terrorists carrying biological weapons. I had to do this at every museum actually. The moral? Bring a large purse, no backpack.
The Petit Palais was a bit boring, as I can’t stand old Asian pottery, but there were some lovely French Revolution-era trinkets. Sure, it would be nice if I could read the descriptions, but it’s part of the fun of not speaking the language here!
I did a loop around the Seine, enjoying seeing other tourists buy crap from the guys on the quai. Little Eiffel Towers, shitty watercolor paintings, umbrellas with cherubs, all can be found here.
I stumbled upon the Musee D’Orsay, and though I hadn’t eaten in several hours and was feeling quite crappy, I forced myself to wait in the not-so-hideous line. The museum was, of course, gorgeous. Like an insanely embellished train station covered with gold and dotted with statues. And yet somehow modern. There was some really great Art Nouveau furniture pieces there. Sadly, my weak metabolism only let me stay an hour before I knew I had to go home and eat whatever shitty food I had in my baby fridge. I really need to start cooking here, I’m just lazy. All I have is a hot plate, so that’s basically grilling meat or making spaghetti. Lately I’ve been eating spreadable pate on white bread, followed by a dozen figs and then some plain yogurt. Living it up in Paris, FOR SURE.
Once I’d gotten home and eaten, I headed out yet again to meetup.com event proclaiming “FUN PARIS URBAN ADVENTURES!” How could I not go? For I truly love urban adventures with strangers I’ve just met…
When I got off the Laumiere stop in the 19th arr., it of course took forever to find the canal. And then I couldn’t find the right people. It’s like a blind date with twenty strangers. The courage (or whatever you call it) to finally walk up to them and say, “Um, hi, are you with…uh…meetup.com?” It takes a lot. Or at least it does for me.
But I found them, and it was an interesting mix of Canadians, Americans, British, French, and Israelites. Most seemed older. Without being too judgmental (oh, who am I kidding?) it was not exactly the “cool kids.” But am I complaining? Not at all.
So we played a couple bad games of petanque, which is a classic French game that consists of throwing silver balls at other balls and drinking. Quite pleasant. Seeing that a beer can costs at least five bucks, I sadly realized that I will not be getting drunk for the next nine months, unless I’m at home drinking a bottle of 2 Euro wine—which is probably more fun anyway.
After the games winded down, a group of us sat near the canal and talked. Mike, a guy from Ohio, has been here a year. A bit of an attitude, but he’s short, so that’s a given. Vladimir, a guy from Tel Aviv/San Diego who was quite nice, and Leora, a short, dykey girl from Montreal. We ended up going out to dinner and getting pizza at a place guaranteeing “feu au bois”—wood-fired pizza. It wasn’t that great, but hey! My first meal with friends!
We talked about conversion rates, cell phone plans, where we lived. Of course everyone enjoyed my masturbation story. Then we got on the metro and went our separate ways. I got home at a whopping 10pm! Wow! Late night! And I was in a good mental state of mind before I went to sleep, which is always nice. I like Leora. She’s your typical chill Canadian who is getting her doctorate in neuroscience. We were supposed to get a drink Monday night but she asked for a raincheck since she’s flying to Albania tomorrow. Glamorous.
Lindsey's First Friday Night Out
I found this website called meet-up.com which encourages large group gatherings of like-minded individuals. Or something like that. As much as I hate cheesy forced shit, I knew the standards had to go. I found one for ex-pats, and they just happened to be having a get-together that night AND it was on my metro line. Okay, no reason for Lazy Lindsey not to drag herself out on a Friday night. Plus, I can’t have the parents thinking I have no life and want to take care of their children 24/7. I headed out around 9pm, and it took me about twenty minutes to get to the Bonne Nouvelle stop on Line 8. But then…I couldn’t find the damn bar. It was called Pranzo. I must have walked twenty minutes up and down the streets and side streets. I almost gave up and went to a McDonald’s to have an espresso and go home.
After having an iPhone with GPS for a year…not being able to instantly access information about where I am and where to go…it was such a slap in the face. I will never, EVER take Wi-Fi or a cell phone for granted again. I SWEAR, INTERNET GODS! Luckily, my instinct finally kicked in when I heard two girls speaking English. I followed them. And…they led me to the place. Which was probably two feet from my Metro stop. Typical me.
