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.