The Day I Accidentally Went to the Louvre

Cultural difference, right there. Taking off your suit to sun-bathe.

Family Updates:

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So Léon and I are still friends, even though I have to be the big bad wolf and force him to do everything. And that’s his fault, not mine. Time to eat, clean your room, take a shower (notice I didn’t say bath), get into bed, go to the bathroom (I have to make him every night or there are consequences the next morning). All Léon wants to do is draw and color—like I mentioned, we are matched well.

Thursday, at the table, Léon kept insisting on kissing me and professing that “we were married” and that I “was his lover” and that I was his “spouse”. Liza only sat back and said “oh my” with a grin in her eyes and watched us in an intent way that made me uncomfortable. Luckily, I only gave Léon access to my cheek. I’m pretty sure he was just trying to get out of eating his dinner, a time when he always becomes especially amorous.

As for the girls, I’m definitely forming a friendship with Jeanne, the ten-year-old. We have small conversations that go beyond me telling her what to do in French. She is sweet, but very spacey. I always startle her when she can’t seem to find me after school, or choir practice or whatever.  Jeanne loves books, especially comics. She is always reading.  On Wednesday this week she invited me to come with her to Catechisme, a kind of Sunday school she has. It turned out to be a small program and mass session. Near the end, she asked me if I partook of the communion*. I told her that I was not Catholic. “Protestant?” She asked. “No, Mormon.” Which she of course had never heard of.  Walking back home afterwards, I could tell that she was embarrassed that she had invited me to her Catholic activity, me not being Catholic. I explained that it wasn’t a big deal and that I enjoyed going. I invited here to come to my church sometime.

One thing I like about Jeanne is that she is helping me learn French, unlike Léon who seems perfectly at-ease with my poor use of grammar. Jeanne is great because she has begun to correct me when I say something in the wrong way. All of the children are difficult to understand because they speak very rapidly and somewhat quietly. Well, except Léon.

Berenice, I have yet to form a special bond. When I have a chance to tuck her in at night, I do get a kiss on the cheek, but that is about the extent of what we have.  I am looking to find my way in with her. This girl is quite a little stallion. She physically provokes her siblings to fight and she has a sneaky way about her. Her favorite activities include taking care of the guinea pig, Misa, and making a Christmas Wishlist derived from a children’s toy catalogue (Léon loves this too).  She is hard to discipline, as nothing quite seems to work. Luckily, the parents have helped with that so far. As a fellow rebellious middle-child, however, I feel a connection to her. I am hoping once I can better communicate, then I can achieve the relationship I hope for.

In sum, I have mentally dubbed Léon “the monkey,” Jeanne “the angel,” and Bérenice, well… I’m still deciding. I think something along the lines of fox, weasel or badger.

Sunday in Paris

Stranger Playdate

Saturday night I followed through with an invitation to meet some strangers. Keep reading and it won’t sound too bizarre. It’s a funny thing as an au pair: suddenly you’re uprooted and thrown onto new soil. You have to refill your time (it can be quite refreshing actually) and rebuild a social life. Every au pair realizes sooner or later that establishing friendships is a vital part to survival in Paris.

Thanks to my Europair agency, there is an email list with all the nearby au pairs in Paris.  A girl by the name of Anna Grzes emailed me just before I arrived here in the hopes of reaching out. This was the source of our eventual meeting.

I called her on the phone that morning and in Polish-accented English she told me that we could meet at 8pm for the cinema—then abruptly ended the conversation.

I planned my whole day around this event, not knowing what to expect and slightly nervous. Was Anna young like most au pairs ? (18-21 is the average age.) Was she posh like many of the city people here? Perhaps too posh for a yet-unstyled country girl like me? I dressed with the same attention as I would for a first date. First impressions are lasting impressions.

Anna gave me assignment to meet her outside the Luxemburg metro station. As I waited, I realized I hadn’t any clue what, or who, to look for. It’s quite awkward smiling at every stranger who exits the metro. Waiting for a bit, I noticed two young women who seemed to be waiting also. After some hesitation I approached them and asked if they spoke English? Yes, they did. But, no, they weren’t Anna. Haha, oops. Time passed and no Anna. As a last resort I phoned her (I gathered she didn’t have any minutes) and we discovered she had passed by me without knowing it. Finally she found me. A pleasant girl with wispy-wavy light brown hair, light skin and pale blue eyes. She had a merry look about her, though I learned by the end of the night that she is somewhat of a serious character, and quiet too (though not too posh either).