Went in, ordered a 1664 (6.50 E, Jesus! Can’t afford to drink here) and went upstairs. Oh, did I forget to mention it was stand-up comedy in English night? Sounds awful, right? But actually…it wasn’t bad. The French comedians were actually funnier than the Americans. They just complained about their girlfriends and made sex jokes in broken English.
Some guy kept making eyes at me during the show and sure enough, he approached me afterwards. Asked if I was with the “meet-up.” We talked for awhile and he asked if I wanted to go for a walk. Uh, no. I suggested we go downstairs and join the group. Even though he is French and has lived all over, he apparently likes going to these ex-pat meetups. Just what Ted Bundy would say, right?! He introduced me to the organizer, Raj, a guy from Atlanta, and a typical overachiever Indian Engineer mover and shaker.
I was hoping to talk to these two girls (one of whom I overheard was from Houston) but never got a chance. As the metro closed at 12:30am, I wasn’t going to hang around too long. The French guy (I forgot his name) walked me to my stop and I gave him my email, as he offered to show me around Paris. Is that a line? Probably. Am I desperate? You betcha. He was pretty generic French-looking, but taller than you would expect. I’ll probably have to tell him pretty soon I’m “currently in my bisexual phase and only interested in ladies but we can still be friends okay?!”
Think that’ll work?
So, after telling me they NEVER go out and I would pretty much always have weekends free…the parents announced they were going out tonight! And I could watch the kids! On Saturday night! Lucky me! Sadly, I don’t really care that much because any chance to get on Wi-Fi and talk to Colin/Andrea/my mom sounds better than going out at night. So I’ll be heading over there around 7. Maybe the kids can watch a movie without killing each other and I can make a phone call. Yes, I can call the US for free on their landline. Pretty nice.
Oh, but I’m forgetting the cherry on top of my sundae night! I was walking home around 12:30am, so happy with myself for going out, talking to people, maybe making friends, and as I rounded the corner…I see a guy in my courtyard. Two feet from the front door. Facing out to the street, pants down around his ankles…and masturbating. MASTURBATING TWO FEET FROM MY FRONT DOOR.
Keep in mind it’s dark, I’m the only person on the street, and what the fuck is happening. Luckily, I kept my cool, didn’t scream (because don’t they get off on that?) and just kept walking. I walked a block and stopped. What to do? Come back in five minutes? An hour? It was late, I was tired, and I just wanted to get in my bed. What are the odds a guy would be masturbating outside my front door? I know it’s Paris, but c’mon! I decided to take my high-heeled boots off, as they made too much noise. Maybe the clickety-clack turned him on even more. I started slowly walking back. I held my boots in my hand, as I planned to hit him in the face if need be. As I crossed my street, I’m pretty sure he walked past me. However, I didn’t quite get a good look at his face the first time, as he was MASTURBATING.
I ran to my front door, hurriedly pushed in the code, and slammed the door behind me. It wasn’t until I started up the stairs that I started shaking and crying. What a horrible way to end an okay night. And my first night out in Paris, no less. All I wanted to do was call Colin and I couldn’t. It sucked. But at least I was home safe.
So now I have to wonder…is this a nightly tradition for him? Or just Fridays, when he knows people are out late? Will it always be my courtyard, or does he like to mix it up?
I’m probably going to tell my French family, not like they can do anything about it, but they might as well know some dude is whacking it off outside their living room window. And, if I see him again, I’m going home. Take that, Paris! I don’t need your public penis wanking.
Okay, now I have to force myself to get dressed, go buy a day planner, and walk by the lake. I wish I could pay someone to be my friend right now.
After having an iPhone with GPS for a year…not being able to instantly access information about where I am and where to go…it was such a slap in the face. I will never, EVER take Wi-Fi or a cell phone for granted again. I SWEAR, INTERNET GODS! Luckily, my instinct finally kicked in when I heard two girls speaking English. I followed them. And…they led me to the place. Which was probably two feet from my Metro stop. Typical me.
