Joyeux Noel!

Well this has been the strangest Christmas of my life.

My apartment decided that after all, it would rather I did not have internet there, so this is coming to you from my neighborhood Starbucks once again. I managed to Skype my family from V's apartment, which is always lots of loud, confusing fun. Skyping with my family works like this: we miss each other about 12 times, until somebody finally answers. Then dad props my mom's tablet on the counter somewhere where I can look out onto the hectic glory of my parents' kitchen, and those who wish to talk to me can wander by and say hello. 

"We live in the future!" my dad will exclaim.

"I'm like one of those moving portraits in Harry Potter," I respond. "Would you like any cryptic advice?"

It's a wonderful system, and believe it or not, does actually manage to make me feel, however momentarily, like I'm home with my loved ones. Particularly when they all cram into the frame at once, as is our custom. 

Well while my heart was baking cookies and drinking wine with my family on Christmas Eve, my actual body was at V's with her friend and this friend's aging mother. V introduced me, adding of course, elle est americaine.

"Oh!" cried the lady (I really can't remember her name) "j'adore les americains!"

Oh. Well, good then. She added, by way of explanation, that without the Americans, none of them would be here. Ah. Well, thank you? Uh... you're welcome? She wasn't kidding. She repeated it every twenty minutes or so, as we passed around cheese puffs, escargots, and prawns. At every lull in the conversation, or if we happened to be left alone for a moment, Madame took the opportunity of assuring me just how grateful she was to America that they weren't taken over by Germany after all. 

"Ah oui," said V after the fifteenth time or so, "Gracias America!"

Well ma'am, anything I can do to help. They left at around 11:00, Madame in her huge fur coat obviously. I love little old Parisian ladies, with their delicate little shoes, enormous furs, tiny little dogs and cigarette balanced between their little wrinkled fingers. 

V and I finished the champagne the next day and that was Christmas. Well, technically anyway. Tomorrow my honorary sister/personal Father Christmas arrives in the person of one Katherine E. Newton. 

I. Am. So. Excited. 

And not just because my parents are sending her with a second suitcase full of stuff for me. (Summer clothes, a Christmas gift, books, etc.). So I'm going to have my own personal Christmas tomorrow with her. If Love Actually taught me anything it's that you're supposed to spend Christmas with the people you love. I wonder if I can get a Christmas tree real cheap...

So to all my dear friends and family, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and God Bless the USA!

If I Die and Go to Heaven, They'll be Serving Tartiflette

I woke with a start on Saturday, realizing that I hadn't done any Christmas shopping at all. And now, with a very generous Christmas gift of cash in my wallet from V, I could. I headed to, where else, the Christmas Market on the Champs Elysees, the largest and closest Christmas market in the city. It was a warm day, but raining cats and dogs. To all of you who urged me to leave my rain boots at home because they were too big to fit practically in my suitcase, I can only say that you were so, so wrong. They are a Godsend. 

The Christmas Market sells everything you'd expect a Christmas market to sell: jewelry, scarves, ornaments, novelties, etc., as well as lots and lots of food and hot beverages. It was becoming more and more apparent that I'd barely had anything to eat that day as I passed roasting chestnuts; nutella crepes; fat, aromatic sausages grilled with onions; chocolate waffles; dozens of neon signs hawking vin chaud; and tartiflette. I'd been to the Christmas market twice before, both times with friends. One of those times happened to be the evening that my throat felt like it was at the bottom of the fires of Mount Doom. I got it into my head that the one thing that would totally cure my sore throat was a little vin chaud. Yes, a nice cup of hot, sweet wine would certainly soothe my ragged throat, and then I'd be well enough to dance the night away with no problems. L agreed that hot wine was definitely in order but first, she stipulated, she'd like to eat. Makes sense, I suppose. 

Well we passed by stall after stall but nothing seemed to tempt her. Not the francified "hot dogs" topped in melted cheese, sweet sausages, sandwiches, crepes, or even chicken paella. 

"What are you looking for?" I finally asked, slightly exasperated and glancing longingly at a woman clutching a steaming styrofoam cup.