We talked as we hurried to meet the others. I wondered if I spilled too much about myself too fast; it’s too nice to have someone to talk to. Despite passing about 5 Cinemas (and having to ward off some annoying French guy who was into Anna), we couldn’t get a hold of, or find, the other girls. We were late to see our film (Taken 2 [hahahahahaha!]). After deciding to see it just the two of us, we ran into the other girls in line. The ticketers informed us that if we bought tickets, we would not be able to sit together—so we decided to sit down at a restaurant instead. Hurray! Here was my opportunity to socialize, finally!

The girls: Kayleigh (20)—from England, Anna (24)—from Sweden, Clara (21)—from Norway, Danielle (21)—from Australia, and of course my latest friend Anna (25)—from Poland. A great variety of ages, I was glad to learn, and most of them came here with contracts through an au pair site, not my agency.  They had also all been here for about 2 months. We talked about our situations and experiences.

Some had nightmare stories to tell. One of the girls had to pack the entire family’s belongings from their 5-story house, and unpack it into their new apartment completely by herself—the mother now asks her where everything is (???) The family she is with is extremely wealthy. They send their kids to a grueling school that gives hours of homework for the children—to the extent where the mom is coming home at 10pm and waking them to finish their homework. When the au pair first arrived, she was working from 7am until sometimes 2am in the morning, because she was required to babysit until the parents came home at any uncertain hour. Sometimes the mother is physically abusive to the kids. Another au pair has constant hours, and no time off. Another has troublesome children. Another is in a bedroom next to the parents’…

Overall, I learned that I really have quite a charmed life. My family doesn’t require many hours or much work from me. I am compensated reasonably. My children are manageable. My room is (after I saw Anna’s) large. I’m located next to one of the biggest and best gardens in Paris and I have a lot of independence. My au pair mother is nice, very civil, and does not abuse the children, or expect me to do ridiculous tasks. Even the fact that she is going through a divorce and is separated from her husband has been somewhat of an advantage because I don’t have to deal with (so far) a quarrelling couple. The best thing is that I like them. I like Madame. I like Liza (the housekeeper). I love Léon (and he loves me) and I like Bérenice and Jeanne also.  (The boyfriend, Laurant, well…) I even speak functional French; none of the girls I have met so far know more than a lick of it.

I don’t think that my “bonne chance” is merely by chance. Before I chose my au pair family, I prayed for help. I prayed that I would make the right decision—that I would choose the best situation for myself, and that I might find a good family. And I have. I think personality-wise, we are a fantastic match.

 I’ve been too lucky to actually be lucky—the Lord is looking out for me.

I apologize that there are no photos to this entry: I didn’t want to annoy my new crowd of friends. I will try not to disappoint next time. Thanks for reading!

Jardin du Luxembourg

On the other side of my street.
My jogging area.

American in Sight

So the other day I had a meeting with the Europair Agency and, to my delight, they are “trés chique!” The place is run by young, mid-to-late-twenties women who are totally all about supporting the cause of the romantic-notioned au pairs. They didn’t even require that I pay them their 50euro fee which is asked on the side of the au pair. I love them. It is great to have their support.

            The best part of going to the au pair agency is that I met my new best friend. I say she is my new best friend because she is my only friend (aside from members of my au pair family). Originally when I first met her, I somewhat brushed her off—I had an appointment to attend to. The hermit in me is very stubborn—the hermit doesn’t want or need friends. After I was done with my agency interview though, she caught up with me. I’m glad she did. She asked me if I had any questions. That’s when I remembered I hadn’t a clue what to do with my weekend.

 “What are you doing this weekend?” It blurted from my mouth.

I’m so glad it did. We ended up getting drinks. (When I say drinks, I mean she got a coffee and I had hot chocolate. From now on, you will assume that I am drinking hot chocolate. Or perhaps eating it. It is my drug of choice.)

Her name is Ashley.  She is a New Yorker, originally from the Orlando suburbs, and she is grossly in love with Paris. We talked for an hour and she gave me tons of excellent advice, and related some deliciously horrible au pair horror stories that had already happened to her and some of the other au pairs, especially another American by the name of Lindsey (I think I will meet her soon). Something along the lines of au pair slavery, to keep it short.