Went in, ordered a 1664 (6.50 E, Jesus! Can’t afford to drink here) and went upstairs. Oh, did I forget to mention it was stand-up comedy in English night? Sounds awful, right? But actually…it wasn’t bad. The French comedians were actually funnier than the Americans. They just complained about their girlfriends and made sex jokes in broken English.
Some guy kept making eyes at me during the show and sure enough, he approached me afterwards. Asked if I was with the “meet-up.” We talked for awhile and he asked if I wanted to go for a walk. Uh, no. I suggested we go downstairs and join the group. Even though he is French and has lived all over, he apparently likes going to these ex-pat meetups. Just what Ted Bundy would say, right?! He introduced me to the organizer, Raj, a guy from Atlanta, and a typical overachiever Indian Engineer mover and shaker.
I was hoping to talk to these two girls (one of whom I overheard was from Houston) but never got a chance. As the metro closed at 12:30am, I wasn’t going to hang around too long. The French guy (I forgot his name) walked me to my stop and I gave him my email, as he offered to show me around Paris. Is that a line? Probably. Am I desperate? You betcha. He was pretty generic French-looking, but taller than you would expect. I’ll probably have to tell him pretty soon I’m “currently in my bisexual phase and only interested in ladies but we can still be friends okay?!”
Think that’ll work?
So, after telling me they NEVER go out and I would pretty much always have weekends free…the parents announced they were going out tonight! And I could watch the kids! On Saturday night! Lucky me! Sadly, I don’t really care that much because any chance to get on Wi-Fi and talk to Colin/Andrea/my mom sounds better than going out at night. So I’ll be heading over there around 7. Maybe the kids can watch a movie without killing each other and I can make a phone call. Yes, I can call the US for free on their landline. Pretty nice.
Oh, but I’m forgetting the cherry on top of my sundae night! I was walking home around 12:30am, so happy with myself for going out, talking to people, maybe making friends, and as I rounded the corner…I see a guy in my courtyard. Two feet from the front door. Facing out to the street, pants down around his ankles…and masturbating. MASTURBATING TWO FEET FROM MY FRONT DOOR.
Keep in mind it’s dark, I’m the only person on the street, and what the fuck is happening. Luckily, I kept my cool, didn’t scream (because don’t they get off on that?) and just kept walking. I walked a block and stopped. What to do? Come back in five minutes? An hour? It was late, I was tired, and I just wanted to get in my bed. What are the odds a guy would be masturbating outside my front door? I know it’s Paris, but c’mon! I decided to take my high-heeled boots off, as they made too much noise. Maybe the clickety-clack turned him on even more. I started slowly walking back. I held my boots in my hand, as I planned to hit him in the face if need be. As I crossed my street, I’m pretty sure he walked past me. However, I didn’t quite get a good look at his face the first time, as he was MASTURBATING.
I ran to my front door, hurriedly pushed in the code, and slammed the door behind me. It wasn’t until I started up the stairs that I started shaking and crying. What a horrible way to end an okay night. And my first night out in Paris, no less. All I wanted to do was call Colin and I couldn’t. It sucked. But at least I was home safe.
So now I have to wonder…is this a nightly tradition for him? Or just Fridays, when he knows people are out late? Will it always be my courtyard, or does he like to mix it up?
I’m probably going to tell my French family, not like they can do anything about it, but they might as well know some dude is whacking it off outside their living room window. And, if I see him again, I’m going home. Take that, Paris! I don’t need your public penis wanking.
Okay, now I have to force myself to get dressed, go buy a day planner, and walk by the lake. I wish I could pay someone to be my friend right now.
What have I done so far?
Going out, exploring, getting lost, riding the metro, buying a loofah…all these things pose certain challenges for me right now. I have to force myself to get dressed, look semi-cute, make sure I have my keys/purse/carte navigo/water bottle/hand sanitizer/camera, and actually leave my chamber de bonne. Once I’m walking, enjoying the fresh air and sunny, 70 degree weather, I begin to relax. I realize the weather right now can’t get any better, and I will really miss this come December. The idea of walking a mile to my metro stop will not sound so appetizing on a frigid winter night. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it!