"Tartiflette," she said. "I have a craving. I just really want some tartiflette." When we'd circled the entire  market with no luck, she suggested we head to Trocadero, where there was another Christmas market. So we walked another ten minutes to Trocadero, where still, we could not find the elusive tartiflette. Eventually, she gave up and satisfied herself with some fries, while I ran to the nearest vin chaud sign. It did help, by the way.

Well at the market on Saturday, feeling famished, I passed a sign for tartiflette. Obviously, I had to know what deliciousness could have induced a hungry person to pass by all the other delicious things and check two markets in search of it. 

"Une tartiflette, s'il vous plait."

I took the hot mess they served me to a nearby bench.

Oh. My. God. It was a sort of casserole of grilled potatoes and onions and cheese, and oh my God are those bacon bits? All piled on a piece of lettuce, for health reasons I can only imagine. After walking around for hours on a chilly, damp day, tartiflette is the final word in comfort food. 

L, you are forgiven. I understand now. 

Booze and Culture

Shortly after getting home last night, just as I began idly browsing Facebook and trying to decide what movie I was going to download, my phone rang. Expecting V, I was pleasantly surprised to find Bea on the other line. Apparently she'd had some sort of mix-up with the person she was supposed to meet and her plans fell through, but she didn't want to go home yet. Did I want to come out?

Always!

So Bea hopped on the Metro and I met her at Ecole Militaire half an hour later. She agreed to come to the 7th because it would be better than sitting around for half an hour and waiting for me to meet her at Bastille, but honestly I wasn't really sure where we'd go. I'd never been "out" in my neighborhood before, and there isn't exactly a hopping nightlife around here. I vaguely imagined that our best bet would be the O'Shea's, or O'Malley's, or O'Something pub that I'd passed the other day. (I'm convinced there are at least 6 of these in every city in the universe). We wandered past it, but for whatever reason beer is expensive in Paris, which sort of defeats the whole purpose of beer. We peered inside at a bunch of youngish dudes crowded around the bar drinking their 8 euro pints. Maybe not.

Instead we ambled up and down rue Cler until we spotted a likely looking brasserie, and installed ourselves in a corner, Hemingway style. The menu boasted several expensive and swanky looking cocktails as well as a wine list divided into sections according to price like on an airline: Low Cost, Economy, and Business. Handy! I'll bet you can guess what we ordered.

As a Londoner, Bea has a pretty distinctive accent that I am never tired of discussing. I'm beginning to fear that all of my new-found friends are going to get tired of my constant preoccupation with our linguistic differences. Anyone who knows me at home knows that I secretly long to be British. My hope is that some day I'll have perfected my British accent so as to fully assimilate and convince everyone I meet, including people from the UK, that I grew up in Sheffield, or Bristol or wherever. Just as long as I don't continue to confuse "pants" with "trousers" of course. On the other hand, I've also become really patriotic in the past few weeks. Whenever I see one of those "Brooklyn-style diners" I always think Oh, how quaint! And they're eating their burgers with a knife and fork! And I'm bizarrely proud to see the random Pizza Hut or Subway. Absence makes the heart grow fonder? 

Well anyway, as I was talking about how suddenly proud I am to be an American, it occurs to me that I couldn't be in a more stereotypically Parisian setting; sipping 3 euro wine on the terrace of this little brasserie. Couldn't we just bring that to America? I guess not. And I suppose this is the part of my experience that makes me more worldly and cultured. 

I'll let you know how that turns out.

Paris Breakfast on the Cheap

After a fun-filled week I found myself a little short of funds this weekend. Well, a lot short of funds. I buy a lot of food, okay? Oh alright and wine. And I realized I had nothing in my kitchen but some jam, honey, and powdered sugar. I meant to buy regular sugar of course but my French is not spectacular. I technically do have money in the bank, but seeing as my bank card does not arrive for another 9 days and the bank is closed until Tuesday, I was left with a mere 6 euros to feed myself until then. What's a poor au pair to do? Well, I put on some makeup so as to feel like a functioning human person and ran to the closest open pattiserie for a baguette.

