Pumped Up Kids

In case you were unsure, there is a big difference between being an underwriting specialist and babysitting kids. I haven't been an underwriting specialist in a little over a month, so obviously I've probably lost a bit of my edge, but I was a damn insurance samurai with a steel blade compared to what these little devils put me through yesterday. A & L (protecting the names of the guilty, ratcheted devils is the most I can do right now) absolutely ran over my ass as no one has in 5 plus years of working.

I met Satan's imps last week when I interviewed with their mother, so of course they were on their best behavior and were excited by the thought of having a new "nunu" (babysitter). Sure, they were rambunctious, but as their playful antics went on, I told myself I could handle it. I have two younger brothers, I was totally prepared, right? Wrong. Wrong as fuck. Me thinking 'what could be so hard about watching a 4 and 6 year-old?' was my first mistake. Number one rule of war: never underestimate your enemy. I broke that rule and I paid.

First thing I did with the ticking time bombs was take them to a nearby park, of course they would love me for providing fresh air and exercise. Oh, and they did, they loved me so much for it the 4 year-old RAN OVER a toddler on his bicycle. KER-POW! And then, to the credit of his inner freak, started to undress in front of everyone while on the jungle gym. Like that child was King of the Naked Mountain. I can take a hint, time to take them home, lord knows how many laws we broke already.

We got home for bath time and dinner. Bath time was easy, I suspect because there was nudity involved for the little exhibitionist, but dinner was another matter; they screamed and cried the entire time. THE ENTIRE TIME. What. The. Fuck. So, as I stared longingly at the bottles of whiskey their mom and dad stash in the closet (uh-huh, I know why now), I decided to abandon dinner and initiate another round of playtime. This proved brilliant, as the moment they had toys in front of them the tears ceased to flow, I recognized their pattern and I catered to it for the sake of quiet time. But the little hellians could not resist the urge to declare war once more and for the last ten minutes there was kicking, screaming and hair pulling: it was Housewives of Paris. That's when their father walked in and saved my ass. The moment he entered the room he commanded respect, and I followed him like a sailor follows the north star, if he told them to jump I probably would have joined in. But, if there's one thing that this babysitting gig taught me is that while American kids may get a bad wrap for being spoiled, egotistical monsters, French kids are no exception; in fact, I think they're their own special brand of evil.

The moment I was in the cool Parisian air I sighed a sigh of relief and began to lick my wounds. I had survived, but would I be so lucky next time? Maybe the next time papa comes home I'll be dead and they'll be feasting on my bones, as he looks down at them exasperated and says "Again!?" I wouldn't put it past them. So while I was lost in my reverie, wondering what the french translation is of "surely there is someone more suicidal for this job" in my resignation letter to their mother, Serendipity found me.

SMACK. I collided into another person. My first reaction is to cuss this dude out, but I curtailed that and managed to say "Sorry" as he was saying "Désolé". Normally, that's the end of it, but when he had heard my English he echoed back "Sorry?" and as I looked up I saw the quintessential American boy looking back at me. You could see he was a little surprised to here an American accent in the underground passageway for Line Six. Even though I was still fuming about obvious offspring of Jekyll and Hyde, I can spot a cute guy and managed to smile at him and repeated, "Yeah, sorry."

"Where are you from?"

"Boston, you?"

"Jersey."

I was smiling the entire time, looking at his tan, full head of dark brown hair and his straight white teeth. He asked me out for drinks right then and there, but I declined. Though I did give him my new phone number and asked him to call me sometime. It seems strange picking up American boys here in Paris, but it was beyond refreshing to have a small conversation with someone who I understand perfectly. No conjugating verbs, no using one word because you don't know how to say the other, just a straight forward conversation. It really is the simple things now.

Jersey was the little bit of luck I needed that day. As he walked away from me to catch his train, he said "See you around Boston, you're a long way from home." A little part of me cringed to be reminded of that fact, but another part of me smiled. Yes I am Jersey, but so are you, and maybe we can both be the little part of home we're both looking for here.

Plus heureux des anniversaires

I think my luck may finally be starting to change here. At first I was feeling overwhelmed - I knew it wasn’t going to be easy - but it was really beginning to feel like too much and that maybe I should go home, take 6 months and then try again. I know that sounds a little lame considering I've only been here a week, but it was sort of a sad week, culminating in me getting older. For a long time 27 has been my scary age; I once told a girl friend that if I was still 27 and single I would just die. Being alone here without friends to spend time with or distract me with overindulgent amounts of alcohol makes the normal stuff hard. Anyone who says it isn't has never had to face the reality of moving to a place where you don’t have a safety net. This is not a vacation; this is a change of life and it IS hard. But yesterday, I decided to keep on the sunny side and not become completely pessimistic (i.e. a true French person). I had a positive outlook as I went on one of my first French interviews.

