Mon Week-end à Paris

The first thing I thought when I arrived in Paris last Friday was that I belonged there. I felt so comfortable, with my little black travel bag and hand-made black heels. I realized that heels weren’t the most practical item to wear for a day of traveling, but decide that as a young woman on a solo weekend, I should pretend that I wasn’t traveling. I casually approached the Metro auto machine, attempting to blame the machine for taking so long to figure out what type of tickets to purchase.

So I get off at the Pyramides stop, and stroll along Rue L’Italienne, peering into shops that I pretend I can afford. Then this small gallery catches my eye, filled with large, colorful paintings, most of which were centered around a woman’s face, colorless save for her lips or eyes. She would be surrounded by bright candies, shoes, rubix cubes, and vehicles, symbolizing commercialism and excessiveness, etc etc. I rather fancied a painting or two, and, equipped with my little black travel bag (courtesy of Florence) and my zippy new shoes, give the owner my best French accent and inquire about the pieces. He answers me in French, then quickly resorts to English (how do the always know!), and gives me an offer in relation to a particular piece: a colorless woman, with purple lips, a star-shaped mirror under her left eye, with smokey purple rubix cubes floating beside her. I tell him that I adore it, and wonder if there is a smaller version available, blaming my (non-existant) apartment for being too small to hold the ten-foot version. “Yes, madame, I can contact the artist, and for 5,500 Euros, he can make you a smaller one. We can ship anywhere you like. And you live in Paris?” I almost said yes, but figured he’d find me out soon enough, so I said I live “In the South.” We went about the gallery together for a good fifteen minutes, while he explained certain pieces and pointed out particular moments in each. I don’t know if I actually fooled him, or if he was just really trying to sell, but either way, I scored a free catalogue and told him I’d be back. I decided that the 8 1/2 by 11 inch pages were perfect, and that I’d frame the catalogue at home.

I continued along on through the neighborhood, stopping in at Gucci and Yves Saint Lauren. I’m not sure what gave me the balls to even go into those shops; perhaps it was the interactions with the gallery owner; perhaps it was my shoes. Anyhow, I finally ended up at my previously-decided upon destination: The Louvre. I slowly passed by tour groups, which were spouting off details like “The Louvre is the most visited museum in the world!” and “Did you know, that if an individual spent 30 seconds at each exhibit, for eight hours a day, it would take him thirteen months to see every exhibit?” So, I wound through the check points, and get to the ticket line, where I was cut several times by loud Italian families. I’m not sure why it was okay for them to just casually step to the front like that, nudging past myself, who was getting more and more irritable in the stuffy-as-hell entrance way. I imagined telling each of them individually to piss off, then running out, stealing their stupid tour books on my way. Then I decided that it’d probably be worth standing in this horrid line once I got in. And it was, completely. I spent over three hours wandering about the west wing (that reference was for you, Bronwyn), taking several breaks to sit and enjoy a particularly intriguing piece, or to write in my journal (which was now filled with humorous complaints about the morning’s escapades). I’m sure I looked somewhat pretentious sitting there in my cardigan, stoned-faced and stand-offish, with my leather journal, which happened to match my shoes. Whatever, I loved it.

So, that evening I made my way to the hostel I was staying at, and after depositing my bag in my bunk bed (top bunk!!), I made my way to the café to order a beverage, then waited for someone to be my friend. I made note of another single girl, then quickly dismiss the possibility once I realized she was puffing a fake cigarette and had leg braces. I mean, don’t slow me down. So I order this great 6 euro dinner, which wasn’t half bad, and ask the waiter what I should do that night, and he points me to two guys who apparently asked him the same question. “Hey fellas!” He shouts over to them and points at me, saying “This young lady is looking to do something this evening!” Excellent, thanks.
I smile sheepishly then accept their offer to sit with them. They were two blokes from New Zealand, who were full of good humor and intellect. I decided to wait a good twenty minutes before asking if they enjoy Flight of the Conchords. They immediately bust out a “foux de fa fa!” reference, and twist their fake staches. Score!

Let’s just say, that the rest of the night consisted of constant absurd, likely offensive references to Frenchmen and somehow, to Ricky Gervais. We got called out once or twice, after busting out “mmrra hahahaha!” (what, that’s how the French laugh) and laughing and pointing every time we saw someone with a baguette (which, was a freakin lot of times).

The rest of my weekend was spent just happily wandering Paris, writing in my journal, and trying to track down a hostel with a bed for the night. I suppose Paris kicked me out, because I never did find a place, and seeing as how I can’t afford to stay in a schmoozy Paris hotel, I took the train back to Geneva and called it a night, vowing to soon return to gay ol' Paris.

These Things I Have Learned

Many, many things have I learned since I’ve been here. Things that I have learned, have been many. It’s almost as though I’ve learned a lot, and will continue to do as such. Learn, that is. The thing that I have mostly been entertaining myself with, as it is, and seems to be, and will likely remain as such, is as follows: learning.

Excuse me and my cheese-induced cleverness, I’m just incredibly full from the three hour meal I participated in this evening. Tonight, Patrick asked “When shall we start speaking in French in this house, eh?” My witty reply was “Maintenant.” French, for “Now.” An hour later I realized, after the completion of half a round of Camembert, two frightfully delicious glasses of wine, and a semi-lucid conversation, how much French I’ve learned in the past weeks.
And that, my friends, is what brings me to the subject of this particular entry: things I have thus far learned.

