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.