Sri Lankans, cocaine, and the party that never existed.

I had to get up early on Saturday. Really ass-crack of dawn early. Like 5:30am. It involved walking a mile to the metro in the dark, ride it all the way to Champs-Elysees, and wait in line for FOUR HOURS to see the Palais de l'Élysée, the Presidential Palace of France. It's open one day a year to the public for French Heritage Weekend. Fine, I can force myself to do this. It's the "White House" of Paris, right? Maybe Carla Bruni will be serving coffee.

So I know I shouldn't go out Friday night. I don't even want to. I look gross, I'm wearing a baggy sweater and my requisite black leggings and glasses. But another au pair I hadn't yet met in real life invited me to meet up for a drink with her German couchsurfers and French boyfriend. Fine. I'll drag myself out, have one glass of wine, and head home, feeling sufficiently exhausted. I invite Kacy as well. But as I'm on my way to the place, the girl texts me saying they've moved on. I am immediately annoyed. This isn't America, where I can turn my car around, plug a new address in my GPS, and carry on. I was already at the correct metro, and I'm still new enough that I can't just go somewhere else without special, OCD instructions. Especially at night.

Once I meet Kacy we say "fuck it" and head to Oberkampf, hearing it's a good area for nightlife. Perhaps it is, but as we walked around, we didn't see much. Then again, most people don't party until after midnight and it was....10pm. I'm a grandma! We are about to give up but stop in at some brasserie for a cheap cafe. (Yes, it's all I can afford.) We are about to leave when a Sri Lankan comes up and tells me I look like Lily Allen. Okay, great. He offers to buy us a drink. Mmmm, not sure. Then he casually works in that he is a DJ heading to a private party. Would we like to join? Here is where my bad judgment comes in. I admit, I hate going out. But once I'm out and about and it's late and I'm there...I'm game for anything. I'd rather go out and have a shitty time and have a funny story later than nothing at all. So we agree.

We have a couple glasses of wine at the bar and talk to his weird, small friends. Then we head to Grands Boulevards metro stop. When we get out, it's hopping. But...(as we all knew was coming) we don't head for the party first. Oh no, we must first make a "stop" at a "friend's house." This involves stealthily creeping into a semi-decent apartment, but my instinct is already saying...bad idea. Bad. You should probably run home now. We walk into a shitty apartment full of creepy Sri Lankans giving us the evil eye. They then proceed to snort a lot of coke. We are offered some, but politely decline. I'm feeling weird and say, "Okay, let's go to that party now!!!"

So the guy walks out with us, but then says..."Let's stop at this pub to meet some other friends." It's a crowded Irish pub with a long line and more like a shitty bar on Sixth Street than anything else. We cut in line and go into a dance floor filled with sweaty study-abroad kids and a stereo blasting Top 40 hits from 2003. Oh, god. My worst nightmare. I sip at the glass of wine the guy bought me and think, game over. I find the restroom in the basement, take care of business, and then begin trying to convince Kacy to leave. That's one annoying thing about going out with someone. You can't just LEAVE when you want to. You have to beg, cajole, and demand to leave. She is having drinks bought for her (albeit by a creepy guy) so I have to physically pull her. No goodbyes, let's just walk quickly to the metro. I'm over it. I was over it an hour ago.

The guy follows us, but I ignore his pleas to stay. Once we get to the metro Kacy has no idea how to get home and calls her French boyfriend Michael for directions. His English is very poor so this doesn't work so well, especially in a crowded station, especially as she is a bit intoxicated. I'm a terrible friend, as I know exactly how to get home, and I just want to go. NOW. Once she seems to comprehend what's happening, I run all the way to my train.

I get home around 2:30 and wake up three hours later feeling, no surprise, like shit. BUT I'm proud of myself for getting up and actually going. It was a five hour trek in all, but I met some nice older ladies and we ended up going out for lunch afterward. I joked that only older women would get up this early on a Saturday just to view a fancy house. I love old lady friends! I need more--preferably a group of Jewish women from Brooklyn that like to tour museums and then sit around and complain about Paris. That would be my ideal.