For one, the French are a clever folk. They do nothing that does not make sense. For example: the roundabout. Why stop at a stop sign when they aren’t any approaching vehicles? Just fly around a circle until you reach your destination street, and voila! No waiting involved. Sure, it can be substantially dangerous from time to time, say, if a driver doesn’t see that you’re coming and careens into your side, or toots angrily when you don’t give him ample room to swerve around the curve. Otherwise, it most certainly shaves time off your commute. Take, also, the stop light: it turns yellow, then green, to alert you that green is about to come, thus allowing enough warning to get your car in gear so you can zip off the second the green bulbs ignite. Brilliant.
The grocer has got it down, as well. Why wait for the cashier to weigh and price produce at check out, when the customers can do it for themselves. Simply place your produce on a scale, press the corresponding button (for example, “anana” or “pomme”), and out shoots a price tag. Voila!

As I live moments from the French-Swiss border, and am going through customs several times a day, I have learned a thing or two about the proceedings. If, say, my friends’ passports are at home, or I am transporting illegal immigrants, and I can’t afford to be stopped, I simply fly through the stop sign at the customs booth with an air of utmost arrogance. This gives the illusion that I am a pissy Frenchman with no time to spare; no questioning involved. The moment you slow down and hesitate at that stop sign, however, a little man in a cap comes out, and suspiciously peers into your car: questioning ensues! Or, a sexy Swissman will come out and nod you through with a smile; it varies. Sometimes, when well-prepared, I come all the way to a hault…

Fondue! Cliché? Who knows, but the French certainly do enjoy a good fondue party. There are strict rules to follow when partaking in a Fondue dinner. One: never let your bread slip into the cheese without fork firmly attached. My first morsel slipped deep into the pot, and I was immediately given the finger wag. Swiss cheese becomes hard rapidly and, like quicksand, sucks the bread right in; a simple twirl of the wrist should do the trick to avoid such situations. Two: only drink white wine when consuming fondue. I foolishly requested water instead, and once again received a scolding finger wave. “Non! Meeshell, you will become ill. Just have wine. Is good.” They’re paranoid that water will harden all that fondue in your stomach and will transform it back into a block of hole-filled Swiss cheese. Well, next thing I knew, the fondue pot contained a newly-formed brick of cheese, and the room contained several drunk Frenchmen and myself, hallucinating from the wine, and remembering that I was lactose intolerant.

Lastly, I learned that you should never walk down the hall in your underpants, because that will be the exact moment when Patrick comes home from watching the soccer game, and you will be forced to run down the hall in your slipper socks.

Medicate Me

I have worked with children for years; children with disabilities more saddening and debilitating than you would care to think about. And yet, none of them can quite compare to what it feels like to work for wealthy young children, whose language you do not speak. I say “wealthy”, because a child who has grown up with a nanny instead of a mommy treats people quite differently; they are not used to hearing the word “no” (or in my case, “non”), and react in quite the frightful manner when they do. And I say “for,” because I am their slave.

Up until a few days ago, “non” was about all I could say. Things have been interesting. Don’t get me wrong, the children are completely adorable and sweet, as long as they’re getting their cookies and watching tv. The moment the word “bath” or “homework” comes around, they turn on me like savages. Never in my life have I heard the word “no” thrown back at me with such hatred. Never in my life has a child begged so relentlessly for five more minutes with the telly, or whined so pitifully when asked to put some gloves on. Let me tell you right now: I do NOT put up with it, and do not care that their parents do.

Now, in normal circumstances, I would reason with them, allowing a chance or two to listen to me before the punishment comes. Yet, when all I know how to say is the equivalent of “Ok…child. Take…bath?” or “Go!” instead of “Ok, time to take a bath. Hey now, don’t give me that look, I’ve asked you three times. Go on!”…it gets interesting. I feel like such a fool when all I can retaliate their apparently rude remarks with is a simple “…non,” accompanying an angry look, or some sort of miming action. I’m sure they think I’m an idiot. The other day, Angele apparently called me a bitch, and I thought she’d said something sweet. It was a tad embarrassing when I innocently announced the incident at dinner later that night. Oh.

The best is when we’re in public, and they simply run away, and the only attempt I can make at calling them back is to helplessly shout their names in my obviously American accent, then shrug when onlookers offer me advice (or insults). The other day I was paying for my gas and glanced out the window to find them running around the gas station, throwing candy and screaming with glee. The look the clerk gave me suggested that I go die and to take the kids with me.

This morning, when I served cereal instead of white bread and Nutella (they greedily wolf down several pieces of the stuff on most mornings), crying and angry pouting broke out. Wow, Jesus. Sorry. I didn’t have the energy to argue with them this morning, as we were running out of time. I had woken up about a half hour late with a decent fever, and decided it was not my morning to win a battle. Fine, Nutella-drenched bread it is.

I swear Florence’s face lit up when I told her that I had a fever; I think she was excited at the opportunity to play nurse. She quickly broke out a little box containing several intriguing medicines of various forms: pills, powders, syringes (ah!), liquids, sprays. Now, I have had experience with the French health system before; they give you all sorts of stuff for the tiniest cold; who knows what any of it does. I watched as she poured out a little mound of off-white powder into a small, rounded dish. Is she going to make me sniff this stuff? She then mixed it with water so it formed a pasty sludge and instructed me to slurp it down. With hesitation (and a distant recollection of the clam incident), I swallowed the aspartame-tainted stuff.

“This will make you feel better.” When I asked her what it was (which I should have done before ingesting it), she simply said “It’s French.” Ha! Ok, well hopefully the French know what they’re doing. Well so far, I’m not high, so I suppose it checks out. Although the way these kids are wearing on me today……