I met with a lady who needed a babysitter for her 2 kids, and I got the job! She is very nice and her home is so beautiful that it just all started to make sense. I'm here for a reason and I won’t let my premature pity party stand in the way of it. That evening, HIGH off the fumes that is the "world's greatest pageant show" I made dinner for my Aunt and Uncle. I made spaghetti bolonganse, it was delicious I was rewarded with French Tarts - if you're reading this and are not my friend on Facebook - get on it if only to look at the French tarts that we had for dessert. C'est magnifique.

Yesterday melted into what is today until it became just another moment in time. But 27 doesn't look so bad anymore, and maybe my life, and this adventure, will be just fine.

French testing, and testy Germans

My first week in Paris is exactly what I expected, a little exciting, a little boring, and a lot of what next questions. I do not have an identity here. As of right now, I am a tourist on a tourist visa, just looking to enjoy myself, take in the sights, learn about the culture, and maybe if I am lucky take some French courses as proposed by my German "uncle". In a few months unless a miracle happens I'll be an illegal - and things for better or for worse become a little trickier.

More than anything else, my primary concern is getting the paper work finished. I have never seen the inside of a prison before, except on time while visiting a friend; and even from the visitors room, I knew that prison was no place for the delicate - especially yours truly. I am thoroughly convinced that once, I am in possession of whatever carte de blah blah blah I need, my life will turn around, and I can officially call France home, and myself a Française.

Tomorrow, to give my life a sense of purpose, and get and keep me out of the house for several hours, I am going to take a placement test, verbal and oral at ècole de PERL - which is a French language school, who boast to have over 70 different cultures being taught, small class rooms and the most afforadble prices. IF only the took AMX it would be golden. But since they do not, I'll have to figure out a way to have my parents swing it.

Home

Dorothy once clicked her tacky yet magical red heals and enchanted " there's no place like home" I'd argue there's no place like France. I arrived last night around 9:30 and a journey in itself but the helpful people at Eurostar made it a million times easier once I got to St. Pancras, which I will lovingly refer to as St. Pain in-the-ass. Trolly's are nothing short of a mricale, and the British who are to proper to refuse, will always help albeit begrudingly. I arrived in style and true to form well before boarding time getting through immigration was even easier than it was when coming into London. I quick flash of the smile was all it took. I guess being an over packed heavy ladden lady is something the French are used too. My train again was absolutley filled no place to stretch out and feel luxurious - but unlike American Airlines there was no passing out screaming babies and the bathrooms worked. There were though, howling French adolecents who bless there souls spoke English so horribly it would hve been a crime to tease them. Not that the legality of anything has ever stopped me. In moments like this I wish I had my friends around me to laugh at what was happening. The quieter the train became the louder their renditions of TLC's "Unpretty" became. Not to mention the Glee I guess those crazy McKindly High kids have already made their way over the ocean for at least these two - I don't ever want to hear Don't Stop Believing again.

Getting to my new French hide away was much easier than I expected. The people here are seriously helpful. People helping me with luggage the size of me isn't customary anywhere, except here. My aunt and cousin seem geniunely happy to have me - and while I know moving to a foreign country won't be the easiest undertaking with their help and support of my family and friends I know for sure that I can do it. I can make France home with the right amount of magic and determination - it can and will be like no place else for me.

Luck

I don't believe in luck. I know I'm pretty blessed. I know that I had no control what so ever to be born into my family, and that its only by they're good grace, that I've been afforded all the opportunity in the world. Life, isn't as some would suggest a game of chance. I think that our every move from the time we're cognizant of actions and consequence are mapped out. Maybe that's just me. I know for example, I have worked relatively hard in certain areas of my life. Education and Career have always taken presidence over cultivating friendships, or relationships. These last few days has taught one interesting lesson though. One is never more important than the other.