Children are gross.

This is not breaking news, but rather a thought that goes through my head about 58 times a day. Children are gross. They pick their nose while watching TV, idly eating what they find as though it were a potato chip. Every time a bowel movement is imminent, they announce it loudly to the world, "I have to take a little caca!"

They leave the door open during this intimate act. Sometimes they even sing during it. They don't flush.

If they eat something they don't like, they say, "I'm just going to make a little vomit," and on the plate a half-masticated piece of cucumber goes.

If these children were my own flesh and blood, surely I would still be disgusted, right? I mean, just because they're short and wear cute little jumpers and say nonsensical comments about puppy dogs flying doesn't mean they aren't as disgusting as Hobo Jim shitting himself in some street alley.

The End.

A shitty poem I wrote because I was bored on the metro.

Always bring a book or an iPod. You never know when your train will break down, the huddled masses of unwashed bodies will press against you, and you fear this is your last memory before the terrorist's bomb goes off!

Ahem.

Narrow, chipped, cobblestone streets
Cigarette smoke wafts through the air
Intermingled with fruit stands and dog excrement in the streets
Men stare openly
Women glance in a bored, offhand way
The metro is suffocatingly sweaty and international
Raised voices provide a cacophony of different languages
All harshly alien to your own ears
Window displays filled with tempting pastries
Glittering with hardened sugar shells like jewels
You dare not buy one
Only for special occasions, you sternly tell yourself
Every day you walk past some monument or statue or building of (probably) utmost historical significance and you don't even realize it
How funny to be in arguably the most romantic city in the world completely alone
Indifferent on your best days, miserable on your worst.

Let's play "Spot the American!" game

When I first arrived in Paris, (feels like six months ago, was only three weeks) my first instinct was to talk to every American I saw. On the metro, in line at the Monoprix, walking down the Rue de Rivoli. Unless you're all gawking at the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, spotting an American isn't all that common. Especially where I am: the southeastern suburbs of Paris--Saint Mande.

This is why I like to play the game "Spot the American." I always lose. There can be some fatass with white Reeboks, cargo shorts, pink polo, and I think for sure I have him pegged...and then he opens his mouth and lets forth a spew of gutteral, angry French. Merde, indeed. So it's not about who's wearing Harvard sweatshirts or skinny black pants--it's their expression. You can see the most elegant slim brunette dressed to kill standing on the Champs-Elysees...but if she's smiling, expresses interest in her surroundings, and makes eye contact without a shudder of disgust...she's probably from Ohio.

So back to my urge to speak to Americans. You're so lonely, so miserable, so alienated that even some bumfuck from Tulsa (no offense, Tulsa, heart you!) looks absolutely charmante. But, you learn to fight the urge. Unless they're super attractive and it's a long metro ride with no one else onboard and you actually washed your hair that day. Because, God FORBID you open your mouth in front of other French people, betray your hideous American-ness, and lose face altogether.

French children are racist.

It's true. I experience it every day. Not on the the receiving end, but as an innocent bystander when we walk to the park or the ludothèque (a weird playhouse for urban children filled with games, dirty costumes, children, and other depressed au pairs.) Need proof? Here are my favorite examples:

Two Jewish men walked past us. "Look! They're Jewish! They're wearing little hats on their heads," M1 (Monster #1) yelled. Yes, thank you, now the whole neighborhood is aware as well.

M2: "See those people?" Points out two black women walking past us on our way home from school. "They're not French because they're black."

We're watching a British show featuring wild animals. Footage of a man wrestling an alligator is shown. The man is black. Little girl points at TV and says, "See, he's African. That's what they do. Wrestle gators."

