tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72771194347886107882024-03-13T08:30:15.577-07:00Rouge GorgeAn American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.comBlogger147125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-11397071227978639972012-01-25T16:57:00.001-08:002012-01-25T17:11:38.142-08:00Nannying in the US--(It sounded cooler in France)So I've been back stateside for a solid two months, and I only wake up crying from Francesickness about once a week, so I guess things are going better. <div><br /></div><div>I'm nannying again, and to pull myself back from the brink of suicide, I have decided to think of this as temporary, for the following reasons</div><div><br /></div><div>1) I want to go back to France, and I need money, nannying allowed me to find employment quickly</div><div>2) If I don't get a job in France (I will know by April) I will start looking seriously for a real job, therefore </div><div>3) I will still be making an income, even as I job hunt</div><div><br /></div><div>Pros of US nannying</div><div>1) I make (slightly) more money</div><div>2) I dont live there<br />3) No foreigner jokes from the kids<br />4) The public library let's all have a moment of silence for this bless-ed creation</div><div>5) I can drive around and take them places</div><div>6) I don't have to 'co' nanny with any parents around</div><div><br /></div><div>Cons</div><div>1) Children</div><div>2) In France, being an au pair was exotic, here, living with my parents it's pathetic</div><div>3) Longer hours</div><div>4) No fun foreign language school to meet people</div><div>5) Not meeting people period</div><div>6) Gui Gui and I are still together, and he currently lives 6000 miles away from me. On second thought, that should probably be the number one con.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are a few things that are so much easier here, and I've noticed that occasionally I have to step back and say, 'It's okay, you're in the US.'</div><div><br /></div><div>1-Gas is cheaper, and easy to find. My credit card always works, and I can always pay in cash</div><div>2-With my sweet new library card I <b>NEVER </b>have to worry about not having an English book again<br />3-Contact solution is 80% cheaper, so I no longer have to think 'I cant throw out these contacts until tomorrow, since I wasted .05 ounces of liquid preserving them last night'</div><div>4-I do laundry, once a week, if I feel like it, for ONE person</div><div>5-I ran to the grocery store last week to buy beer, because it was almost nine pm. SILLY ME, it's open until ten. I drove by on a SUNDAY at eight am, thinking it surely wouldn't be open. SILLY ME, it opened at six am.</div><div>6-"You want to buy 35 cents worth of gum on your debit card? Go ahead!"</div><div><br /></div><div>On the negatives, I can't get money out from any bank (not like I go out anyway) Gui Gui is on the other side of the freaking ocean. </div><div><br /></div><div>And God help me, I miss cafés and the Bitter End.</div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-67345239492001160632011-11-04T01:33:00.000-07:002011-11-04T02:02:31.217-07:00Getting Called a "Connasse" at a Vegetable Store: Why I Shouldn't Make Jokes with StrangersMadame S asked me to go pick up some things from various markets today for this evening. No problem, but it had to be early. So right after dropping off the boys, I went over to the town center and popped into the bakery, cheese shop, butcher, and fruit and vegetable vendor. At the produce shop, I had three things to buy, apples 'pour faire un gateau,' green beans and lettuce. I should preface that I hadn't showered and looked awful, which for whatever psychological reason makes me all the more defensive. <div><br /></div><div>"Bonjour" said the young Frenchman. </div><div>"Bonjour," I responded with my thick American accent, "Je cherche des pommes pour faire un gateau" <i>I'm looking for cake making apples. </i>He smiled and kind of laughed, and I thought, great, he thinks my accent's cute, we're at that level where we can tease each other. (Stupid, I know.)</div><div>We continued our transaction pleasantly enough, until I asked for roquette, a type of lettuce, and he asked me how much. I should also mention that weight in vegetables is not my forté, especially in metric.</div><div>"Uhh, comme ça" <i>Like this </i>I made the size with my hands.</div><div>"Like zeese?" He responded in English.</div><div>"En français, s'il vous plait." <i>In French please. </i></div><div>"Ah, vous ete ici pour apprendre le français?" <i>Ah, you are here to learn French.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>This is when I made the mistake of jokingly informing him that since I'm speaking to you in French, it must mean I already speak French. Apparently not funny, because he gave me a strange look and we went to the cash register. At this point he asked me if I wanted a bag. </div><div><br /></div><div>"No," I said, and he gave me another strange look.</div><div><br /></div><div>Merde, I didn't understand. </div><div>"Uhh," (Even though I just insulted you by telling you I already speak French) "J'ai pas compris" <i>I didn't understand.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>"Es-ce que vous voulez un sac?" <i>Do you want a bag?</i></div><div>"Mais no, je l'ai, deja." <i>No, I already have one.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>He turns around, and I can't swear to this, but I'm pretty sure he said, "connasse." Which means, bitch, or worse.</div><div><br /></div><div>In retrospect, I brought that upon myself. I really should have just told him, yes, I am here to learn French, I aspire one day to be as fluent as you, and be able to have an enriching conversation about fruits and vegetables, but alas, I started too late in life, and probably will never be able to enter a store without having anyone a) talking to me in English b)asking why I'm here and if I came to learn French. (Which to be fair, was not my initial reason to come to France.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I know I'm too aggressive, and I need to be more laid back about the constantly-being-questioned-as-to-where-I-come-from-thing, but it just never changes. And to be honest, after you get the same question 450,345 times, you just want a little variation. So when someone appears more flirty/friendly than usual, I start saying dumb stuff as a "joke".</div><div><br /></div><div>(I also can't help but think of the futility of speaking to a foreigner in English. Especially since the other day I had a beer with a German garçon au pair. I ordered a beer at the bar in French, the guy spoke to me in English. Marius, the German, ordered a beer, and the guy spoke in English. Marius speaks English, but it's harder for him to change between English and French, because he's focusing on French...Why not just stick with French?)</div><div><br /></div><div>In conclusion, my own language insecurity led me to be a jerk to some poor produce vendor who will probably forever hate anglophones.</div><div><br /></div><div>Merde.