Friends, have you ever had a really fresh baguette? A baguette still warm from the oven; that is soft, crispy, buttery, and delicious? That was my breakfast (and lunch I suppose) and it was perfect. Spread with a little strawberry jam and paired with some hot tea, ah, I want for nothing. I settled in to watch The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (Extended Cut obviously) and enjoy a delightfully dull Sunday.

I just wonder if I can afford a little camembert for dinner with my remaining 5 euros.

Tea and the Musee D'Orsay

I woke up yesterday not being able to speak. My throat was sore, my head ached, I was unreasonably tired. Oh dear, not today! Today I'm too busy to be sick! I've got things to do and people to see today! Alas, it couldn't be helped. I sucked down some tea after a quick shower and set off.

Item one on my to-do list was to meet V to go set up my French bank account. The paperwork involved in setting up a French bank account is not dissimilar to the paperwork involved in buying a house. That is, there's a lot. They needed my work contract, my passport, my student card, and of course V there to translate. Our banker then needed to go and fetch his associate banker friend to help. There was some discussion about whether or not I would be buying things online. I was confused. Would this change something? Does the bank not work online? Why would the bank not work online? I guess it was eventually decided that I most likely would be buying things online because I am young. Ok then. I was then given a million papers to sign and initial, wondering if any of this was going to cost me money. V then put in next week's hundred euros for me, and boom. That much closer to full on Frenchy.

My throat was still sore. I needed some tea or coffee or something. But there was no time. I had to meet my friends at the Musee D'Orsay. I lingered a bit, suspecting the others would be late. I should have lingered more as I ended up standing around in the rain alone anyway. I would have had time for that cup of tea. As I was wondering whether to go inside where it was sure to be warm but I might have to pay for something or just loiter, wet and cold, outside for free, I got a call from Bea who was also standing around outside having a similar internal debate. So we stood around together by the rhinoceros statue, and waited. We did have a good chat and it might have been nice if not for the cold and rain. "I really want some tea and cake," she said. Girl, you have no idea. Eventually the others did arrive and we got into the museum (for free! My favorite word!), and realized none of us had much time to spend there. We wondered about, Jane took some illegal pictures, and we were honestly most amused by a very intense looking conversation happening between a couple in the middle of the Impressionist gallery, because we are uncultured ruffians. 

"What do you think they're talking about?"

"He's mad at her about something."

"Maybe he thinks she's been flirting with other guys."

"Maybe we should give them some privacy..."

"If you want privacy then don't do this in the middle of the Musee D'Orsay."

"Maybe he just wants her to dye her hair back."

"I bet she's breaking up with him."

"Oh look, now they're holding hands!"

"Okay we have now officially stopped being subtle."

We sidled away and someone mentioned tea again. Oh please. Some tea. My kingdom for a cup of tea. I looked at the time. 3:20. Would have to leave soon. We passed the museum's restaurant, creatively named The Restaurant. It was expensive of course, we could tell just by the chandeliers. "Perhaps there's a cafe or something also?" We set off in search of a cafe, which turned out to be on the fifth floor, with prices identical to The Restaurant anyway. 6 euros for a cup of tea is a lot of euros. Honestly, I would have just choked it down, but I couldn't ask other people to do that, and we left a bit sadly. In any case, it was now 3:45 and I really needed to be off. "Well, see you all later tonight," I croaked, and ran to the bus.

Because God is good and really wants me to be happy, I made it home with enough time to stop by Starbucks for a latte before picking up Le Petit. Some habits never die. 

How Does the Metro Work Anyway?

Well I walked down the nearly-deserted street and wandered into a bustling intersection, a veritable hub of civilization. 

There must be a Metro around here somewhere. I wandered here and meandered there, constantly reaching for my dead-as-a-doornail Android which had no WiFi connection anyway, out of habit. Constantly living with all of the information in the world instantly available at your fingertips makes everything so easy that living without it suddenly becomes so difficult. And then I feel like a brat because some girls don't get to go to school or have to walk seven miles uphill just to get clean water. 

Anyway.