A group of people with Down's Syndrome walked past us: "See them? They're sick in the head," M1 pointed out helpfully. (Okay, this isn't racist, but obviously the children are not being taught tolerance and discretion. These comments are all made very loudly and within full earshot of the Jewish/black/mentally disabled people.)

Obviously, I'm just as bad, because I'm now going to make blanket statements insulting all French children as a result of my interaction with two slightly horrid ones on an everyday basis.

I thought taking care of kids was hard sober....

And then I tried it hungover. Like, the hungover where you can't walk, you can't brush your teeth, and your eyes are so swollen you look like a battered Chinese housewife. (Was that offensive? It's okay, I'm French now and can say racist things without worrying.)

How did this happen? I partied with an American band in Paris, that's how. A Texan band...even worse. My friend, the synthesizer and tambourine girl, was nice enough to meet up with me at the venue beforehand, a teeny tiny place called Espace B in the 19th arr. It was a bit of a dodgy area, and took three metro lines to get to. That is two transfers too many for lazy American me. We started off drinking whiskey, and then switched to pastis: a pretty-sounding anise-flavored liquor mixed with water and ice and magically turned white. They're mostly drunk in the South of France as an aperitif.

Then, the band ate dinner while I drank their bottle of wine. First mistake. (But how cool is it that you can eat dinner, drink wine, and then see a band all in a building the size of a one-bedroom American apartment?) The show was great, intimately sweaty and filled with front-row study abroad students screaming, "BROOOKLYYYNNNN!" Felt like I was back at SXSW all over again.

After the show my friend kept bringing me drinks, and with much variety. Always a mistake. From beer to wine to more pastis...I lost count. I seem to recall smoking cigarettes with some Turkish girls (who were really shitty come to think of it) and then I woke up in a cab. No idea how I got there, but the price was rather large. 30-something Euros. I only had 20. Here's where it gets really sad. I seem to recall trying to run away (I was drunk, didn't get very far) and then the mean cabbie grabbing me. At this point I think I began crying and rested my head on the trunk of the car. Here we remained, locked in a romantic tangle at 4am somewhere near my neighborhood.

We stayed there forever it seemed. I kept thinking, "Okay on the count of three...I'm gonna kick him in the shins really hard with my steel-toe boots and then run like the dickens!" But, sadly, I was so drunk/tired/disoriented I couldn't even lift my head. Then I remember blue lights...like an angel, but the Parisian police angels. They showed up, looked in my wallet, laughed at my silly American tears, and drove me home. Then I woke up the next morning and cursed the day I was ever born.

Getting blackout drunk in a foreign city alone is really stupid. Never again. Firstly, I can't afford it. Secondly, I can't handle my liquor. Thirdly, a wrestling match with an Algerian cabbie does not a fun Paris memory make. And you can bet my Tuesday with the kids was like dying a slow death. I can barely manage their high-pitched squeals when I'm healthily sober...when hungover, I thought about burying them in the sand at the playground and running until I puked out the evil inside me.

There is no moral to this story. On the plus side, M1 told me he hated me yesterday, so we've reached a new milestone! It's like the army...break them down, then build them back up. He's obviously realized I will not put up with his shit, so he can either back down or we will continue to make each other's lives miserable until one admits defeat. (Wanna guess which one? Yeah, it's no secret.)

So apparently I suck at ironing.

Sunday mornings are best spent in bed with a cup of tea and a stupid chick-lit book. Especially if it’s raining, I can tell myself it’s perfectly acceptable to not leave the house all day, unless I need to buy groceries. The au pair before me left behind “Confessions of a Shopaholic.” I will probably read the whole thing in three hours. If a fun little cotton candy book like this can succeed and become a movie, maybe my not-so-great American novel about being an au pair has a shot of at least being on Midwestern ladies’ book club list, right?

