The Louvre and Its Amazingness, Dinner with Assistants

I spent all of today in Paris with Sam (finally, it only took one month!) and her friend Whitney at the Louvre. All I can say is: OMGTHELOUVREISAMAZING. Yes, in one word. I was in heaven!

We met in le carrousel which is the underground portion underneath the glass pyramid at around 11 am and proceeded to try our luck with the purchasing of tickets. Sam has successfully obtained her passe d'education, which is the amazing card that assistants get as teachers and that permits us to access all museums and national monuments free of charge. Unfortunately, my schools haven't been so speedy on helping me to obtain one, so I opted instead to buy la carte louvre jeunes for 15 euros. Basically, since I'm under 26, I get cheap unlimited access to the Louvre for one whole year. For 15 euros. Not bad methinks!


Whitney was able to obtain her ticket free of charge as well with her passport since we all are *technically* French residents with long stay visas, and the Louvre is free for residents. Since I'm paranoid and don't like to carry my passport around, I didn't think to do this. Nonetheless, I had a lovely chat with the lady who set up my card and (theme of the year...) was told I speak French very well. Since I now have unlimited access to this fantastic, fantastic institution, I now have something to occupy my time if there is ever a strike and I don't have to teach at school. I hope this will allow me to see a vast chunk of the Louvre's collections this year.

After acquiring access to the Louvre, Sam, Whitney and I wandered at leisure. The Louvre in and of itself is a work of art--the floors and ceilings are incredible. One of the things I love most about Europe is that everything has history, and I often find myself imagining what a particular building or park or street must have looked liked 100, 200, even 400 years ago. I was doing this with the Louvre as we wandered its corridors, thinking about how the castle must have appeared when it was someone's home, what each room must have looked liked furnished, how many hidden spots there must have been for children to play hide and seek.

This is the kind of person I am, and I like to think about the details no one else thinks about: how many chairs were in each room? What sorts of things were hung on the walls? How did they ever heat the palace? How many servants were there?

I admit I did the same thing with the art, and I'm in complete awe of what I saw. I don't know how anyone can look at a chunk of marble and know exactly where to chisel to sculpt a face, a particular curve in the hip, a gesture. The same is true of painting: how did painters ever learn to create so much depth and life on a 2-D surface? I feel as if I could walk into some of the paintings I saw.

We ate lunch for a break and then wandered upstairs and looked at some of the rooms which were furnished with items from the 1500-1600s, and so naturally, I jumped up and down and squealed like a five year old. Because of my penchant for the past, there is nothing I love more to see historical buildings appropriately furnished, and this was a real treat. I even saw Henri II's armor!

Needless to say, there is much more to be seen. Today was spent primarily on the Grecian Antiquities, the Italian painters (oh lord, the Mona Lisa, dite La Jaconde...was surrounded by a million and one people!), the more famous items (Nike of Samothrace [!!!!!],
the Venus de Milo, Eugene Delacroix's Liberty Leading the People), and some of the French painters in both the Sully and Denon wings. The Richelieu wing still needs to be tackled, as does all of the 17th century collections. The Louvre and I will be good friends, I forsee.

After the Louvre, Sam, Whitney, and I went to a fellow assistant's apartment in the 10th and ate grilled veggies and meat for dinner, along with some great wine and cheese. Said fellow assistant lives with a mutual friend who happens to be a native and a financial analyst. He worked for a year in Canada and two years in New York city, and (common theme, methinks?) LOVES AMERICA. The poor fellow came back to the apartment later in the evening after working for some of the day and spoke excellent English. He was also naturally charming, and cute. We will see about this one...

A toute a l'heure, mes amis.

Being an Au Pair is like Bootcamp for Motherhood

Dead serious about the title there. Right now it's La Toussaint vacation. La Toussaint, in English, is known as All Saints Day, and is celebrated on the first of November. In terms of religion, it's the day when Catholics celebrate all those who have achieved saint-hood and the "beatific vision" in Heaven. I'd say France has become a more "Catholic by tradition and culture" than "Catholic by practice," nation, but nonetheless, French school children and *ahem* school employees get nearly two weeks off for this lovely holiday.

Upside: I have two weeks of paid vacation.
Downside: My host mom was assigned a last minute flight to Toronto (she works for Air France) and I've been cooped up in a beautiful house in Saint-Germain-en-Laye with three children. And yes, I am half ready to kill (not literally) all of them. *Introduce panicked scream here*

I've decided that being an au pair is like going to ranger school for motherhood. It's INSTANT immersion, no buts about it--it's as if I instantly have a 12 year old, a 9 year old, and a 5 year old without the (minor detail) whole finding-Mr.Right-getting-married-birthing-process thing.

These kids fight incessantly, love each other one minute, hit each other the next, and argue over stupid keychain sized pink flashlights they find in the attic.

They hate every single thing you put on their plate, unless of course it's Nutella or something that will immediately induce Diabetes Types I and II with a side of heart attack to go. Or Butter. I say "butter" with a capital B because around here, butter is HOLY. These kids probably eat around 4 sticks of Butter a week. Last week they went through 60 slices of bread. If I were a loaf of bread in this house, I'd fear for my life. Really.