</div><div><br /></div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-86538912264417128862011-11-01T15:24:00.001-07:002011-11-01T15:24:43.253-07:00Appy AlloweenLast night I spent my first Halloween in Paris. (Last year I was in Prague) For Americans, Halloween in France can be rather painful. In the nicest way possible, the French don't "get" Halloween. And even more painfully, they usually think they do. <div><br /></div><div>I was at Ali's apartment last night sitting around the island chatting with her and her French roomates. Halloween came up, and one of the friends smuggly explained to me that "Halloween is something creating by Marketing. Big companies just want you to buy their products." (She was also reading a book that was condemning capitalism and consumerism, and was explaining the evils of Nespresso, a machine she owns) Well, there's no argument against that. But there's a difference between doing Halloween where you buy a bunch of crappy decorations you don't need, or a slutty costume that vaugley resembles a childhood character, and when you carve pumpkins and drink seasonal beer, make bizarre homemade decorations and spend hours with your college roomates designing historically accurate ensembles. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's definitely a cultural thing, and just because you have some misguided belief that Americans are materialistic, crude, and uncivilized, you do not have the right to immediately discount this beloved made up holiday. (I don't tell you picking mushrooms in the woods with a pig is weird, do I?) Because guess what? You don't get the spirit of Halloween.</div><div><br /></div><div>What really bothers me here is trying to explain that Halloween is not, as they believe, about being scary, but coming up with a costume that entertains. Sure, you can dress up as a witch, but how much more entertaining/disturbing is a full grown man dressed up as a baby? Or a reference to some abstract character in a Kubrick film? Or, (insert least favorite politician)? </div><div><br /></div><div>(By the way, Gui Gui and I dressed up as Spy vs Spy, a comic he had never heard of. I don't think he really got it anyway, but he wore all white, and we looked adorable.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I guess I haven't grown out of dress up. Maybe by next year.</div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-85764414189590160972011-10-16T23:54:00.000-07:002011-10-20T00:46:20.745-07:00Little Fish in the Developed Country PoolThis weekend I was invited to an engagement party in Lille. Or rather, Gui Gui was invited to the engagement party, and as we apparently come as a unit, I was invited as well. Lille is in the North East of France and is well know for crappy weather, a strange dialect (ie Bienvenue Chez Chi'times), and a particularly potent kind of cheese. <div><br /></div><div>After being invited, we decided to profit from being that far north by going to the actual city of Lille. (The party was just outside of the city). So instead of leaving at 5 or 6 pm, we left at 2pm. Gui Gui's brother Adrien, was in town so he rode in the car with us, and we had to pick up two other friends as well. We picked up Patrick in Saint G, and drove onward to pick up Paul in the North of Paris which was "only four kilometers out of the way." Except there was traffic. And a bridge closed. And more traffic. Two hours later, we navigated out of Paris and got to Lille around 6:30. So much for our tourism. Instead I had to get a pair of tights, so we swung over to the mall and I ran around for fifteen minutes looking for what I needed. It was a real shame that we couldn't actually see anything, because it looked like a nice city. It had tons of old cobble stone roads, the kind that ruin your suspension, and lots of interesting architecture. </div><div><br /></div><div>We ended up making it to the party and were pleased to find an awesome spread of mini challah breads and smoked salmon (they're Jewish). Cue in a keg, buckets of spiked punch, and people being lifted up in chairs. All and all, it was a pretty class act.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next day we they served us brunch, and the guys graciously killed off the rest of the beer. The weather was glorious, and we sat outside eating cheese and enjoying the sunshine. </div><div><br /></div><div>There was, of course, a glitch in the weekend. Somehow, someone had broken into Gui Gui's car and stolen a whopping eight euros from his wallet, and his mom's digital camera. Considering what was in the car, we had to assume it was either kids, or crack addicts twisted off their heads. Anyway, so I was telling Gui Gui we could get his mom a new camera in the US, as it's sure to be cheaper, when it dawned on me. </div><div><br /></div><div>That's like the twentieth time I've said that in the last month. I'm saving up my euros, because of how much they are worth in dollars. I get my mom to send me contact solution, because its an eighth of the price. And you know what? I'm not sure how happy I am to be the one coming from the poor impoverished country.</div><div><br /></div><div>Stupid euro.</div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-26921475958313866022011-10-03T03:12:00.000-07:002011-10-03T03:29:40.377-07:00MomentsI won't say that Paris has let me down (although it has been a backdrop as I let down myself,) but I will say I had some pretty high expectations for the city (blame Hemmingway). However, it's hard not to lower these expectations when I can smell Chatelet on the RER five minutes before the train arrives, or when I see bums covered in urine, gypsies stealing on the Champs de Mars, and paying six euros for a cup of coffee that has an overhead cost of .45 centimes. <div><br /></div><div>So when I had one of those awesome Parisian moments last Saturday, I thought, "I'll take this as a win."</div><div><br /></div><div>I woke up at a friends house by Gare de Lyon, after going to a party with three of my girlfriends. It was pretty good time, and I intelligently made my move closer to three am, instead of six, like my other, more courageous, friends. Anyway, around noon, I left my friends house and wandered down the street looking for some caffeine and food. I passed about fifteen restaurants, that were way too expensive. I passed a boulangerie, but they had slim pickings after the lunch rush. I wandered for another half hour, not really minding, because it was about 75, sunny, and absolutely perfect outside. I walked on, and looked up to see a line of paninis resting in the window. "Score!" I thought and walked inside and said hello to the bandana clad worker. After a few minutes of speaking in French, I was pretty sure that he was an anglophone. The accent and correct pronunciation of "cheddar" was a dead giveaway. There was a pause in the exchange, and we looked at eachother, and he asked me "English or American?" Turns out he was American so he made my coffee and we had a little chat. Because Ali was dragging her heals for an hour, I ended up sitting there, eating my lunch, and alternating between reading my book and talking with the guy. </div><div><br /></div><div>There was no competition, there was no dumbass comments or smirking, there was just two strangers talking about the city they lived in, and the country they came from.