I spent my Saturday with my French mom and Dara, the daughter. She somewhat helpfully get a cell phone and plan here (still absolutely confused on how the pay-as-you-go plan works) and am slightly devastated at what a step back I’m taking with modern conveniences in my life. Perhaps it’s silly, but not having Wi-Fi access in my room or the ability to get it when I need it is quite awful. Unless I’m home during the day in the family’s apartment, I am disconnected and it sucks. I have no way of looking up fun stuff to do or talking to friends on Facebook or getting directions. I know it sounds like first-world problems, and I hope I will get over it soon and move on with my life. It’s just hard to have all those things and then give them up in a strange and foreign city.

And while I do like the parents of my charges better than the kids themselves, lately things have been a bit strained. For example, yesterday FM (French Mom) asked me if I had trouble with the iron.

“No,” I said. “It worked great!”

“Oh, mmmm. Well, then, we need to discuss the ironing. Lucius looked at the kids’ clothing and wondered, ‘Is this how they iron in Texas?!’ “

Mmmmm, indeed. It is part of my duties to iron the kid’s clothing once a week. Apparently I did a shiteous job, probably because I was talking to my mom at the same time. So, what I did wrong was not iron T-SHIRTS. T-shirts, for God’s sake. Oh, and apparently I need to fold the kids’ clothes like fucking sweaters at Gap. All so within two hours of wearing them they can rub Milka chocolate bars into them.

And later, when I casually mentioned I was going to a party that night and was looking forward to it, she says, “Oh, Lucius and I were going to the cinema.”
First of all, they said I would be rarely working Saturday nights. And, they went out last Saturday night. And, you would think they would give me a couple days advance warning so I wouldn’t make plans. Nice. But I didn’t back down, I just apologized. But, I did offer to babysit Sunday night, which is pretty shitty come to think of it, because that’s supposed to be my one guaranteed day off. So, we’ll see how often they pull this “we never go out but we’re going out the next six Saturdays in a row” crap. Maybe they’re trying to take advantage of me being a friendless loser while I’m still new here, before I’m so busy they can’t get ahold of me. I think that’s what the other au pairs did. While in reality, I’ll lie and say I’m going out, and then read Hillary Clinton’s memoirs in bed. (That’s the only English book I could find in their house. That, and a book of Irish jokes.)

So last night I met up with Mike from Ohio and Vadim from Ukraine. We got a glass of wine at a bar near the Ledru Rollin metro stop before going to the housewarming party. I wouldn’t go so far as to call Mike an asshole, but he’s one of those bros that thinks they are too cool for school and takes himself way too seriously. My theory is because he’s short and not that interesting, so he has to make up for it by being an aloof dick. He did seem very interested when I told him about the young Romanian girls I met at my French school.

I was hoping the guy having the housewarming party would be cool, as he is within walking distance of me and therefore convenient to have as a friend. Instead, he was a nice enough greasy Frenchman with bad teeth. But he did have lots of snacks lying about, which I appreciated. And, in a “the world is so small” kind of way, he actually knew the girl who was my family’s previous au pair. Weird. He constantly would do the “hook em” sign at me when we made eye contact, which is one American custom I really would not mind living without.

I met a very nice girl who was half French and half Australian (she was able to simultaneously possess both accents at once), and a young German girl whom I talked to for hours and didn’t understand half of what she said. She didn’t know any French, which made me feel better since she grew up literally next door and didn’t learn it. Most people there all knew each other from an improve class they take in Paris. When I think about it, that’s really something I should research. It’d let me get out my little acting bug which is still buried deep inside me, and meet a bunch of gregarious English-speaking narcissists. I met a guy from Chicago was very into Second City and invited me to see their teacher’s show on Wednesday. Of course, just talking about Chicago made me miss Colin.

After a couple glasses of wine and eating an embarrassing amount of cookies, I quietly excused myself to go home around 1am. I really do not enjoy the walk back home late at night from the Metro. It’s very dark, very quiet, and one or two guys will insistently exclaim, “BONSOIR!” to you as you walk. I am never so happy as to when I punch in the code, slam the front door, and run up six flights of stairs to my hovel.