The only thing that makes a French kid eat his or her vegetables is the eternal threat of "tu ne veux pas grossir," roughly translated as "you don't want to get fat," because if there's anything worse here than being hit with the Ugly Stick, it's being hit with the Fat Stick.

Toys are left around the house listlessly and then forgotten, only to be searched for two days later.

Bread crumbs are always scattered around the kitchen for sweeping; and just when you think you've some peace, said 12 year old and 5 year old are arguing at 11:30 at night over what side of the king sized bed they've decided to share for the evening they will get. Naturally, this wakes you up. After a nonstop day of cooking, cleaning, and child care. And after you've gone to sleep an hour earlier. Because you're taking the 9 year old to Paris at 8:00 in the morning for minor dental surgery. Ugh.

To put the icing on top of the cake, these children have absolutely no responsibilities around the house aside from homework. Am I remembering wrongly that I had chores as a kid? Did I imagine that? I thought I had responsibilities other than homework...guess I'm going to have to consult the madre and padre on that one.

Don't get me wrong--I love the kids dearly. This is not a hateful rant. This is more to say that I have come to a couple of conclusions, some of which I had concluded before, but am much more adamant about now:

1) OH GAWD MOTHER I AM SO SORRY. If you are reading this, I don't know how the hell you did it. I don't know how the hell ANY mother does it. Being a parent is HARD work. I apologize post-haste for anything and everything I ever did that drove you up the mother effing wall. You must have had some serious patience. Hell, you probably still have serious patience. Hell, I just said hell way too many times!

2) I never want to be a strictly stay at home mom. I will go insane. You know, the "completely off my fucking rocker I need a lobotomy" type of insane. I have IMMENSE amounts of respect for all the stay at home moms out there. You are gods. You should be rewarded. With Tiffany diamonds, four month cruises to the Caribbean, and castles with a full-time waitstaff. Oh lord.

3) I DO NOT want children of my own ANY TIME SOON. Repeat: DO NOT WANT.

4) If and when I do have kids, whenever that may or may not happen in the very distant future, they will most likely hate me, because I will probably be a strict parent. In their best interest, of course. Maybe in some weird strange future universe blogs like this will be saved and they'll read this. That's an even scarier thought...

Thank God host mom returns tomorrow. *Cue dramatic music*

Paris for Coffee, grad school musings, and La Toussaint

Yesterday I went to Paris to get coffee with the French guy I met at the housewarming I mentioned in a previous post. We met up at the Place Saint-Michel in the middle of the Latin quarter, which is quickly becoming my favorite, if not one of my favorite, portions of the city. I must admit this is probably because the Latin quarter is the heart of all things academic in Paris, not to mention it's perched across the Seine from Notre Dame, and the cafes and shops are quaint and wonderful.

I arrived about an hour earlier than our agreed upon time of 3, so instead I ate an egg crepe for a late lunch and wandered about in Gibert Joseph, which is the key supplier of all things book related to the Sorbonne (Paris IV, or the historic University of Paris), the New Sorbonne (Paris III), and the Ecole Normale Superieure (ENS). Paris restructured its public university system a while back, so while the Sorbonne (the one that's been around since, oh, the 13th century) is now Paris IV, there's also Paris III. The University of Paris 3 and 4 deal strictly with the humanities, while for example, 5 focuses on Math, Law, and social sciences. Why this partitioning exists I know not, but alas, it does. This partioning has translated over to its bookshop, which is spread across five smaller shops or so bordering the Place Saint-Michel. They're hard to miss considering their awnings are bright yellow.

I went to the first shop to buy a new "lifebook." My lifebook is what keeps me sane. I put all kinds of important "life" information in there--useful phone numbers, addresses, daily to do lists, and as of the moment, essential information for applying to the aforementioned universities. Apparently if you want to find lined, rather than gridded, notebooks in France, you need to find a paper supplier, because gridded paper is just how it's done over here. Needless to say, this American found a properly lined purple "lifebook" to keep her sane for the time being, and finds it more appropriately hilarious that this lifebook comes from Paris. I've found that if I don't write down what's in my head, I'll play it in my mind like a broken record worrying about it all, so my lifebook can be thought of as a preventative measure.

After acquiring the necessary lifebook, I spent a while in shop for lettres modernes and drooled. The more I'm around French university life, the more strongly I feel the intense need to be here again next year as a student. I successfully scheduled a meeting with the head of the French Lit Masters program at the Sorbonne, and as my mom put it, he "had better be ready to be interview by Lindsay and not the other way around." I'm crossing my fingers it goes well.

The more I learn about the ENS, however, the more I want to study there as well. ENS was founded after the French Revolution as a way to train teachers to support new pedagogical initiatives. Small provinces and towns elected individuals to attend this "teachers college," where they were given room and board, as well as a monthly salary, in exchange for service to the state as educators.

Today the ENS is part of the system of grandes ecoles outside of the public system of higher education, and among the most fiercely competitive. ENS has about 2500 students who live together on campus at its historic rue d'Ulm site; French nationals and students from the E.U. are given, as per tradition, room and board and a monthly salary of 1000 euro in exchange for 10 years of service to the French state in the public sector. Foreigners, such as myself, if admitted are given a scholarship and aren't required to give 10 years of service. There are two ways to enter as a foreigner: through competitive national exam, which should be called "The Most Hellacious Academic Bloodbath you Will Ever Encounter," which consists of a 6 hour written examination and a trial-by-fire (oops, I mean...jury) where a candidate alone must prepare and defend a presentation OR through direct application. Considering most French students spend two years in competitive private preparatory classes for the national exam, I'm thinking a direct application is my better route...though it feels like cheating. Enough of grad school.