My first outing was to Le Marais neighborhood. Apparently it’s quite the place of nightlife in Paris (especially the gay scene) but as I was there on a Sunday afternoon…I just walked around the Place des Vosges, an especially scenic square with many little shops and a garden in the middle. I also learned that “Hotel” in a name does not mean it’s an actual hotel. It’s usually just a big important building. I think. So when I walked into Hotel du Sully, it was a grand palatial home of an important French duke. Now…it’s a museum. Like a baby Versailles.
My second outing was this Thursday. First I went to the BNP Paribas bank to get a credit card and account. Thank god an older womean there spoke broken English. And because I’m under 29, the account was free. Thanks socialist French! Always looking out for those post-adolescents. My paycheck every month is 375 Euros. Wow…that’s…nothing! We’ll see how far that goes. As long as I don’t eat, travel, or shop, I’ll be fine. Then I took the Metro to Bastille, thinking it would be a short walk to the Pere Frachaise Cimetiere, the very famous cemetery where everyone who is anyone is buried. Short walk…more like 45 minutes! By the time I got there I didn’t have much time to explore, as I needed to pick up the kids up by 4.
But, I took some great pictures and of course had to make the “pilgrimage” to see Jim Morrison’s grave. A cliché for every American bro. There was a crowd of Anglo-Saxons there, just gazing lovingly at his simple grave covered with fake flowers and cheesy cards. Obviously, I’m not a Doors fan.
Thursday night with the kids, I finally lost my temper with Nolan. He either ignores me when I ask him to do something or screams/whines back. It’s quite charming. So when I asked him to go do his homework before watching TV, he yelled in my face and tried to storm off. I grabbed his arm, led him to his room, and yelled, “You’re going to your room and doing your homework RIGHT NOW. Jesus Christ, stop acting like such a little baby!”
Um…I don’t think I have yelled that loud in years. And, will I get in trouble for saying Jesus Christ? That kid is going to be death of me. Every day is a test with him. Perhaps he is too old for a tu-tu (what kids here call au pairs) but he still acts like a whiney, spoiled, manipulative brat—and that’s how I will treat him! I found out the dad is 51 years old, which in my opinion is just too damn old to have these little kids.
Friday! I found there is an elevated garden in Paris close to me, built upon an old tramway that was rotting away. The High Line in Chelsea (which everyone in New York brags about and Leanne took me to once) is based on it. I can literally walk from my front door to the start of it (or end of it, depending on where you come from.) It’s a great walk, lots of foliage and people about. No cars to worry about, and only a couple bicycles to run you over. In the middle you hit the Jardin de Reuilly which is basically a large lawn for everyone to lay out in their skimpy underwear and have an ice cream. I might have take some stalker pictures. You finally pop out in the middle of the Bastille Metro stop, which I then took back home. (What, you think I’m gonna walk the three miles back home?!) Sadly, all this walking is wearing my American legs out. I need to get strong! It’s pretty pathetic when a couple hours of walking and sight-seeing can tire a 25-year-old out.
I made it home just in time to pick the kids up and go to an always-crowded park near the house. Nolan played football with his friends while Dara played in the playground’s sandpile. I am probably the worst au pair in the world. Dara got her shoes wet while walking there and I just let her go barefoot. Barefoot on a huge metropolitan city street. What, I couldn’t carry her that far?! And, I pretty much lost her in the playground for twenty minutes and wasn’t even worried. I was just wondering if I had time to sneak off to the bathroom. Is this behavior normal?
My first outing was to Le Marais neighborhood. Apparently it’s quite the place of nightlife in Paris (especially the gay scene) but as I was there on a Sunday afternoon…I just walked around the Place des Vosges, an especially scenic square with many little shops and a garden in the middle. I also learned that “Hotel” in a name does not mean it’s an actual hotel. It’s usually just a big important building. I think. So when I walked into Hotel du Sully, it was a grand palatial home of an important French duke. Now…it’s a museum. Like a baby Versailles.