It was such a relief to be able to sit down with a friend and just talk. More than talk—connect. Ashley is a kindred spirit; someone who was also drawn by the romantic idea of Paris, even more than I was. As she gushed about the awe of Paris, she inspired me to try to soak up the joys about me. I think what really helped the most was having a friend. For once, not being alone. Suddenly sitting together at a charming café, talking with ease, the city was transformed. It was a gorgeous day (two in a row!). The place was buzzing with the eve of the weekend. There seemed to be too many fun things to do.

This past week I have been a solitary, stubborn little hermit. Aside from those of you I have called, I talk to no one. It is scrumptiously satisfying. The hermit relishes it. So much time to one’s self! Schedules can be completed with exactness! No one is depending on you. No one even knows about you. Delicious. However, no matter how much I enjoy living, aside from this blog, a very secretive life, I know I must give up the hermit soon. Though I don’t care to, I understand it is healthy—necessary—to make friends.  I will soon relinquish the hermit’s hold and attempt to reach out to potential friends. I will soon make friends, make friends, and hang out with them (that’s what you do with friends, right? I can’t remember.)

Sunshine

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I have officially been instated in Paris for 4 days. My first day, I’ll easily admit, was a hard one. However, as time goes on, I find myself, little by little, familiarizing with the place. I keep telling myself that this is my home now, and it is working. My room is beginning to feel as if it is my space. The stairs of the building are my stairs. The city is nowhere close to my city—frankly I don’t think I will ever belong to a city—but perhaps Paris will be mine by the time I leave here. I’ve been meaning to get hold of a calendar to put on the wall for the purpose of counting down the days. I know that’s not very optimistic, but I already have less than 9 months. Now that’s being optimistic.

Today was the first day that I saw the sky. I mean real, solid blue sky. I glimpsed patches of it. Before today, the sky had been perpetually dismal. I wondered with despair if I would ever see the sun again. The cold and the wet was sinking into my bones. Nothing depresses me more than the weather. According to the Parisiennes, I have nothing to look forward to; the temperatures get below zero in the winter, and that’s in Celsius.

The taxi-man had told me that the day before I arrived had been beautiful. As I hurried down the dirty, shadowed streets of Paris, I found myself wondering what a beautiful day in Paris could be like.  Wistfully, I remorsed that I had not arrived in a sooner month so that seeing Paris in its glory would have cheered my coming.

The weather was affecting me so deeply that I decided to include it in my prayers. I asked that I may see the sun tomorrow. I wanted to know that it could exist here.

It came with softness and was brief. First there was sunshine that presented itself on my flat’s floor. When I first recognized it, I peered with exhilaration through my tiny window. Alas, the clouds were bright, but I could not see the sun or sky. Only white thickness.

However, my wishes were granted when I left my flat to find my French school. The expedition turned out to be a failure, except that at one point I looked up and witnessed glorious blue in the sky, between patches of puffy clouds. I was in such awe that I had to stop and take a picture, despite my terrible evasiveness to being a tourist. I admired the small miracle with gladness. It all seems a little silly, but I am grateful for the blessing either way.

I am beginning to see another ray of sunshine in my life. This ray has come in the form of the little boy that I watch over: Léon. Having no friends or loved ones here, Léon has become the chalice for all of my love. Everything I have has been poured into him. Parisiennes are hard and cold, but Léon has accepted me lovingly into his irresistible little arms. It’s been four days and I love him. He understands no English but I pick him up from school. We eat together. We play dead together (“Je suis mort!” “Tu es mort!”—It’s our new game,) and we draw together. Tonight, to Léon’s delight, Sophie had me supervise bath-time. When Léon heard I was going to join, he rushed to the bath and began peeling off his clothing. He bossed at me how to turn on the bath, as I had no clue (Europeans and their strange bathtubs!) Then to his disappointment, I didn’t join him (inside the bathtub) when he demanded it.

                        All-in-all, things are warming up here, chez Paris.

L'apartement de Sophie

Sophie's apartment, where I spend about 3 hours of each day.