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I finally found Ali, I turned to Lee and said "Nice to meet you," and walked outside into the sunshine.</div><div><br /></div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-4411198171282197772011-10-03T02:44:00.000-07:002011-10-03T03:07:58.400-07:00Du Pain?I am occasionally awkard. I am occasionally even more awkward in French. I hate making small talk, because I feel vulnerable, and I suspect that I'm commiting a series of cultural faux pas(uh, 's). I don't know the French way to BS with someone when you don't know them, and well, I'm awkward. So although I like going with Gui Gui's friends, I occasionally have the "oh God, not French again," moment. <div><br /></div><div>That being said, I can usually role with an evening out, because now I know most of his friends pretty well, and they serve me wine, which makes me less self-conscious. So, I was a little put out last weekend when we ended up going to Paris to have a birthday dinner with a friend I've never met before, and his friends, who Gui Gui has never met before. Things were kind of awkward when we got to the guy's house and we all sat around staring at eachother. I had to discreetly ask Gui Gui to explain things to me, as new people mean new accents, and are occasionally hard to understand (they were also talking about playing pool, which sounds really similar to the word beer, so that brought a whole new level of confusion). Anyway, we went to dinner, the apero and the wine came out, and that galvinized the conversation. </div><div><br /></div><div>But, as I was eating my poulet au sauce moutarde, I looked down the table at the bowl of French bread. What a perfect example of why I'm so damn awkward at dinner parties. </div><div><br /></div><div>One thing I've learned about how to not make an ass of yourself, is always watch what everyone else is doing, and never make assumptions. (One time, Gui Gui's mom put a bowl of water in front of me and said something about seeds in the grapes I was eating. I thought the bowl was for seeds, it was infact, I realized after watching his Dad wash his grapes in the seed filled water, for cleaning, oops). So the whole bread thing really gets to me. If you pay attention to your French dinner companions, you will see that the bread does not go on the plate, it goes on the table to the side. It is then used to aid in the sopping up of sauces left over. If, by chance, you are eating it with the starter, you must rip off tiny pieces and eat discreetly. </div><div><br /></div><div>Before that, Gui Gui and I had been talking, and he asked me again, "So do you feel like things are that different here?" "I don't even know anymore, but as I've said before, it's always the differences in the little things that throw you off balance." Because that Saturday night, I was drinking the same wine, eating the same food, and speaking the same language, with my bread on my plate, because I'll be dammed if I forget 24 years of my parents telling me to keep my food on my plate.</div><div><br /></div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-59682288918331137042011-09-17T03:25:00.000-07:002011-09-17T04:07:22.028-07:00Les AnglophonesSo you know how I get all pissy and uppity when the French talk to me in English? This goes both ways for the English speakers who speak to me in French. I know what you're thinking, you're in France, speak French, dammit! But, it's a little more complex.<div><br /></div><div>The one thing I really dislike about speaking French, is not being able vary my vocabulary. In English I can be much more specific and dramatic when I describe things. One of my greatest pleasures, is recounting stories with hyperbole. I can't really do this with Gui Gui, because the exaggeration doesn't always cross the language barrier. </div><div><br /></div><div>The other reason I refuse to speak French, is that it invariably turns into a pissing contest. </div><div>Person A"So, do you speak French?"</div><div>Person B "We jay parlay parfetment frahnsay." Or worse-"Yeah I took two years in high school, so I'm pretty much fluent."</div><div><br /></div><div>False. </div><div><br /></div><div>Or maybe they do actually speak it, but it can occasionally turn into this conversation. </div><div>Person A-"Ouais, hier j'ai fait une cuite." </div><div>Person B (internally)-<i>What the hell is a cuite? If I admit I don't know, they'll think I don't speak French. </i>(outloud) "Uhh, j'aime bien les cuites..."</div><div>Person A-(internally) <i>This jackass doesn't speak French! </i>Cool! Moi aussi!</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Anyway, it gets worse because while I still make many mistakes in French/sound like a FOB, I have a good grasp on what's right, and what's wrong, which brings us to the next problem, is correcting other non native French speaker's French. I don't ever really do it, unless it's a big mistake. The other day, I was with this awkward little German boy, who speaks little to no French. We were speaking in English, but he was testing out his French, and said "Je ne parle français pas." This is a pretty big no-no, the pas always follows the verb, to make it negative, so I gently told him the grammar rule. His reaction? "No, you're wrong, that's definitely how you say it." </div><div>...Right, anyway, I got my other friend to explain to him that indeed, the pas always follows the verb. My point is, while it's good to practice the fluidity with which you speak, you wont ever polish up your French if you keep making the same mistakes with Anglophones. You might as well cut your losses and enjoy speaking your native language with fellow foreigners.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not alone on this mentality and last night I went out for a drink with some new Au Pairs and a couple of ones that were here last year. The veterans were sitting down when the newbies walked up to us and said something in (incorrect) French. The three of us looked at eachother and said "Why the hell did she just speak to us in French?" </div><div><br /></div><div>This is an anglo table, speak English!</div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-1327471343183988532011-09-17T03:06:00.000-07:002011-09-17T03:16:01.785-07:00Kidnapped!<div>A month ago my friend Ali left a corkscrew at Gui Gui's house. She's been adamant about getting it back, and Gui Gui has been adamant about ignoring her. We finally found it yesterday, and as she's in California for a few weeks, we took a series of incriminating pictures, here's the best.<div><br /></div><div>Voila--</div></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt2Ktz7cqDH0oOqTlpOhCPl1xyPBTlN8iog6V5fe9wSCQVYQukGhITvvSDy1bTLo5XJcP_sxcWSY-P8GAV84elRO3Ewrj6jsJcFjK1s6bEZkZCmIX1mlBzalxWEObb5dTBy6E0e9eHrlzv/s1600/331908_10100448680851833_6221850_54664076_927195217_o.