Around 3:15, said Frenchman arrived and apologized profusely for being late; the poor fellow came in on RER line B, which is, of all RER lines, the most volatile with the strike. I told him not to worry and we traipsed across the Ile-de-la-Cite past Notre Dame and found a cute icecream/coffee/pastry shop and got out of the cold.

Frenchman is an interesting guy--to the correction of my mistake, he's just finishing up his Masters, not his undergrad, at the Sorbonne and studies North American history, aka, the US. I laughed and joked that he probably knows more than I do about my own country. He spent two years in the states: one in Michigan, the other in Washington, D.C., where he interned for the French Embassy. He was also one of France's Fulbright scholars to the US, and his dream would be to eventually get dual citizenship. He's attempting to find a job in the states right now so he can return, but alas, the job market is not at its finest. With that said, if there's anyone in my readership willing to give a poor guy a visa, let me know LOL.

We had great, intellectually stimulating conversation. We talked about American politics, French politics, religion, race, cultural differences, and so on. It was enlightening, and also rather ironic given that currently there are armed forces out everywhere in Paris--men in camo with large guns patrolling the Metro and RER stations, out amongst the benches near Notre Dame, quietly watching. The retirement legislation has been passed in the French assembly, and now it's going through the Senate; you had better believe if it passes all hell will break loose and this country will more or less shut down. Oh, the joys of socialism!

I do have to appreciate socialism for one thing, however, and this is the fact that I more or less have 2 week vacations every 2 months. I'm currently enjoying La Toussaint vacation as I write this. Also, THANK JESUS the Bears bounced back against Arizona. I swear, the Bears are all over the place this season and I cannot for the life of me figure out why. Nonetheless, I give thanks for victory.

A toute a l'heure.

Mark the Calendar.

Mark the calendar: I JUST bought Proust's A la recherche du temps perdu in one volume in its original language. I could pee myself with joy I am so happy right now; if it weren't so heavy, I would've ripped the plastic off on the way home from the bookshop and started reading it on the street. It's me, Proust, and 2401 pages of thin paper with fine print against the world. SO DAMN EXCITED.



Mind you, the bookstore was heavenly, and I was so tempted to blow way more money than healthy on the massive shelves of Zola, Balzac, and other lovelies shelved there, but I restrained myself. I had better sign up for the free municipal library if I intend to not live in poverty this year.

(Shhh....don't tell anyone: I'm a full fledged nerd.)

Une Pendaison de la Crémaillère

I spent a rather large portion of this weekend in Paris at une pendaison de la crémaillère. For those curious among you, a pendaison is a housewarming, but rather a mouthful. The phrase literally means "the hanging of the pot hook," and refers to the former practice of hanging a hook for a cooking pot in the chimney of a house; a house was considered a "home" once this was accomplished because then a family was capable of cooking meals and therefore extending hospitality. The pendaison I attended, however, was much more modern, and involved English language assistants from here to Jamaica. Literally.

Two Californians and Two Texans inhabit a sixth floor walk up on the rue Richer not far from the Place de L'Opera, and on Saturday night, they hosted a soiree bustling with Canadians, Brits, French, and of course, the distinctly American. Cigs attended, and I was finally able to make out a little more of his character: he's officially removed from the DB category and placed into the artsy and more quietly New York category, if New Yorkers could ever be classified as quiet. We got to chatting over baseball when he explained that he's a huge Yankees fan, to which I responded that my mother, a native of upstate NY, is too. Then we chatted football, which naturally brought up the ever-so-touchy-subject of Cal football, but then segued into a discussion of his eventual ambition to do a joint PhD/J.D., perhaps at Boalt. All in all, he deserved the benefit of the doubt.

I also met at this pendaison a French guy, and a student of American History at the Sorbonne (he's still an undergrad) who spent two years in the states (Michigan, to be exact) and speaks English well. He's Parisian to the core: born, raised, and now a student there. We got to talking, and we might end up doing a language swap: he wants to work on his English, I want to work on my French. We'll see where the road goes.

Additionally, I was able to hang out with Jamaica, whom I adore. She teaches in my region and was my buddy during training. This is her first time in France too, and we both ended up crashing on the leather furniture in the came-as-furnished sixth floor walkup inhabited by our kind assistant friends. This was after we had all left the place at 1 a.m. to hit up an Irish pub a few blocks away called Corcoran's, and it was honestly one of the oddest, most fun, but bizarre experiences of my life. I have never before seen an Irish pub in which electronica and techno, plus very Tango/Salsa-esque stuff was played. We also can't forget that the DJ went on a one hour 70's/80's kick, and so Blondie snuck in there too. Irish pubs abroad certainly do garner their reputations...