I circle around the rather fabulous entrance to Gare St. Lazare and wander down a street, whose name I don't know, praying very hard in French for a Metro. I watch several busses pass by, and I think sadly that one of those could probably take me where I need to go, but I'll never know because I have no internet here to tell me. Aha! There it is! A Metro station. I eagerly thunder down the steps and look around for a sign directing me to line 8. There is no such sign. Line 8 does not go to Gare St. Lazare. I know now that what I should have done was take a metro anywhere and then just transferred to line 8. But I didn't know how to do that and had a vision of myself waking up on a train in Budapest with no notion of how I got there. I left the station, hoping to ask someone for directions.

Quite nonchalantly I approached a friendly taxi-driver.

"Pardon, ah, je cherches le Metro Grands-Boulevards... Vous pouvez m'aider?" God, my French is atrocious.

The taxi driver made a tssshhh sort of noise as though to say "Well, damn lady, how the hell did you get way over here?"

I responded with a sheepish shrug. He told me in French, which I understood by some miracle, that the place I was trying to get to was basically at the other end of the city, and that it was going to be quite the journey back. 

"Or you could take a taxi," he added. "Would cost 6,40 euros." Done. I got into a different taxi (My taxi driver was off-duty or something so it's not like he was being self-serving) and sped off on my way. 

Exactly 6 euros and 40 centimes later, I got out at the correct Metro station, where I found Eloise after a brief encounter with a Welshman (W: "Guess where I'm from! Don't say England!" W's Friend: "He's from Wales. Ignore him"). Eloise took me into a bar so loud and dark I would have sworn I was in Wrigleyville if not for all the French people. She directed me to a small table where her two friends were sitting. Johannes immediately stood and kissed me on both cheeks with the greatest of fervor, so it seemed to follow that I should do the same to Ellie, which I did, although now I wonder. 

It would be a lie to say that I was immediately comfortable (how can one be?) but it certainly didn't take long. Eloise, Ellie, and Johannes were friendly and talkative (despite the deafening House music), and I was pretty soon at ease. It soon became evident that Johannes loved to dance. I returned from a trip to the bar to find him swinging Ellie, the trained ballet dancer, wildly around. They dipped, spun, turned, jumped, hilariously at odds with the awkward, sexual gyrations of the other, more reserved, dancers. When Ellie finally sat down, Johannes begged me to dance, and I was peer-pressured by the others as well. Even though I told them that I was world famous for being a terrible dancer. Well anyway, Johannes swung me about a bit, while I laughed hysterically and tried not to fall or to hit anyone. I didn't thank God, and was deemed a success. By the end of the night we were all awkwardly shaking our groove things. We weren't very graceful, but it was fun.

To catch the Metro we left at around one, and I found, to my surprise, that it was an incredibly easy train ride back to my apartment. I even got on the same train as my new friends. 

"We're going ice skating tomorrow if you'd like to join," Eloise told me. 

In my mind: ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME! TWO FRIEND DATES IN TWO DAYS! GOD I JUST WANT TO MARRY YOU OF COURSE I WANT TO GO ICE SKATING! 

What I said: "That sounds fun! Yeah, text me."

I DONT EVEN LIKE ICE SKATING!! 

"Ellie and I probably aren't going to skate. Just get some lunch."

"Oh good, me neither."

In the end, nobody went ice skating, since it didn't look like the rink was actually open. But I was introduced to Eloise and Ellie's other friends, Astral and Jane who were both very nice. We had a lovely lunch and then some hot chocolate, and admired the frankly terrifying Christmas window displays at Galleries Lafayettes. Perfectly spherical white heads vaguely attached to their couture-clad bodies by long, meandering wires covered in ribbon, were surrounded by teddy bears or dolls moving with horror-movie slowness. I thought this was Christmas! 

I also learned that in Britain, "pants" means "underpants" not "trousers." Don't make my mistake, friends.

All in all, it was an excellent day. 

In Search of Amis

Always trying to make me more comfortable, on Friday V introduced me to the chic and statuesque Fiona, who works in her office and is about my age. She hoped we could be friends. Perhaps it was my fault and I was too intimidated by her Parisian je ne sais quoi, but we didn't really click. Fiona looks like a model, with that intangible air of "Oh, I didn't even look in the mirror this morning, I just happen to look perfect." She really did seem quite friendly, and offered to meet me on New Years Eve, warning me, with expressions of distaste, against exactly the cheap options I had been considering, like going to Montmartre to watch the fireworks. 