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt2Ktz7cqDH0oOqTlpOhCPl1xyPBTlN8iog6V5fe9wSCQVYQukGhITvvSDy1bTLo5XJcP_sxcWSY-P8GAV84elRO3Ewrj6jsJcFjK1s6bEZkZCmIX1mlBzalxWEObb5dTBy6E0e9eHrlzv/s400/331908_10100448680851833_6221850_54664076_927195217_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5653269901202630546" /></a><br /><br /><div><br /></div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-4871587215628224722011-09-06T12:13:00.000-07:002011-09-06T23:27:57.738-07:00Hugo<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwu_8LTwDTWQDX6yVCFCBWNc_gDND63LLv_HH1vLaR9lTdn1-ExV5LIwxBuKMShLP5Fx-ZQmiLTAh_EN3ch6Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><div><br /></div><div>This is proof that the grass will always be greener. The preceding was a clip of Gui Gui's nephew, Hugo. Hugo is three and a half and lives at the house. Gui Gui was putting him to bed and this conversation ensued. I have translated it for the non francophones.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: small; ">G-What's the question you asked?<div>H-Something something doudou</div><div>G-No, about Robin</div><div>H- Is she's going to sleep here?</div><div>G- If she's sleeping here? You like her?</div><div>H-Yeah but, not that much, not thaat much</div><div>G-Why not that much You like her? But not much?</div><div>H-Beehhh</div><div>G-Why not? She's nice with you, you even asked when she was coming back, that means you must like her.</div><div>H-Yeah but when's she coming back. Did she say she was coming back? </div><div>G-Yeah</div><div>H-What is she doing at her house?</div><div>G-She works at her house.</div><div>Pause</div><div>G-Okay, sleep well.</div><div>H-But Robin!</div><div>G-She's not here</div><div>H-Can you call her?</div><div>G-You want me to call her? Why do you want me to call her? I'm going to see her soon. You want to see her tonight?</div><div>Grunt</div><div>G-That means you want must like her</div><div>H-I want to see her!</div><div>Fin</div></span></div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-87797358271075666302011-09-06T04:00:00.001-07:002011-09-06T04:05:28.380-07:00Having Friends OverOne of the best surprises an au pair can have are playdates. The kids entertain themselves, and you have no guilt when they spend an afternoon happily locked up in their bedrooms playing with whoever. As Madame S came downstairs and told me that we had adopted three more children for the afternoon, I did a silent cheer and went upstairs to see what the boys wanted for lunch. Mdme S's mother is in town and said to me, "Why are all these children over? Is it a special occasion?" To which I responded "No, they're just over here to hang out." "But now you have to make them all lunch!"<div><br /></div><div>I looked down at the pasta boiling, and the jarred spaghetti sauce in my hands and thought, "I'm alright with it."</div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-90121421070731361562011-09-04T08:09:00.001-07:002011-09-04T08:09:25.287-07:00Bipolar Paris, or Bad Luck?If I was an author, looking for an allegory to show how quickly one's luck can change, I would probably start with a scene in a Parisian summer. The sun is shining, and its just a few degrees from being too hot. Our heroes are three anglophones. They find themselves in a park drinking Fanta and huge bottles of water. The park is filled with families, babies, nannies, and hookers. Our heroes are enjoying the sunshine before they break off to profit from a Happy Hour. They walk to Pigalle and find an Australian place with an expensive Happy Hour, but Happy Hour nontheless. They sip their beers and continue to sweat.<div>
<br /></div><div>It's dinnertime and the three foreigners head across the street for some cheap crepes. Ecstatically munching away they board the metro. Three stops later, they get off, and the Auburn one reaches in her purse to check the time.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>No phone. The darker blonde one calls her phone fruitlessly. Alas, she has been pickpocketed. The three put their heads together and become aware how they had made themselves targets. Line 2, crepe eating, English speaking, they didn't have a chance. The auburn haired one is upset, but the situation will be sorted out. They walk the other blonde's apartment.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>"Oh shit," says the dark blonde, "it's raining."</div><div>"Oh shit," say the other two, "it's raining really hard."</div><div>
<br /></div><div>The three jump under an awning and "wait it out," it doesn't stop, and finally they throw caution (and dryness) to the wind and go into the rain. They take a deep breath (it's raining hard enough that they were scared of drowning) sprint off in the direction of a Franprix. The Auburn, in her deteriorating luck, breaks the strap of her sandles, which renders them useless. She pulls them off and turns the corner full speed in direction of Franprix's impressive selection of liquor.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>As she can't come inside shoeless, the other two go in, soaking, and get several "Beh oui, il pleur"s, "Ho la la," and other assinine comments about their appearance.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>The three make it into an apartment and strip half naked in the hallway. Two new outfits, one new pair of shoes, and several glasses of vodka later, the two Americans of the group went off to meet with a friend. They landed at a bar in Oberkampf, an incredibly sweaty and loud bar stuffed with young gentlemen eager to cop a feel. After batting them away sometimes violently, the Auburn one turns to the other and says "Robin, would you believe me if I told you my shoe broke? At this point, the redhead lost it, and wanted to leave. To make the situation even more painful, they missed the last train and had to walk an extra ten minutes, barefoot, once again, towards the friends apartment.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>They end up dancing to Lady Gaga and jumping on the three or four futons in the apartment, laughing until they drift off to sleep.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>The theme would be to show how quickly things can go from happy and well, to dog soakingly wet and miserable. Paris has this magical ability to break you down, and bring you right back up again, within hours. Maybe you could say the city is not a living breathing thing, that it's the people you find yourself with, and it shouldnt matter where you are. Maybe, but you can't deny that this damn city has something about it that makes it damn hard to quit.</div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-29345757209674932752011-08-19T00:40:00.000-07:002011-08-19T01:07:51.080-07:00HeistI don't know why I think going to Paris on a Thursday night is ever a good idea, but Gui Gui and I have this adorable habit of blatantly lying to each other. We say things like "Oh yeah, we'll definitely come back before one," and "I'll only have one beer." I think deep down I know this, and in last night's case, it ended up being worth it.<div>