The evening ended at 3:30 am with a frigid as all hell walk back to rue Richer and an early morning/late night (whatever you prefer) crepe. Paris was still very much awake, and I'm convinced that if there is TRULY a city in this world that never sleeps, Paris must be at least one of them. Nonetheless, Jamaica and I left the next morning around 9:30, freezing our asses off but smiling. She's worse off than I am in the "adapting to cold department," poor thing. Oh well...All in all, very fun.

Monday means I'm back to reality, but I did enjoy teaching today. Things are less confusing now that I've been around the block for one week, but just as I get on a roll, we cut into vacation. French school children here have the 23rd to the 4th of November off for Toussaint vacation, so I'm trying to squeeze in what I can.

Today we reviewed the days of the week with one class. I explained that each day of the week does end with the word "day," and therefore the only element that changes is the first half of the word. I was then asked if:

a) "Sunday" is the same as "Sunny day" or "Son day," which I elaborated upon...

but better yet, and my personal favorite, is:

b) if "Monday" is the same as "Moonday" and if that had anything to do with Michael
Jackson's "Moon walk."

I cannot, for the life of me, figure out what it is with this country and MJ. Like, seriously! And it's not even the adults, it's the CHILDREN. Children who were born in 2002! (Martin, one of the children I look after as an au pair, and born in 2000, can play "Thriller" on his guitar. Solidly. Damn.) I clarified the moonwalk notion by explaining that the moonwalk is meant to imitate what walking on the moon looks like and even added a bit in there about the US's first moon landing...but oh my, did I have a inner chuckle at that one.

For those of you who read this silly blog of mine, please know I miss you and would love to hear from you. Oh, and just as a memo: please send some of that killer "it's 91 in October in California" heat my way. Ok? Ok. Thanks.

Bissssssssssous.

Going on Week Three...

This week has been a touch crazy, to say the least! Monday was my first day of official work at my first school, which is located in Cergy-Le-Haut. Cergy is a relatively modern town, mostly industrial, and from what I can gather, a result of France's influx of immigrants from its former colonies. Caucasian children are the minority, while there are many Franco-Africans, Algerians, Chinese, and Vietnamese children in my classes. Never the less, they are adorable, and many of them are therefore already bilingual.

It goes without saying that I got lost on the way there. If there's one pet peeve I have right now, it's the fact that I keep getting lost, because I'm a pretty damn good navigator, in the US at least. I took the RER to Cergy-Le-Haut, which is the end of line A5 and hopped off expecting to catch STiVO bus 36 to my school only to find out that Bus 36 starts running at 9:15, which is when I start teaching. Instead, I hopped on Bus 44, and ended up having a lovely chat with a bus driver who was kind enough to help me out.

Irony of the week #1: the day ended with me discovering that I could've merely walked across a park to my school from the train station instead of worrying about a darn bus. Womp womp.

On Tuesday I went to my second school; I'd woken up super early to catch the trains out there since the syndicats for the RATP were on strike because French President Nicolas Sarkozy is attempting to raise the age of retirement from *gasp* 60 to 62! ( I'm sorry. The American in me understands the strike in principle, but laughs very hard inside. I feel that if I merely took all the protestors and threw them into America, they would not be complaining about retiring at 62).

Irony of the week #2: I arrived at my school just in time, only to discover instead that (haha) the teachers had decided to strike and no one was there. In fact, no one had even taken two seconds to call me or shoot me an e-mail to let me know I didn't have to go. Oh well. It turns out this was the experience of many other assistants on Tuesday, so at least I'm not alone in that?

I used my free time on Tuesday to take care of administrative things, mainly so I can 1) be paid, and 2) not be in this country illegally, both of which involved going to the post office for the first time, which was a trip. In France, the colors of the post office are yellow and blue, and mail boxes placed around the city are bright yellow, so they're hard to miss. It rather reminded me of a canary.

The children are also hilarious. My first sessions of the week were basically Q and A about all things America and myself. Some of the highlights include, and these are direct (translated) quotes:

1) "Is there really a fake Eiffel Tower in Las Vegas?" Me: "Yes."
2) "Is there a McDonald's in every neighborhood in America?" Me: "No!"
3) "Do you have the same brands and types of cars in America?" Me: "Yes and no, but
American cars are much bigger..."
4) " What kinds of food do you eat in America?" Me: "Lots of similar things, but in
California, we really like Mexican food too."
5) "Don't you have a black president?" Me: "Yes, his name is Barack Obama."
Kids: "Barack Obama!!"

I also realized (and you can totally hate me for this if you'd like) that I'm only actually teaching 9 hours a week, and that my adviser has given me 3 free hours, which I'm assuming she intends me to spend on class prep. Fine by me! Because of the strike though, I only worked 6 hours this week, and am still getting paid in full for the month. Part of the American in me screams "Lazy, lazy, lazy, lazy..." because I'm habituated to the hustle and bustle, the go-go-go-go mentality that is the states and very much California, but at the same time, I need the year to breathe.

I loved college and I especially loved Berkeley with all my heart, but I literally gave it all I had. I don't know, in retrospect, how I could've ever considered going straight from from undergrad to grad school without time off. I think I would've burned out and dropped out, and that's saying something, because I know I have a *special* amount of stubbornness in me. It's hard for me to feel "lazy," so I have to re-frame the way I think about this time "off."