My second outing was this Thursday. First I went to the BNP Paribas bank to get a credit card and account. Thank god an older womean there spoke broken English. And because I’m under 29, the account was free. Thanks socialist French! Always looking out for those post-adolescents. My paycheck every month is 375 Euros. Wow…that’s…nothing! We’ll see how far that goes. As long as I don’t eat, travel, or shop, I’ll be fine. Then I took the Metro to Bastille, thinking it would be a short walk to the Pere Frachaise Cimetiere, the very famous cemetery where everyone who is anyone is buried. Short walk…more like 45 minutes! By the time I got there I didn’t have much time to explore, as I needed to pick up the kids up by 4.
But, I took some great pictures and of course had to make the “pilgrimage” to see Jim Morrison’s grave. A cliché for every American bro. There was a crowd of Anglo-Saxons there, just gazing lovingly at his simple grave covered with fake flowers and cheesy cards. Obviously, I’m not a Doors fan.
Thursday night with the kids, I finally lost my temper with Nolan. He either ignores me when I ask him to do something or screams/whines back. It’s quite charming. So when I asked him to go do his homework before watching TV, he yelled in my face and tried to storm off. I grabbed his arm, led him to his room, and yelled, “You’re going to your room and doing your homework RIGHT NOW. Jesus Christ, stop acting like such a little baby!”
Um…I don’t think I have yelled that loud in years. And, will I get in trouble for saying Jesus Christ? That kid is going to be death of me. Every day is a test with him. Perhaps he is too old for a tu-tu (what kids here call au pairs) but he still acts like a whiney, spoiled, manipulative brat—and that’s how I will treat him! I found out the dad is 51 years old, which in my opinion is just too damn old to have these little kids.
Friday! I found there is an elevated garden in Paris close to me, built upon an old tramway that was rotting away. The High Line in Chelsea (which everyone in New York brags about and Leanne took me to once) is based on it. I can literally walk from my front door to the start of it (or end of it, depending on where you come from.) It’s a great walk, lots of foliage and people about. No cars to worry about, and only a couple bicycles to run you over. In the middle you hit the Jardin de Reuilly which is basically a large lawn for everyone to lay out in their skimpy underwear and have an ice cream. I might have take some stalker pictures. You finally pop out in the middle of the Bastille Metro stop, which I then took back home. (What, you think I’m gonna walk the three miles back home?!) Sadly, all this walking is wearing my American legs out. I need to get strong! It’s pretty pathetic when a couple hours of walking and sight-seeing can tire a 25-year-old out.
I made it home just in time to pick the kids up and go to an always-crowded park near the house. Nolan played football with his friends while Dara played in the playground’s sandpile. I am probably the worst au pair in the world. Dara got her shoes wet while walking there and I just let her go barefoot. Barefoot on a huge metropolitan city street. What, I couldn’t carry her that far?! And, I pretty much lost her in the playground for twenty minutes and wasn’t even worried. I was just wondering if I had time to sneak off to the bathroom. Is this behavior normal?
Friday, September 3, 2010
When moving to a new country, lower your standards immediately.
It’s funny how your standards lower immediately when you are desperately lonely. At this point I would give anything to hang out with an ignorant hick from bumfuck Oklahoma who believes Obama is a Muslim sent to destroy us all. I’m desperate to get out, see the Seine, the Left Bank, the Louvre, sit in a café and eat six pain au chocolats in one day, but I’m foolishly waiting until I grow the balls to do it alone or meet some other sad sap to do it with me.
And then there’s the children. An hour with them feels like a whole day. It’s absolutely exhausting being around them, like walking on eggshells waiting for the next scream or temper tantrum to occur. I can’t tell if they’re normal children, just testing out the new nanny, or just spoiled brats with parents who had them a bit too late in life.
There’s simply no activity that will satisfy both a nine-year-old athletic boy and girlish five-year-old girl. Unless it’s eating bon bons until they’re sick and watching dubbed Scooby Doo cartoons. I already hate Scooby Doo and Looney Toons.
I think I will eventually grow to like the little girl, only because she likes me and occasionally hugs me and I can show her lip gloss and perfume to amuse her. But the little boy…what a spoiled little shit. Constantly testing me, needing to prove he is independent, running away, ignoring me when I call him, not helping me when we’re running errands and I need his French translation. It infuriates me to know he gets such a power trip that he can speak French, knows where everything is, and that ultimately he will win—if not every battle—the eventual war.