<br /></div><div>His cousin has just received his five year visa (!!) for the US, so they were out celebrating. I've met Louis only one time before, so although I had no reason to celebrate, I was feeling very French and in a wave of solidarity, drank to his luck. Anyway, we ended up in Odeon at this crappy bar that I tend to frequent, mainly because it has 3 euro pints of St. Omer, which is a steal. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>The whole family had come out, Gui Gui's brother Adrien, sister Mathilde, and his sister's friend Caro, this adorable French girl who lives up the street and lived in the US while she was a baby. I look over at Mathilde and see her stashing pint glasses in her bag. "What the hell are you guys doing?" "Taking glasses," they said bursting out laughing. "Why?" I said after I watched the third one slip in.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>"Our dad really likes these pint glasses and his birthday is coming up soon, so we're going to give these to him."</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Mathilde made it out with I dont know how many glasses, and Gui Gui made it out with another one wrapped in his jacket.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Criminals.</div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-83632580970658469842011-08-07T09:34:00.000-07:002011-08-07T10:07:47.483-07:00Coming Home Again-Refinding my Inner-AmericanI'm writing this stateside, on an American keyboard. Over a year ago, in one of my first posts I wrote a disclaimer apologizing for my poor spelling, as I was adjusting to the French keyboard. Guess what? I'm back at square one. If I wasnt so sedated from the heat, I would most likely be cursing with every keystroke.<br /><br />It's ironic to find myself so out of sorts in my own country. All the little things I've forgotten about are coming back like suddenly remembering that I had to tip at the bar, and after overhearing a conversation last night, I remembered that sales tax exists. I got into my parents pick up truck on Friday and almost threw out my left leg looking for the clutch (it's automatic).<br /><br />I'm also falling right back into old habits. I've rediscovered that primoridal Virginian part of my brain that can actually handle the summertime heat and humidity, even when exercising. I have a couple runs that I've done since I was sixteen-- a two mile, three mile, five mile, and six mile. I did the three mile run today and just ran without thinking. In France (<em>when</em> I run) I spend more time looking around and getting lost, but here I just went through everything going on in my life and suddenly found myself back on Waterway. It was so instinctual, I barely remember it. I came back to my house and turned on the TV to do sit ups and push ups, things that I will admit happens too far and in between in France.<br /><br />It's nice. But I have the little voice in the back of my brain warning me not to become too comfortable. Because it's only a week til I have to refind my American in France.An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-3974927879722727812011-08-02T02:48:00.000-07:002011-08-02T06:08:07.004-07:00More Myth BustingSo people often tell me that the Americans drink harder than the French. I can't really figure out who has this idea that in any Western country, there aren't people in their mid twenties getting tipsy. The last few weeks have featured copious amounts of beer, wine, and the occasional hard alcohol. <div><br /></div><div>Last night for example, I passed up Paris, since I was tired from the night before. Gui Gui and I decided to make paella (which was more of a risotto with seafood) and hang out at home together. Around eight, Joris showed up, straight from the office. He proclaimed he would be staying for dinner, and a bottle of wine was opened. Somewhere in the next hour people started coming in. And before we knew it the table was littered with bottles, and people were coupled around a "microphone" (read: broom) singing French songs at top voice. </div><div><br /></div><div>I feel like I'm living in a frat house.</div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-89312925528345393492011-07-29T06:16:00.001-07:002011-07-29T06:47:52.421-07:00Vacation, and other Religions in FranceOne of the most important things to understand in French culture, above the food, above the wine, above the strikes, is the concept of vacation. The French pride themselves in being reasonable and not involving religion with the government. This is true, if we're speaking of Christianity, and Islam (the burqa thing was not anti-Islam, but anti-religion in public buildings, in my opinion) What we are forgetting is the real French dogma--the mandatory vacation rights that are included in every employment contract.<div><br /></div><div>Let's compare shall we?</div><div>Smalltown, USA.</div><div>Scene-A couple is searching for a place to eat lunch. It's July, its hot, and as it's only 2 pm, it will be for a while. They park their car (for free) stop in any store and use the bathroom, and then find a restaurant fifteen seconds later. They have lunch, maybe sandwiches, or salads, drink their reasonably priced soft drinks, use the bathroom, with toilet paper, once more, pay their tab, leave a tip, and head off to do a little shopping. On their way out they see a sign that says the hours, "10 am-10 pm every day but Sunday, which is 11-9."</div><div><br /></div><div>Petiteville, France</div><div>Scene-A Franco American couple is searching for a place to eat lunch. It's July, it's freezing and raining, and as it's already 2 pm, it probably wont get any warmer. They park their car, pay the meter, and quickly look for a restaurant, as the girl has to use the bathroom. They find a <i>brasserie</i> which serves only baguette sandwiches. They ask if there's another restaurant, and they are directed down the road. Hopeful, they see a sign outside offering the Menu which is a drink, entrée and dessert for a reasonable 11 euros. Even more encouraging, there are people eating. The couple asks if they are still serving, the response, coupled with a look of horror, is "Mais non, pas de tout." "No, not at all!" Hunger making them faint, they ask if there's anywhere open now. They are directed back up the road to the original <i>brasserie</i>, and as they walk out the door they are reminded that "Vous ete pas a Paris, eh?" "You aren't in Paris anymore." They walk back up and order baguette sandwiches of smoked ham, which is basically jamon iberico, (can't remember what it is in English, sorry). They order a half pint of beer, and a bottle of coca cola, which is priced more than the two sandwiches together. They finish their meal and to fit in with all the other people hanging around, buy a lottery ticket. At the last minute the girl decides to use the bathroom, again. She changes her mind when she remembers there's not actually a toilet, but a place for feet, and a hole in the ground. As the couple leaves they hear the owner say "I'm leaving on vacation next week and won't open again until September."