Oh. Well. Potential plans for this weekend include: runs with the Paris marathon training group, the Paris apartment warming of fellow assistants from Texas and California (the rule being that you have to dress up as something from Cali or Texas), and gay club hopping with Sam! We'll see how it goes :)

A toute a l'heure!

Three Day Recap

The past three days have gone by quickly. On Friday, I had my last day of pedagogical training, thank goodness. Much of it involved myself and about 20 other assistants crammed into the same cold room at the Maison Departemental de l'Education in Saint-Ouen-L'Aumone. First, we were made to sing "Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, turn around," by German Smackdown Lady to simulate (again) how it feels for little French children to be instantly immersed in a foreign language. Naturally, this went over with no smirks and no laughs from anyone.

I ended up sitting next to Cigs, who is one of the only three gentlemen in my grade level and region. Cigs smokes and rocks the leather jacket, scarf, and messenger bag look. He also just graduated with a degree in French from Tulane, and so we were both chatting about how even if we'd wanted to teach high school kids, the government would've never let us since we've got stronger language skills. He and I and another fellow, Pittsburgh, probably have the best speaking skills out of the assistants in our region. Cigs is also passably attractive, but terribly quiet, and I can't figure out if he's because he feels some sort of douchey superiority complex, or if he's just really shy. I also can't tell if he's gay, since that's always a likely probability (I hate to say it) with any male French major, at least in my experience.

Now Pittsburgh, I like. Pittsburgh just graduated from NYU and has moxie. He arrived to training two hours late because he wanted to sleep in, which he, of course, did NOT tell German Smackdown Lady. Rather, he stated that he'd missed his RER train, which is, in all honesty, plausible. Nevertheless, Pittsburgh is hilarious, adorably happa, and someone I'd like to get to know better.

Other highlights from the two days included a coffee and soup vending machine that made ghetto fabulous cafe au lait and cafe noisette for 40 eurocents--Canada 2 and I were joking that it was our crack, and we'd go and get hits of caffeine at break times--and a small bakery and deli around the corner where we'd all congregate and buy sandwiches.

Saturday I spent taking care of administrative things; I'm happy to say I FINALLY have a bank account, and can now get on with life and paperwork. I ended up running errands with Charlotte, and afterwards had MacDo (yep folks, that's McDonalds) in France for lunch. You can order on a computer here, and they even have falafel on the menu! The french fries are nowhere near as good, though. I read the rest of the afternoon since I'm under the weather and spent the night in watching Avatar for the first time entirely in French with the kids. Emma fell asleep on the floor and at midnight Charlotte took her up to bed.

Today is a beautiful fall day, in the mid-fifties with sunshine, so I went to the National Domaine of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, which is a regional forest nearly the size of Paris. I ran on some cozy trails, which brought my stress level down. I've been overwhelmed with what I'm supposed to be doing next week in my classrooms; it's still so damn confusing.

I have never before appreciated how much more efficient the U.S. government is than the rest of the world. France is a bureaucratic nightmare, and because of that, I and the rest of the 9 month assistants have no effing clue what we're doing. The main difference between us and the 7 monthers is that if you're in for 7, you're simply an aide to the teacher in the classroom. If you're a 9 monther, you ARE the teacher. You make the lesson plans, you are responsible. The problem with that is that a) my two schools HAVE NO materials for English, which means I have to make them all, and I'm not getting paid for a single second of prep and b) my kids are far behind where they theoretically should be since they have learned English from teachers who have been mandated to teach it without speaking a word of it.

It's also horridly inefficient because France imports new assistants every single year. I can't imagine how much of a paperwork nightmare it must be, and I don't understand why they don't just start to train ALL of their elementary school teachers to teach English over--oh, say--the next 20 years or so. Cigs and I agreed that we'd be much more useful training teachers to teach English since we're both basically fluent in French, but alas, it's not my choice.

France's language teaching theory is all screwed up too. If it were up to me, the first thing these kids would learn would be the alphabet, in English. However, as German Smackdown Lady puts it, "we MUST adhere to the guidelines set forth by the European Council on blah-de-blah-de-blah," and so instead, I have to teach them pre-determined sets of vocab and phrases in a four part process: 1) listening 2) memorization 3) reading 4) writing. Ugh. Can it be next weekend yet?

Otherwise, life is pretty good. I'm settling in and finally getting a grip on things. I'm just praying that the kids don't murder me on Monday and that the transportation strike that's slated for Tuesday actually happens, because if it does, I don't have to work, which gives me more time to figure out what the hell I'm doing while getting paid to sit at home. Also, a shout-out to the Bears who killed UCLA this past weekend in football americain for a fabulous homecoming!

A toute a l'heure.

Le Soir

I decided on my walk home from a late dinner with Mercedes that my favorite part of the day in France is night. After I put the five year old to bed, Mercedes and I left at around 8:30 for an evening rendez-vous in the center of town, which I had never seen before. We wound up at a chic creperie and dined on ham, egg, tomato and mushroom crepes with a bottle of excellent cider and polished it off with one chocolate dessert crepe for the two of us.

SGL reminds me of Boston in the sense that everything tends to close quite early in the evening, with the exception of a few upscale restaurants and bistros here and there. Scattered across the sidewalk enjoying the relatively warm evening were elderly couples, young couples, and of course, because it's a Thursday night, young men smoking and swallowing gulps of wine out of green bottles.