If this all sounds a bit paranoid and overdramatic, I’m sure it is. But I can’t help but take everything personally right now. I waver between mean nanny who doesn’t let them do anything and “fuck it all” nanny who lets them buy six candies and watch TV until their brains rot, as long as I can get on Facebook and retain some sanity. I need adult conversation soon.
But back to the kitchen/washing dishes/crying part. I was immediately thrown into family activity time, eating meals, walking to the store, going to a restaurant. Which of course I couldn’t enjoy because I was jet-lagged and absolutely petrified of the whole situation. How bizarre to be suddenly “adopted” by some strange foreign family in a foreign land and given the job of watching over their most prized possession: two little monsters. The only thing I can compare it to is a mail-order bride.
So by the third day, I wanted out. I was done. I woke up in the mornings in a blind panic, asking myself what the hell was I doing? Spending nine months taking care of kids in a country where I barely spoke the language? And…I don’t even like children?! What sounded like a fun lark in June had now taken on cold reality. I began fantasizing getting a cheap plane ticket, leaving during the day, getting on a train and taking the first flight back to good ol’ USA. Hide with some friends for awhile, eventually tell my parents what I had done and hope they wouldn’t hate me too much. Even discussing it now makes all the more tempting. But…alas. There is is thing called responsibility. Called giving it a go. I figure everything deserves at least a couple months, right? Try to make it until Christmas, okay? Shit, I haven’t seen the damn city yet. At least get my fill of baguettes and cheap-ass delicious wine before throwing in the bag. And I have so many cute outfits I need to take out.
So,one day at a time. And every day I’m here is another day I’ve been in Paris.
And then there’s the children. An hour with them feels like a whole day. It’s absolutely exhausting being around them, like walking on eggshells waiting for the next scream or temper tantrum to occur. I can’t tell if they’re normal children, just testing out the new nanny, or just spoiled brats with parents who had them a bit too late in life.
There’s simply no activity that will satisfy both a nine-year-old athletic boy and girlish five-year-old girl. Unless it’s eating bon bons until they’re sick and watching dubbed Scooby Doo cartoons. I already hate Scooby Doo and Looney Toons.
I think I will eventually grow to like the little girl, only because she likes me and occasionally hugs me and I can show her lip gloss and perfume to amuse her. But the little boy…what a spoiled little shit. Constantly testing me, needing to prove he is independent, running away, ignoring me when I call him, not helping me when we’re running errands and I need his French translation. It infuriates me to know he gets such a power trip that he can speak French, knows where everything is, and that ultimately he will win—if not every battle—the eventual war.
If this all sounds a bit paranoid and overdramatic, I’m sure it is. But I can’t help but take everything personally right now. I waver between mean nanny who doesn’t let them do anything and “fuck it all” nanny who lets them buy six candies and watch TV until their brains rot, as long as I can get on Facebook and retain some sanity. I need adult conversation soon.
But back to the kitchen/washing dishes/crying part. I was immediately thrown into family activity time, eating meals, walking to the store, going to a restaurant. Which of course I couldn’t enjoy because I was jet-lagged and absolutely petrified of the whole situation. How bizarre to be suddenly “adopted” by some strange foreign family in a foreign land and given the job of watching over their most prized possession: two little monsters. The only thing I can compare it to is a mail-order bride.
So by the third day, I wanted out. I was done. I woke up in the mornings in a blind panic, asking myself what the hell was I doing? Spending nine months taking care of kids in a country where I barely spoke the language? And…I don’t even like children?! What sounded like a fun lark in June had now taken on cold reality. I began fantasizing getting a cheap plane ticket, leaving during the day, getting on a train and taking the first flight back to good ol’ USA. Hide with some friends for awhile, eventually tell my parents what I had done and hope they wouldn’t hate me too much. Even discussing it now makes all the more tempting. But…alas. There is is thing called responsibility. Called giving it a go. I figure everything deserves at least a couple months, right? Try to make it until Christmas, okay? Shit, I haven’t seen the damn city yet. At least get my fill of baguettes and cheap-ass delicious wine before throwing in the bag. And I have so many cute outfits I need to take out.
So,one day at a time. And every day I’m here is another day I’ve been in Paris.
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