"Fiona's very posh,"V said. I looked down at my rubber boots and bare fingernails. Um, considering my Hemingway budget, I just don't think Fiona and I would be attracted to the same atmospheres. 

Luckily, I had other options in the works. I had joined the Au Pair in Paris group on Facebook, and there met Eloise. Eloise told me she had plans to go out that night with some friends and invited me along. I accepted with alacrity. 

"Meet us at Grands Boulevards," she texted. I searched it on Google maps, found a bus route, and set off. Upon reaching the bus stop, I realized that I had completely forgotten the bus number. Was this even the right stop? I think so, it has to be. I studied the map. I didn't see Grands Boulevards listed on the stops, but it looks like it's nearby. What if it's not? Maybe I should just go home, and tell Eloise I'll see her later...

A bus arrived. I got on.

I began to get increasingly nervous as nothing on the route map posted on the wall of the bus matched what was on the map in my hands. Oh God. Wrong bus. I got off at Gare St. Lazare. This was wrong. So, so wrong. The street I found myself on was dark and relatively lifeless. I looked at the map in my hands again. What I wouldn't give for the internet! This map didn't reach Gare St. Lazare. I had no idea where I was. Well, I had to get home somehow. I started walking in the opposite direction that the bus was going. This seemed like a good start. I got another text from Eloise.

"We're at James Hetfeeld bar. Please come! Line 8 :)"

How could I say no to a smiley face? To a "please come"? Friends! So close to friends! With a renewed sense of purpose I strode towards what looked like civilization. In search of a Metro...

Be Brave, Little Piglet

"You're going on a grand adventure," my dad tells me. It is. It is a grand adventure, but I started to get the feeling that I used up all the bravery I had in just coming here. The actual adventure part is more difficult. 

It's just so safe and familiar in my apartment! And I can't get lost in my neighborhood anymore! Hey, I found the Eiffel Tower didn't I! But the Metro is scary! 

Excuses, excuses. So today I decided to be brave. I decided to actually leave the 7th Arrondissement and do a little exploring. Obviously, the first thing I wanted to do was go to Shakespeare and Company. This is the little English bookstore that looks like it was decorated according to designs laid out in my diary. I'd been here once before and have been dreaming of it since.

On entering, you walk into a small room crowded by books. The lighting is low, warm. Awkwardly arranged bookcases divide the shop into little sections to wander in and out of, and lending it a whimsical, labyrinthine feel, like a literary fun-house. At the back, to the right, there is a staircase leading to a reading room,  as well as rare books and young adult fiction. I love the randomness of that. A note stuck to the wall advises me that there's a piano to play if I wish, but I can already hear the music floating back down to me. The reading room is furnished by repurposed church pews and theater seats. A book of 19th century magazines rests on a stand in a corner. I take a seat. Yep, this is home.

When I'd finally tired of heaven, I looked across the street at Notre Dame. Lovely. I snapped a picture and set about wandering the Latin Quarter's narrow cobbled streets, finally stopping at a cafe to sit with my book and a cafe creme. 

It's lovely to be in Paris. Even alone. 

Noteworthy

Having spent a week and a half in Paris, I feel at liberty to shed light on some stereotypes of the French.

1. French kids are better behaved than American kids.

Yeah right. I'd like a word with the woman who wrote Bringing up Bebe. Rest assured, French kids are just as difficult to get into the bath as American kids. I would know.

2. French kids eat everything.

Le Petit eats nothing but chocolate and hates fruit. So.

3. French women don't get fat.

They do.

4. Parisians are always chic.

Not all Parisians. Just most Parisians.

5. All Parisians smoke.

Okay this one might be true.

And there you have it folks, the truth about the French. Parisians! They're just like us!

In Which I Brave the Elementary School Alone

Today I picked up Le Petit from school without his mother with me for the first time. Though the tears I expected did happen (I am, after all, a frightful American) it, like Wednesday, went better than expected. 