But never the less, all was tranquil. The town is quiet for the most part unperturbed in the evening, and you'll not find the ribble rabble of all the young rebels the way you would in Paris, a city which brims over with life, because it is the rich and chic who live here. This is not to say that Paris is not an affluent or chic place, but rather to say that Paris is a city with many souls, whereas SGL, from what I can tell, can be taken at face value.

I still, however, love the night. I love the night because it is the time of day where I can reflect on what has passed during the previous hours, where I can sit here and write my meditations. I love the night because after the hustle and bustle of children from 4:30 to 8:30, I can repose--alone--in my room or go out with friends. Alone time is sacred for me because I need the time to process my environment and reflect, and in the night, I can do so. I love the night because Paris is illumined and alive and lovely.

Today was an improvement on the previous few days. I had to go to pedagogical training in St. Ouen-l'Aumone, and even though it was inefficient and pointless, it was such a relief to spend time with people my age, and even more reassuring to know we're all confused about the same things. There are 20 assistants teaching English to elementary school students in the department of Val d'Oise, and of those 20, 3 are young men, which makes for many a female. I'm lucky to get a long with most of them. After we finished training earlier than expected, we migrated en masse and hopped on the RER back towards Paris.

There are two girls from Canada--I'll just call them les Canadiennes--who are hilarious and lovely. One just finished a masters (I'll call her Canada 1) and another worked in PR (Canada 2), so they're a few years older than I am. Since they knew each other for a while before coming to France, they share a minuscule apartment in the 2nd arrondissement in Paris which costs a pretty penny, but as they emphasize, is worth every cent. There's also a girl I'll call Jersey, a recent college grad like myself, who finished her studies at Grinnell and is taking time off from school. After that you have Manchester, who's 20 and still a student from England; Santa Cruz, who was an assistant last year in Grenoble and is very sweet; Birmingham, whom, I think, was quite hungover this morning and whispering sardonic as all hell comments to me as we sat through the most asinine DVD, bless her soul; and Heidleberg, a lovely girl, and the only, as you can guess, German language assistant in our group.

On the RER, Canada 1 and 2, Jersey, Santa Cruz, and I were all chatting about what a waste of time training was (it's particularly true, I'm sorry to say...) and how we should all socialize, with which I am in total agreement. The difficulty, however, is that I don't have much free time. I've traded, willingly, some free time for financial security here in France, so the result is that I have Friday evenings and weekends free. As for school vacations...don't know how that will work yet.

The family is very accommodating and they've made it clear that they want me to go out on weekends if I like, but being an au pair is difficult work. You have to have an immense amount of patience because the children fight all the time, the little ones don't want to do homework or take a bath or eat, and you don't get much down time. Mercedes and I were discussing this and sharing observations over crepes. The experience only serves to reinforce the fact that I do NOT want to have kids of my own anytime remotely in the near future. Nevertheless, she and I were talking about taking advantage of the free time we have, which is more so true for her than it necessarily is for me. She's 24, and because the economy of Argentina is much less stable, it's more difficult and even more expensive for Argentinians in general to get to Europe. Whereas she's finished her studies and works in the tourist industry, and will most likely go straight back to work when she returns, I know that if I continue on the path I'm on, there are many, many more trips to France to be had. So while I have exchanged free time for financial security, I know that if I do a grad degree here next year, life will be quite different.

For now, though, I wont worry myself with the details. I'll just enjoy the evening.

La fille au verre d'eau

It's a common writer's plague to not know what to say in your first line, and since that's exactly what I'm thinking right now, I decided to be frank and just say it. There you have it. I'm in a meditative mood, so I'll let it take its course and write what comes to mind.

I went running this afternoon in a light drizzle and thought quite a bit. Running is an easy way for me to let my mind wander, because I'll be the first one to admit that I have a difficult time staying in the "present" moment. I say "present" because time is a funny thing, and the way we humans perceive it has a funny way of sneaking up on us. I often preoccupy myself with the future, but running let's me get away from that, and so I ended up running 8, rather than my planned, 5 miles. But as the French say, c'est pas grave. All I can think though is how can you not want to wander the earth for a while when there's a sweet fog rolling over the countryside and a blanket of gray over Paris with the silhouette of the Eiffel Tower beckoning you?

I had another "Lindsay" moment, which involved me running outside the walls of Le Terrasse Andre Le Notre looking east at Paris while listening to Taio Cruz's "Dynamite" and moving at a (YES!) easy 8 min/mile pace, and it got me thinking about how the one thing I truly fear is uncertainty. It's one of the reasons I decided to do this in the first place: I was uncertain I'd find somewhere to live, I was uncertain I'd even like this country, I was uncertain I'd like life post-college, and I'm still uncertain about what may come. I have to learn to live with uncertainty, and I figured this is one of the best ways to do it.