</div><div><br /></div><div>A year ago, this situation probably would have shocked and angered me, now it's just yet another minor difference that I have come to live with. Gui Gui, without batting an eye conceded that "Well, it's normal, it's summer time in a small village, of course everyone has abandoned their places of residence and are on vacation." </div><div><br /></div><div>The key, is simply to be prepared. Have a flight in August? Don't rely on a bus to take you there, hitchiking is probably a safer choice, with at least a fifty percent chance of success. Plan your boulangerie trips, if you check the town hall, there should be a list of each bakery with their planned vacation, same with most restaurants, and tabacs. Grow a garden, plant a vineyard, and start learning how to create your own lightbulbs (and biofuel, while you're at it) not only will you have a thriving hobby to occupy yourself as there's nothing open in August, you can become completely self sufficient (and maybe even ask the government to subsidize you!) You should probably also seek degrees in medicine, pharmacology, and auto mechanics.</div><div><br /></div><div>Inconvenient you say? Hell yes, but preparation is key. The thing to understand, and the pretty sweet thing about French society is the sense of equality. So what if I just drive a taxi, or own a pub, I am just as entitled as you are, banker, engineer, teacher, working professional, to have my four weeks of vacation. </div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-17849184113040099542011-07-26T02:37:00.000-07:002011-08-02T06:09:48.137-07:00Color blind, Accent deaf<div>In 2007, about two weeks after I got back from Argentina, I went to get one of my parent's cars fixed. I walk in to see a 40 year old blonde woman getting into it with the Arab employee. He had been working there as long as I can remember, and although he was clearly not born in Dumfries, he speaks English perfectly, albeit with an accent. Before she left, to finish the argument, she yelled nastily "And learn how to speak English." Call me crazy, but I was pretty sure this woman doesn't speak Arabic (I'm generalizing), so why would she feel the need to say this? Because he speaks differently. To back herself up, the lady turns to me with a "Know what I'm sayin'" face. I just looked at her. I know I look like some white bread American girl, but I'm not a racist, thank you very much. Not to mention, I had just experienced the same mentality in South America. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I'm going to confess, that nothing bothers me more than seeing/hearing people in the United States say "And NO one spoke English!" Wrong, they do, you just aren't taking the time to understand their accent. I don't think a lot of people understand just how international English has become. And that's lucky for us, almost anywhere I go in the world, I can be reasonably sure that I will hear a heavily accented "We are four, please" at a restaurant in Germany, or "I look for beer" in the Czech Republic. It's the reason the French, as we're speaking in French, ask me if I speak French. So guess what, people, everywhere you go, you will encounter different kinds of English (I couldn't understand fifty percent of the people in Scotland), so get the hell over it and listen to the words. </div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-23065158947412499632011-07-24T15:00:00.000-07:002011-07-24T15:10:53.562-07:00Love, RedefinedI'm pretty sure I figured out how you know you're in love. You find a whopping FOUR ticks on your legs, and your significant other spends an hour going over your entire body with tweezers and rubbing alcohol to help you pry those blood suckers off of you.<div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah, my two week summer camp that I just finished with, paid me not only in cash, but with a death cough, and a variety of new friends that have been mooching off of my blood. Yesterday, when I found the three ticks on my legs I wasn't all that surprised, we spent several hours a day wandering through the woods. Then I found the fourth one after we got back from the pub. Gui Gui graciously laid me down on the couch and pulled that bastard out. Fearing the worst, he combed through all of my hair (not finding anything, fortunately) and stripped his sheets when I admitted that one may or may not have escaped before I could off it. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sure there's some ancient proverb that equates love with mite removal, I'll let you know when I find it.</div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-38538596512844148362011-07-23T04:23:00.001-07:002011-07-23T04:40:09.799-07:00Su casa es mi casa? Et rien faireThis morning I woke up (kind of) to Gui Gui leaving for work (He got a summer job! Woohoo!) His parents were also leaving for vacation, and two of their children were at home. Because I'm too lazy to get dressed and head back to my house, I was watching CSI and drinking coffee in Gui Gui's bed. Outside the door I hear Gui Gui's dad say "Elle est ou Robin?" and his mom reply "Dans sa chambre." "Where's Robin?" "In her room." Then a knock at the door and JC (the initials of his dad's very French name, not Jesus Christ) and he hands me 50 euros to "share" with Gui Gui, his brother and sister.<div><div><br /></div><div>Yes I am aware that I am 24, and some might call it strange, even pathetic that I'm essentially living with my boyfriend's parents, but it's nice to feel comfortable somewhere. It's not that I'm unwelcome chez Franco-American, but things are always different when your rolls aren't really defined. Example, this week the kiddies and the mom are in England, so it's just me and the father of the family. I've been working at a summer camp, (which has been both refreshing and demoralizing,) so I leave before N wakes up and leave again for the evening before he get's home from work. However, we do occasionally see eachother. Last night, for example I was making a tarte au oignon, which I offered to him. He was going out, so we didn't end up eating together, but we did take a few moments to chat. We talked about which groceries I had bought in the fridge and I offered to continue to do his laundry, although I'm not technically getting paid. Of course I don't really mind, because they're letting me stay for free, but the problem is knowing if I should or not. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>I feel that they respect my boundaries, and I hope they understand that I don't want to be antisocial, but I do like to have my personal space. On the weekends, I spend my time in my room, not because I don't like the family, but just because I like to have my alone time, to do what I want (which usually involves internet tv and Swedish suspense novels), because while when I was younger I always wanted to be surrounded by people, now I find that solitude fits me. During the school year, I essentially am working from 7 am to 10 pm. Granted, it's just school and shipping children around, but it's still me having to interact with people. So when I have a few hours before I see Gui Gui or go out with my friends, I can do nothing, and not feel like I wasted my day.