Picking up a child from school, at least at this particular school, is not for the faint of heart. The teachers neatly arrange the children on little benches along the wall, and try (with some success) to keep them still. And then at 4:30 the doors open and all the mamans stampede into the vestibule to collect their kids. Giant swinging handbags knock into children's heads, strollers swerve violently while their passengers shriek, little ones are almost trampled entirely. Socks, pacifiers, mittens, teddy bears are swallowed up and lost amidst a steady, high-pitched din. The teachers' "bonsoir"s are barely audible. V says it makes her lose faith in humanity. 

I approached Le Petit with an intrepid smile and a bonjour. He industriously sucked on his pacifier without saying a word and stayed put, waiting patiently for Maman. As I held out my hand, grin still in place, the truth dawned on him and he began to cry. Loudly of course. Not feeling particularly inclined to indulge a long dispute I explained (in very poor French) that Maman was at work and we had to go. Since he would not move, I plucked him up and carried him waling, "Je ne veux pas!" out of the building. He continued to scream for his mother for about a minute, but by the end of our very slow walk home, he'd forgotten about Maman apparently, and was ready for his snack. So yeah, not too bad.

A Gift from Home

V and I were walking to her office the other day (she forgot to lock the door), and we passed The Real McCoy.

"That's an American grocery store," she told me. But I was distracted.

"Oh my God, Pop Tarts!"

"Oh, I hate Pop Tarts!" she replied, with admittedly well-applied French distaste. (In her defense, she tells me she loves Krispy Kreme Doughnuts).

"I love them. That's all I ate as a teenager," I informed her.

"There's just nothing in them."

"Oh, I know. They're gross. But I just love them."

"Sure. You like it even though it's bad because it's something from your childhood?"

"Like my mom and HoHos."I don't think she knows what HoHos are. But we then reached her office and changed the subject because there's really not much more to be said about Pop Tarts.

Now while I'm here surrounded by arguably the best cuisine in the world and missing American junk food, my family in Michigan is grieving a very great loss. I have never felt so disconnected from them. I've been pretty good, so far, at keeping myself from missing everyone too much and falling apart. But for just a second today, I lost it a bit. I was standing in V's kitchen, looking for something for lunch and seeing nothing but French graham crackers and apple sauce, when I suddenly felt very, very lost.

V caught me staring into her cupboard.

"Are you okay, Kate?"

"Oh, I'm fine! I just had a moment..."

I don't think I fooled her though, because when she came back from work she had with her "un petit cadeau pour Kate." It was a box of cherry Pop Tarts.

My Aura is Blue and White

Bisous

I find that I am having a little trouble filling my many hours of down time with interesting things to do. I have no friends as of right now, you remember. So yesterday, to take a break from my usual routine of trying not to be intimidated by French teenagers, I decided to take a walk to the Eiffel Tower.  It's not far from me, after all. It's also basically impossible to get lost, because it is huge. 

On my way, I first passed the gentlemen pictured above, who implored me to add their photo to "le facebouk." Congratulations gents, you are now internet famous - to my friends and family who read this blog anyway. 

The next person I met was an older Sri Lankan gentleman, who began to tell me interesting facts about the Eiffel Tower and the universe in general. "I was in Himalaya, you know Himalaya? In the deepest part of the mountain, and I stayed there for (Three months? I think. Maybe it was a year...)"

"Wow." The only appropriate response, right?

"We ate the flowers and drank water. Well you know you get very good at meditating. I can read auras."

"Oh really?"

"Your aura is amazing." (Of course it is). "I don't talk this way with just anybody you know. It's blue and white. And blue, you know, means purity."

Le sigh. Why is pure always the first thing anyone thinks when they see me? I'm not saying I want to be Marilyn Monroe or anything, but the Virgin Mary thing does get a bit old. 

Well, the Sri Lankan guy then asked for my phone number so we could talk about God and love and fear and doubt some more, at which point it became time to skeedaddle. 

"Thanks man, but I don't actually have a phone number." (Not a lie. At the time.) I then departed to ponder the mysteries of the universe alone, the way I like it.

So, anyone who reads auras want to confirm or deny?