Uncertainty is difficult for me because I'm trained academically to find patterns and see plots and themes and motifs, to interpret and make certain what is not certain, and if I may say so, I'm pretty good at it. It's simply the way my mind words. I draw connections where others may not perceive them, I think I can see denouements down the road, I look for repetition. The problem is that I like to apply these academic skills to my own life's uncertainties, to "novelize" my own life, to find a way to may coherent sense of it all. Naturally, a certain French author named Proust agrees with me that the only way we can truly comprehend our lives and ourselves is to produce a work of art, to aestheticize ourselves even if that demands that we sacrifice everything else to that aestheticization. He certainly did. I don't know yet that I agree with that, because I don't feel an intense desire to aestheticize the world around me in the way Proust did. I enjoy the nitty gritty, and I'm not afraid of it. However, I can't help but think that if I were to sit down and have a conversation with him about making life coherent, we would agree that novelization is a formidable tactic. And I'm a mere 20 minutes west of the city of Hemingway, of Fitzgerald, of the art of artists and masterpieces of masters.

I was also thinking about the movie Amelie. I adore that film, and it was my summer prelude to France. Yet no matter where I go, what country I may live in, what language I may speak...I can't help but identify with "la fille au verre d'eau."
In this scene, the ever painfully introverted Amelie explains to her neighbor, M. Dufayel, who is in the middle of painting his umpteenth replica of Renoir's "Le Dejeuner des Canotiers," and cannot quite make out the expression of the "girl with the glass of water", that perhaps she is merely different from the others. M. Dufayel remarks that she is "at the center," and yet she is "outside."

I have no intention of being melodramatic here, but am intrigued by how perfectly I feel, at times, that expression fits me. Our self perceptions are some of the most difficult we have to encounter, in my opinion, as humans, and this "perception" struck a chord with me. Perhaps, like me, the "fille au verre d'eau" is uncertain, and is struggling to deal with the uncertainty of what will come after her lunch, after the day is over, after the sun dawns on the next day. Or, maybe, she is observing her surroundings, recording memories in her mind for the day when she will need to recall them, or want to recall them at will. This is certainly me. It was brought to my attention recently that I have an eerily intense ability to remember things in great detail, which I had never known--I thought that everyone had the same capacity for memory. (Don't even get me start on what Proust has to say about memory). Nonetheless, I'll take my capacity for memory as a sign of my capacity for observation, and much like the "fille," I'll take in what surrounds me.

This is why, if you'd like to know, I'm not much of a picture taker. I prefer to keep things as I see them in memory: untarnished, impeccable, beautiful. I promise I'll let go of my introspective observation enough this year to make use of modern technology, but in all honesty, I've always preferred my memory.

And so I write this, in honor of the memory of the day, in honor of uncertainty, for all those who have ever felt so "centered" and yet so "outside," spliced between two halves, and above all, for all the "filles au verre d'eau" in the world, patiently sipping and watching the world pass by.

Observations, Week One:

Tomorrow marks one my week anniversary of arrival in France! Since it's been nearly one week, I thought it would be a good idea to do a special, one week recap of my observations thus far. Here it goes:

• People can tell you over and over and over again that you speak well and have no accent, but there are days when you STILL feel entirely incompetent. I can't stress that one enough! It's been a bit of (admittedly) an ego boost to have the French tell me that a) I speak very well, so well in fact, that they don't believe this is my first time in France and b) I have no accent. An elderly man took me for a local the other day and asked where the post office was, and when I responded he busted into English and said "You don't have an accent. I can tell you're not from here by the way you speak, but I can't figure out where you're from!" But today my French did not want to work. GAH. It's getting better, but language Queen King over here is impatient.
  

• The French LOVE wearing Converse sneakers. They are EVERYWHERE. Hightops, lowtops, kids, dads, SOCCER Moms. PARIS even! This is why I did the right thing...and brought mine :)

• The national word of France must be "truc," or is it "truque" or ?? Whatever it is, it's used all the time, and it can mean "a thing, a trick, a knack, etc. etc." And it is EVERYWHERE. Just like the sneakers.
  

• French five year olds quickly like to take up residence in your lap and want you to play Justin Bieber, Jay Sean, and Hannah Montana on YouTube for them. Oh, and sing it for them while they are in the bathtub.

• I'm not homesick, just "people-sick." I don't think I've been culture shocked, and nothing's been really surprising, probably because France is (obviously) a very Western civilization, but if I miss anything above all, it's people. I miss my friends and family and oh lord, do I miss texting friends to tell them RANDOM as hell things only they could appreciate (you know who you are, and I love you for it). I've met people here, but haven't really had a chance to get to know them well (yet) which should change, but yes. I miss you fools. Venez nombreux me rendre visite!
  

• FRENCH BOYS ARE PRETTY. DROOL. Oh, so pretty. And they totally pull off that metro look with out a stitch of gay-dar. As I was discussing earlier with a friend who agrees with me that Eros, the Greek God of Love, likes to make a comedic soap-opera complete with lighting, baroque costumes, and the fat lady out of my (lack thereof a) love life, Berkeley was not particularly kind in terms of the dating scene. However, if (of all places ON EARTH) he decides to curse me in PARIS, I will take that as a grand sign that I'm eternally cursed and meant to hole up permanently in the Ivory Tower, also known as the Grand Cloister for the Intellectually Promising and Socially Inept. Get thee to a nunnery.
  

• My new favorite acronym is PFF. Yes, that's right, shout-out to my new favorite acronym/adjective hybrid: Pretty Fucking French. Excuse my French. So many times I've wanted to use this!