</div><div><br />When I'm at Chez Gui Gui, we can sit in his room the whole day, watching American Dad and talking, and there's no awkwardness. It's nice.</div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-45191528549620734382011-06-23T00:49:00.000-07:002011-06-23T01:04:43.868-07:00Fais-ing DodoI went over to Gui Gui's house yesterday. It's Wednesday, and I have at least one child all day, except between 2 and 4, so we've taken up the habit of having a coffee together, or taking a walk. Yesterday, we were both very tired from La Fete de la Musique, which is held each year on June 21st and features music in random places. We had walked around St. G for a while and had a drink at our favorite bar and consequently, I wasn't home until around one, which is now considered late for me. <div><br /></div><div>We decided to take a quick nap, so we went upstairs and laid down. Gui Gui begins by taking all of the covers, all three pillows and his teddy bear (don't ask me why a 24 year old still has one) and curls up on the other side of the bed. Knowing this was just to provoke a reaction, and as I was exhausted I close my eyes and try and to sleep anyway. </div><div><br /></div><div>I managed to drift off, which is impressive as the window was wide open, so there was noise, and the shutters were cracked, so there was sunlight. And Gui Gui knows that I complain about both. (I have sleeping problems, which is part of the reason I'm always tired.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I feel a presence in front of my face. I open my eyes. Gui Gui's holding his hand over my face. "Quest ce-que tu fais?"</div><div>"Je te bloque le soleil!"</div><div><br /></div><div>"What are you doing?"</div><div>"I'm blocking the sun for you!"</div><div><br /></div><div>I rolled over and I hear him get up. He comes back and tells me to "Ferme bien les yeux" and I feel little stickers over my eyelids. He had taken post-its and were attaching them to my eyeballs.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is what I love about Gui Gui. I can't ever really be mad at him, because he makes me laugh all the time. Here I am, grumpy and all I want to do is sleep for fifteen minutes, but I can't because my boyfriend is trying to be "helpful."</div><div><br /></div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-71457136844971189182011-06-14T06:41:00.000-07:002011-06-14T06:48:24.838-07:00Disturbing StoriesOn the way home from school this afternoon, I got to talking with one of SA's friends, E. Somehow the conversation drifted towards safety, and we started discussing how it is important to be careful after dark, and to never walk alone.<div><br /></div><div>E then began telling me stories about getting harassed by men in Paris, and different bizarre things she's seen. The girl is eleven. She's a pretty child, but dresses her age, there would be no way to mistake her as being older, yet she's telling me about these perverts on the streets who have harassed her. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, this happens to my friends and I often, (I got into a shouting match last weekend with some drunk guy who didnt like being asked if he'd ever had a bottle smashed in his face) but although occasionally frightening, is usually amusing in the end.</div><div><br /></div><div>I know this stuff happens in the US, I'm sure I've seen it happen before, but hearing it first hand from a child just rubbed me the wrong way. How dare these freaks target little girls like that. I don't care if it's a joke, or they don't realize how old she is, it's disgusting, and it makes me hate them even more.</div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-59287246870221200792011-06-11T03:15:00.000-07:002011-06-11T03:22:07.539-07:00Eating Habits, Illustrated!<div>As I snuck into my house this morning, starving, it occured to me how random my meals have become, especially when it's only me. I had an omelette because it's Saturday, and we've already discussed how I love me some American breakfasts on the weekend. But it did occur to me that the content of my weekend omelettes has changed. So I submit another meager illustration, be kind, world.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRhh1a0ezo3IzbX6_A3btStv848HMB0Tp09JZom1RQxQwe_xfMyJLSnEse-nEMVxdRvVG4i2zJf-ceAHX44AsnmuurHJRPVCKMZYxkXGyzPIToI1b7GxKUB4AXEfjh00ttkBCaPpQH2Rwf/s1600/omelette.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 393px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRhh1a0ezo3IzbX6_A3btStv848HMB0Tp09JZom1RQxQwe_xfMyJLSnEse-nEMVxdRvVG4i2zJf-ceAHX44AsnmuurHJRPVCKMZYxkXGyzPIToI1b7GxKUB4AXEfjh00ttkBCaPpQH2Rwf/s400/omelette.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616904818088865794" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>*Foie gras means "fat liver," I think it's usually duck or goose. It's delcious, but inhumane and illegal in the US. Fattening the liver requires force feeding the animals by shoving a tube down their throat.</div><div>**Made of olives, vegetarian friendly, and delicious as well.</div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-7201918375242835312011-06-06T13:03:00.000-07:002011-06-06T13:08:53.760-07:00Breaking and EnteringIn France, the most complicated answer, is frequently the solution.<div><br /></div><div>Example:</div><div>Scene: La Rochelle, second floor of the apartment of Couch Surfing Saudi</div><div>Players: Ali, Yours Truly</div><div>Ali calls me to the balcony</div><div>A-I did a betise...</div><div>I look down to see her bathing suit on the ground floor terrace.</div><div>Me-Oh shit.</div><div>A-Should we go downstairs and knock?</div><div>Me-Nah, the wall isn't that high, we can definitely hop it. It'll be easier to break in.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sure enough, down we went, to find the wall up to the terrace about four feet high. I gave Ali a leg up, and she hopped over and grabbed the bathing suit triumphantly. We went back upstairs and celebrated by opening our third bottle of wine.</div><div><br /></div><div>We found out later than Tham (the Saudi) had never actually seen anyone in that apartment, so we can assume it's vacant.</div><div><br /></div><div>Win for the Americans.</div><div><br /></div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-77784451042386356712011-06-05T08:53:00.000-07:002011-06-05T09:33:32.933-07:00Musings<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-ansi-language: EN-US">I won't apologize for this:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-ansi-language: EN-US">They set out on bikes, eager to get away from the family, to be alone, and to see the beauty of the countryside.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was hot, and she sweated in her cotton dress, her bangs sticking to her face.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The village was flat, and she was pleased to move around.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She had been in the car for several hours to get there, they had taken a roundabout way, following the backroads.