Chez Moi

As promised, here are some photos of my lovely abode. You see what I mean by small?

Voila! My building. Not very Parisian...

This is my room as seen from my balcony

And this is the same spot with the bed pushed up into a couch

When we were still emailing about me coming, V asked me what my favorite color was, so that she would know when buying furniture for my apartment. I thought that was so sweet, and reminded me of my mom. But I really didn't know what to respond. Do I have a favorite color? I told her green, so she got blue because she couldn't find nice looking pillows in green. I wasn't expecting throw pillows at all, never mind how attractive they are. We're also going shopping on Saturday for matching curtains and une petite table. I have no idea where that will go. 

So there it is, my pretty little closet under the stairs!

My First Wednesday

I still can't get pictures off my phone, so here is a google images find of the view I pass every day, that I've already started to ignore like a true Parisian.

Wednesdays, French children do not have school. It's a relic of institutionalized religion (kids used to have to go to Catechism these days) that once upon a time I would have advised America adopt post-haste. But I'm a nanny now, and that means that Wednesdays I spend all day with Le Petit. Yesterday was my first try.

Honestly, it wasn't that bad.

V left at around 10 for her important meeting. He didn't even cry. Then we played cars for an hour and a half. Followed by half an hour of books. Then lunch of peas, carrots and rice. Then a three hour nap. Apparently Le Petit was completely pooped (2 hours of cars is a lot of cars, I promise you) and fell asleep immediately. I have never met a kid who went down for a nap with so little struggle. Also, I should note that the 3 hour nap is scheduled. Then, having thoroughly cleaned the kitchen and his bedroom in about four minutes flat, I also took a three hour nap.

V. then returned home for bath, dinner, and some quality time with Tom and le iPad.

Really, the only bad part about the day was that I am too insecure in my French to order food anywhere. Consequently, I spent half an hour yesterday morning wandering around looking for a likely cafe, into which I could pop for a moment to grab a pastry and coffee and hide away with it somewhere without looking like an American bumpkin. I realize there's no help for it, and I might as well stamp the Star Spangled Banner on my forehead, but I'd like to at least be able to order breakfast without looking like an idiot.

Eventually, I of course ran out of time, and had to be at V's in like ten minutes. I sighed, braced myself, and went into the cafe closest to her apartment (after pulling when I should have pushed of course), and as confidently as I could said to the impossibly Parisian proprietor who was reading a newspaper, "Je voudrais un cafe s'il vous plait!"

"Un cafe, un cafe..." he repeated and wandered off to fill my order. Success! I drank the tiny cup standing up with two minutes to spare. For lunch I ate Tom's leftover rice, and for dinner the leftover pork chops, salad, and fries V made.

I'm going to lose so much weight.

Bonjour Paris!

So I just wrote a lovely blog post all about my first day and a half, but because my website was entirely in French, I accidentally deleted it. 

Merde!

Any way, suffice it to say that I am doing just peachy, aside from the fact that there is no internet in my apartment. Poor V, I really don't think she realized how desperately I needed it, hence her bewildered reaction when I almost cried. I didn't, thank God.

So I am writing this from Starbucks. God, I am the worst American in Paris ever. Don't worry friends, I'll find a nice neighborhood cafe to frequent as soon as I can. In fact, I am on my way there now, because this computer is almost out of charge, and there is no outlet in site. 

So my apartment is a closet (but a very cute closet) and the little boy and I are best friends already. He taught me how to say whale in French, which is balain. I think. Actually that's probably wrong...

Firsts and Lasts

I would have blogged last week, but I swear I have never had more friends or more plans. I tried to say goodbye one last time to everyone that I could but I still have a sort of panicked feeling that there are people I forgot. Like the coffee guy at Intelligentsia that I used to buy cookies from! If you're reading this, I'm sorry coffee guy. I meant to buy one last cookie from you but I was late for plans with someone else. So good luck with your future endeavors, coffee guy. I wish you nothing but the best. 

I wanted to get done all those things I'd been talking about doing for months or years but never got to. In this spirit, Carlo agreed to wake up early on Saturday to wait in line for 45 minutes with me at the famous Doughnut Vault. The doughnuts did not disappoint. 