Day One

               I arrived in Paris in the morning. Having been advised by Sophie to take a taxi, I did so, trying to pick the least suspicious-looking man who offered to drive me. When we got to his car, I experienced a mild dollop of panic as I noticed that his car had no signs of being a taxi. Suppressing the mental scenes from Taken that began invading my calm, I eventually stabilized as I made some meaningful small-talk with the driver. (Why he didn’t have a taxi sign on his car? Was it more expensive to ride in his Mercedes than a regular taxi?) Overtime I became satisfied that he was a) not going to kidnap me and b) he was a fairly nice guy. Unfortunately, there was plenty of time for small-talk due to terrible traffic. Thickly awkward silences were filled by the taxi-man playing (and singing along to) American music on the radio, despite it being saturated with American profanity and vulgarity. When we arrived, he requested 100 euros—roughly 140 US dollars. I didn’t have that much on me. (I had assumed 70 euros would cover a taxi ride.) We had to put my suitcases back in the car and drive to an ATM and then back again to the address.

                And then I was alone. I rang the doorbell with the surname “BROCART” printed next to it.  No reply.  I didn’t have a phone, or a phone number to call even if I did have one. If she didn’t come, I would simply have to wait. Wait and hope that no one would try to opportune on me and my three bags of luggage that weighed over 160 pounds altogether. And that’s hoping I was in the right place to find her. Somehow, I remained very calm again. After attempting to talk to an old woman and a housemaid about where I might find Sophie Brocart, a petite, windswept-looking woman arrived from the stairs. To my relief she seemed to know me. She was holding a Siamese kitten in one arm and came forward to weakly shake my hand. I had met Sophie.

             The elevator was broken. Together we hauled my 71-pound suitcase up 5 flights of spiral stairs. The entire time we were hauling the massive suitcase, I pictured mom laughing at the absurdity of my predicament. I laughed too. Sophie did not. I guess that’s not really French humor. With shortened breath we surveyed my room, a tiny flat equipped with a small bathtub, washing machine, stove-top and sink. Sophie left me to unpack and with instructions to meet the children at her apartment in three hours, after which I would meet Jeanna—her last babysitter who could show me the ropes.

              When I arrived, Sophie wasn’t there. Just Lisa, the housekeeper, and two of the children: Leon, and Jeanne. Leon so far is my favorite. He is 4 going on 5. Talkative, energetic, adorable (though with a terrible case of gas). He doesn’t speak English. Sophie made it very clear that it’s my job to teach him. Together we played and harassed each other with our foreign languages. Constantly he jibes back at me “je comprends riens” when I speak to him in English, which directly translated means, “I understand nothing.”  Often he says it in reply to my French. I speak in simple phrases, just enough to boss him around. Finally I met Jeanna, an Italian-Venezuelan, who speaks good English and French. I thought she was coming to help me get a hand on things, but it soon became obvious that she had her own agenda, such as trying to get me to buy her leftover furniture and taking over the electrical bill that is currently in her name.  Which brought to my attention the fact that my au pair mom doesn’t seem to realize what “room and board” entails. I am contemplating the ways in which I will lay down my rights. I’ve heard that you must do that as an au pair, or the family tends to abuse your time (and if I’m not careful, my money). 
              Despite the whole electrical bill thing, I am grateful to Jeanna for giving me a lot of useful insider information. She warned me that Sophie is very much all over the place. My best bet in getting things done is by communicating to Francoise—Sophie’s mother who lives next door. She’s the cutest little old French lady I’ve ever seen. But I’m worried because communicating with Francoise was very difficult, linguistically speaking. There is no internet in my flat, despite what it said in the au pair contract. I can access Francoise’s internet by stooping on the stairs, but I first must get the password through Jeanna. The last somewhat alarming information I was given is that Sophie is going through a divorce and the ex wants full-custody of the kids. In place of the dad, there is man named Laurent who is around. Laurent is nice, but strange. I thought he was just French but Jeanna warned me he’s an oddball. I don’t think it’s any kind of threat, but I will take her advice into consideration.

              I wrote this entry with nothing else to fill the time; waiting for a breath of access to the outside world. Currently I have no friends, no plans yet, no nothing. Only stale time to waste and that drives me crazy. Time is the last thing in the world that I want to waste. I crave deeply to have contact with my friends and family. All day I felt resilient to the culture shock. I wasn’t even struggling too bad with speaking French. And now, as I sit alone in this stuffy little room, it has all begun to press on me. I already dearly miss you all. It’s an interesting feeling, being entirely isolated from your culture, your language, and your loved ones. The people are hard here. No one has been unkind, but you can just feel it. Every man for himself.

               Sometimes I do something, not because I actually enjoy doing it, but because I love striving for it.  Ideas are more sumptuous than reality. It’s Day One and the isolation is tempting me to abandon this place.

                                             
                                                    My mini bathtub.