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Now she was on the bike and her muscled flexed and moved as she pedaled at an agreeable pace.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-ansi-language: EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Putain,” there really isn’t anything out here, is there?” he said in French, “It’s really hard to believe how close we are to Paris.” And it was true, they were only 60 kilometers out from the bustling city, but here, there was no one.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They stopped to look at the grains, growing in straight lines as far as the eye could see.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-ansi-language: EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“I bet you’re the second American to ever be in this village, after my aunt.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-ansi-language: EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“I doubt that, I’m sure there were some when they passed through during the war.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-ansi-language: EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>He laughed, conceding “Okay, but the second one in the last fifty years.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Except for my phone,” he continued, “It could be 1935 here, just before the war, couldn’t it?” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-ansi-language: EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>They stopped the bikes and dismounted, taking pictures of each other posing and laughing together.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>After a moment she kissed him, leaning against him and she could smell his sweat.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-ansi-language: EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Shhh, listen to the silence.” She breathed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-ansi-language: EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>They stood there holding each other and listened to the barely sway back and forth, making a shushing noise as the stalks moved in the wind.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There were birds in the distance, and every so often, the noise of a car travelled across the field.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The sky was clear blue, of French blue as it’s called, and the clouds looked as they were painted in the sky.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Across the fields she could see small bosquettes, dark green contrasting with the golden color of the wheat.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-ansi-language: EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Her mind drifted.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What would it have been like, just before the war?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She could rest assured that the village had been there, but she wondered if fighting had happened close to where they were.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Her grandfather had been here, when he was her same age.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But he sure as hell hadn’t been having dinner with the French, and watching their children like she was.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-ansi-language: EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Europe, she thought, must have been like the Middle East is to her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When her grandfather was 24 could he have possibly imagined the EU, and all the diplomacy between the nations?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Did he think his granddaughter would be walking along the same beaches on which he had seen so much death?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Or passing freely, country to country, completely alone?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-ansi-language: EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>She felt a flash of optimism for the world, and turning back to her Frenchman, she kissed him again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-1459272819012942412011-05-29T15:19:00.000-07:002011-05-29T15:27:29.675-07:00Waiting for the 14Woosh woosh went the metro doors, and I stood there waiting, he wasn't there yet. I went back to my bench, turned open my book, and looked up at the screen impatiently. One minute 45 seconds until the next one. I turned the pages steadily. Woosh Woosh, once again, and the noise of people evacuating somberly, excitedly, engrossed in their iphones, talking with friends, or stumbling with obvious swagger of 1664.<div><br /></div><div>Still not there, and three more minutes until the next train. Woosh Woosh, again, and I looked up to see the people shuffling off the train while the others pressed back slightly, anxious to get on. A young Arab girl came hurtling down the steps, throwing herself onto the train, just as the alarms went, and the doors closed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Four minutes to the next one, I noticed and sighed, looking at my watch. This was of course the pain that I would pay for always being early, I was always the one left waiting. My book opened again and I fell back into the story.</div><div><br /></div><div>I could smell his cologne before I saw him. I looked up and saw him standing, facing away from me, looking around searching. Woosh woosh went the metro doors, and suddenly afraid, I stepped on the train and left, before he caught sight of me.</div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7277119434788610788.post-16803868338791344402011-05-26T23:46:00.000-07:002011-05-27T00:24:24.046-07:00The End?I haven't been writing much lately, instead I've been reflecting and pondering. I think that I'm at the end of the line here, living in someone else's home, infiltrating someone's family. I'm thinking more and more about the United States, not because I want to leave France, but because I need to get away from my job. I don't hate it really, I just don't love it, and the indifference and lack of enthusiasm I feel about, well everything, is starting to take it's toll.<div><br /></div><div>If you've never done anything like this, you don't know just how demeaning it can get. I am fully aware that kids can be mean and abusive, and that's fine, until you sit back and say, "Am I seriously taking abuse as a daily part of my choice of employment?" It's even more upsetting, because as I start to look at other jobs, it seems impossible. I say I'm joking about finding a European Passport, but it's getting a little more serious.</div><div><br /></div><div>So what am I doing? Sending my resume out to everyone I come across. I guess if I don't find anything in the next few months, it's back to the Etas Unis, and the beginning the 40 year adventure that is "the real world."</div><div><br /></div><div>Hm, seems even more daunting/depressing when I put it that way.</div>An American Au Pairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04133175945316172866noreply@blogger.com0