I can't believe how many of these we ate

I also had plans to have a Star Wars movie marathon, because Carlo has never seen them. Anyone who knows me of course knows this already because I simply cannot let it go. But we couldn't find them on iTunes, and they weren't available on Netflix. So we went to Best Buy and for a moment we thought we'd succeeded. Carlo triumphantly presented me with a 3 disk set of Episodes IV, V, and VI which we then happily bought before realizing that they were BluRay and we do not have a BluRay player. Which is especially unlucky considering that Best Buy no longer stocks DVD versions of Star Wars at all. I think Carlo was actually considering spending $80 on a BluRay player for a moment, before he realized that he would be spending $100 to watch Star Wars. "I'm sorry, K," he told me sadly. "I just can't." 

In the end we were too busy packing, running errands, and making last minute visits for much else anyway. And now I'm in Detroit for the week, and trying not to think about how much I'm going to miss running errands with him.

Last Week at the Office

Today is the first day of my last week of work, and I feel... the same.

There's still a pile of paper on my desk. There are still a million tiny tasks that never seem to get finished. There's still no coffee table in reception. And nobody has started interviewing for my replacement.

I feel like I'm leaving a project halfway through. I helped, in a small way, to put this office together, and I won't be here to see it finished. The coffee table thing is really killing me. The reception area has been almost finished for months. It's almost put together. It almost looks great. The carpet and pictures I chose look nice. The furniture is sophisticated and tasteful. But it is arranged surrounding a big empty space of carpet so clearly, desperately, wanting a coffee table that it's making me a little crazy.

See what I mean?

I think I've mentioned this need about once a week for the past three months. I've been so obnoxious about it that now any mention of the missing coffee table comes with a smirk and a side-eye at me. But apparently construction on it has now been started and it will most likely be here some time next month. When I'm in France. And they say Americans don't do irony.

New Home

In several of my internet searches of what my life would be like as an au pair in Paris, many places indicated that I would most likely be living in a "chambre de bonne" which literally translates to "maid's room." They are tiny little garret rooms basically in the attic where the maids used to sleep back when people had live-in servants. (Would I qualify as a live-in servant?) They often don't have private bathrooms or kitchens or elevators.

Obviously, I gushed at that idea. 

I'll be like The Little Princess! My own little attic with a tiny window looking out onto other peoples' rooftop gardens, perhaps a glimmer of the Eiffel tower just within view. And I won't tell anyone, because they wouldn't believe me anyway, but I'll sense the presence of the long dead servant-girl who used to sleep where I'm sleeping now. Her name will be something like Sophie or Sylvie. And when I'm feeling really low about being someone else's hired help, I'll go to my chambre de bonne and know that Sylvie the ghost-maid is there, and she'll understand. It will look like this:

So when V sent me my address, I immediately got out of bed to do some Google maps research. Alas, instead of a charming "chambre de bonne," it appears that I shall be living in a patently unromantic concrete apartment building with what looks like plexiglass balconies above a limo rental shop.

So Hemingway probably never hung out there. It is, however, about a five minute walk from the Eiffel tower, and there's a doorman. So presumably I'll be somewhat more protected from sex traffickers and my packages won't get stolen. 

All in all, not bad. And who knows, maybe I'll make friends with 19th century ghosts in V's apartment.

Eighteen

Oh my God. It's November. How can it be November? I'm not ready for November. Logically, it cannot be later than September. It just can't.

But it is! It is November, which means that I will be in Paris in 18 days. And I have nothing left to do but pack. After weeks of anxiety I have my corrected passport, which no longer identifies me as male; I have my long stay visa with a picture in which I look hilariously distraught; I have disposed of my apartment to a nice-seeming young man; I have new boots (my extensive and frantic Google searching of "what do I wear in Paris" revealed to me that Parisians wear boots. I know); and most definitively of all, I have a plane ticket.

I can't decide whether I'm more thrilled or terrified that it's coming up so soon, so I think I'll just sit here and tremble quietly while analyzing to death my new address on Google maps.

Bisous (I hear Parisians end their emails this way)