• Apparently some of you are taking bets on whether or not I will ever return. This is hilarious, because Stef (host mom) had some friends over for a bit earlier last week. Izzy, her friend since freshman year of high school (4th year at lycee), went and worked as an au pair in California when she was my age, married an American named Dave from Fresno, and never returned! She's been in the states for 19 years and they live in Hawaii now. When I explained that I promised my parent's I'd return, Jean-Luc asked if I had a boyfriend. I said no. He replied "Then you can't make any promises!" But if I had to bet on it: sorry folks, I'm 90% sure I'lllllll be back. I'm too stubborn to let you all win ;)

I'm sure I'll have more to say later....Au revoir!

--L.

Friday: Work, Saturday: Paris!

On Friday, I had to start what are called "demarches administratifs," or in other words, all the boring and irritating paperwork to get set up as what is considered, essentially, a "French" citizen. Needless to say, this was fairly uneventful. Except for the part where I took the RER (reseaux expres regional, or regional express network) train from Saint-Germain-en-Laye to Saint-Ouen-l'Aumone. That was an adventure in and of itself, and much of the day was spent going up to random people saying "Excusez-moi monsieur/madame....je suis une etrangere et je me suis un peu perdue..." (Excuse me sir. I'm a foreigner, and I'm a little bit lost...), which is frustrating because it makes one feel quite stupid, and I'm no dummy. I'm a pretty darn good navigator and can figure out transportation systems quickly, but the RER is tricky because there are panels on the quais (platforms) that tell you what stations are desservies (serviced), but I didn't know that lights change depending on what stations each train services. GAH. Now I do.

I freaked out because I thought I was going to be late to my schedule training at 9:00 and had left the house at 7 just in case I was confused or lost, which was a good thing, because I did get lost. After two RER train stops and one bus transfer, I met up with Cybele, a fellow assistante de langue and lovely Australian, and she and I managed to find the correct bus stop. Phew.

Otherwise, Friday was fairly normal. I picked the kids up from school (it's a whole 50 feet across the street) where I ran into Mercedes, who is a Spanish language assistant from Salta, Argentina living with a family around the corner who happen to know the Febvrets well. She suggested we go to Paris on Saturday...so, naturally, we did!

My first experience of Paris then was with (and this one's for you Ben!) two Argentines. Mercedes and I met up with her friend Lorena, who is a Spanish language assistant in the Academie de Paris for lyceens (high schoolers) and we wandered the city at will from the 1st district. Mercedes and I got off the metro at Fontaine-Saint-Michel and BAM were right near everything! One of the first things I saw was Notre Dame in the drizzling rain. We wandered around some of the bookshops, since Notre Dame is pas loin from la Sorbonne. I nearly jumped out of my boots at the Sorbonne! It was SO cool! Man, all I can say is that I cannot think of any better place on this earth to study French literature than right in the middle of the Latin Quarter in Paris. I will be on my knees praying to God/Allah/Jesus/Mohammed/Buddha/Anyone you can think of for them to admit me this spring. I, no joke, might go cry in a corner for about five minutes if they don't take me.

After that we ate lunch at a creperie in one of the small side roads to get out of the rain, wandered back through the Latin Quarter and had some fun in a Gap store, then went along the Seine for a bit. From there we were able to see the Institut de France (home to l'Academie Francaise!), and crossed a wooden bridge *blanking on the name right now* where lovers come to lock locks to the fencing and toss the keys into the Seine to signify that their love is forever. All I could think was a) awww, how romantic and b) can I vomit yet? Apparently I've developed some cynicism thanks to certain people in my life (cough, Becca, cough Jocelyn), but apparently so have the Parisians: the police have to come and cut some of the locks off periodically so the fencing doesn't get insane. Sigh.

Across this *loverly* bridge was none other than the Louvre! We spent some time in the Cour Carree (we're being cheap and waiting to actually go to the museum when we get our cartes professionelles and can get in for free), then watched a small street orchestra outside the Comedie Francaise play Pachabel's Canon (AWWW BRANDY, it made me think of you!!). I love classical music, so this was a big treat. I want to try and get to the symphony while I'm here.

Somehow we then wandered through more of the 8th and 9th districts, saw la Place de l'Opera and the Eglise de la Madeleine, la Place de la Concorde and the Tuileries, then strolled up the Champs-Elysees to the Arc de Triomphe. All in all, we walked for about 8-9 hours.

It was interesting, mostly because the three of us spoke in this odd mix of English/French/Argentine Spanish (well...Mercedes and Lorena did...). Lorena comes from Buenos Aires and I explained to her that I have a good friend who spent 13 months there, and he adores it beyond all belief. She and Mercedes joked that I now have 2 reasons to visit Argentina and that in a few months with them, I should be able to learn some Spanish. It looks like Argentina is on my next on my travel list!

I finally left Paris at around 8:30, mostly out of fatigue, and because the Febvrets have to find my set of keys, which are floating around somewhere. I also have no cell yet here, so I didn't really have a way to call them and let them know I'd be late.

There is still so much left to do in Paris, but it's a good thing I've got about 9 more months! A bientot, mes cheres et mes cheries.

--L.