The term its not WHAT you know, but WHO know is probably the most over used term in the English language. The irony in it all is that its 100% true. What you know counts. Regardless if that knowledge is learn in higher institutions, or on the streets, if you've got the smarts God gave an ant, you're generally on the right path, but WHO you know, well that counts a whole hellova lot too. Recently on my quest for a apartment in Paris, I came across a woman who was subletting her amazing 75m^2 apartment for a remarkable amount of 500 euro/month. I knew it was too good to be true, but I also knew that it was too good not to at least inquire on. After a few exchanges, of credentials, it looked like, my supernova dream of landing an apartment, that NOT only had a bathroom INSIDE the apartment ( which is RARE in Paris) but this space, also had a separate kitchen, living room, and a dining space. WHHHHHAAAAAAATTTT bring the beat back. Queue Omarion. Do the dougie. Drop it like its hot and pick it up like it cool girl friend, I had found it. The French apartment, the one you read about, the one that makes your fool ass think you can pick up and move to France. Yes, the one overlooking the Sienne, L'arc de Triumph, and the Tour Efiel all together. Yes, ladies and gentlefolks THIIIISSS was the apartment of everyone's dream. I don't care who you think you are, but if you saw this apartment, you'd be right beside me doing your own version of the end zone dance ( i.e. the cabbage patch). But alas, it was like I thought earlier - tooo goood to be true. Folks that false advertise on craigslist should be brought out back and beat with a fire hose. To quote T.I " how you gon' do that now huh". I knew it had to be good to be true, all of my Sid senses were on full alert. Location, space, and rent fee were all abnormal. Not to mention cable, light, heat, and internet were included in the rent. Most of the apartments that I'd looked at before were half a sardine can that I couldn't hold a third of my shoe collection in. It wasn't until Martin, my French/German "uncle" for lack of a better term really pointed out all the inconsistencies that I climbed down off of the horse I road in on and took a deep waft of all the shit that he left for me.

There is no dream house. And if there is - it is WAY, and I mean so far out it might as well be on the moon, way out of my financial restraints. The hunt continues, for a place which I desperately need and a job, which I DESPERATELY need. I'm glad Martin let me know what the real deal is. I'm so glad to know him. I'm so glad that even though I was ready to send this woman, man, demon from the deep nearly $3000 he stopped me and really made me question if this was all on the up and up. I guess, I'm lucky after all.

Ruin vs Rapture

Lately, I've been doling out a lot of fortune cooking advice to myself. Its my own personal belief that you don't find rapture with out ruin, and the essence of life is to go through one to get to the other. Sinantra waxed poetically about doing it his way. I guess all things considered, I am doing it my way.

When life gives you lemons, ideally you make lemonaide. When life gives you the emense task of moving across the ocean to fulfill your life's dream, you do the best you can with what you have.

Right now, the impossibility of what I have laid in front of myself, seems too grand. The more I speak to people about life here, and the hardships they face everyday, the US does seem like some magical dream paradise. I have always wondered why people leave their home countries to become strangers in a strange land. I understand now more than ever is because, creating a life, and a life of considerable luxury and sometimes even with out all of that life in the Us, is good. People here struggle. Every one here has the same complaint. Life in the UK and Europe is hard. Again, to pour out some of my limited knowledge, I think life everywhere can be hard. No one I know makes enough money to sustan themselves. But they do. Maybe, adter all the complaining, after all of the ruin, you find your rapture - and that doesn't mean that you come out of the other side of your journey squeeky clean, and smelling of roses.

If at the end of the day you've learned something considerable about yourself, and you've come out the other side a little more tired a little more weary but genuinely better for it, than what have you really given up. I'd lay down my halo for an experience any day.

Yesterday

After convincing myself, that moving across the ocean was "no big deal", I found myself yesterday feeling overwhelmed, not only by the out pouring of support from my friends and family, but how much love they had for me. Its one thing to know you'll be missed, and that your presence in people's live actually matters. Its another to know you're loved, yesterday I realized both.

It was no surprise to anyone but me - that yesterday when I woke up and got dressed, that all I could do was cry. I cried knowing that the next time, I have embrace my father wouldn't be until Christmas. That I wouldn't be there for my brothers antics, and to walk my dog (which I hate normally) for some time. I know as my friend told me " that I'll always have a home there"l, I am extremely lucky that no matter how far, I am only a plane ride away.

Speaking of plane rides. Never fly AA to London. Can we talk about it being the worst for a minute. Absolutley the worst. 1. We were on the world's smallest jets. I mean it was tiiiiight. Not to mention that every single seat on the plane was taken. There was no where to stretch your legs - to really relax. Its my personal belief that flying is already an ardeous task. The least the airline companies can do is make the experience memorable. I have flown at least 100 times in my life. This flight takes the cake, by far. 2. Please don't have the maintance people walking all around the cabin minutes before take off. Again, flying is strrrrreeeesssfull. You're sitting in a 2x4 tin can hoping it soars like an eagle you don't know if you'll come barrelling down back to the ground having the crew men, take a final look while everyone is getting into their seats does not help ease that anxiety. 2a. Please, refrain from fainting on the plane. I get it - I'm a nervous flyer. But folks passing out on the mini plane from hell - oh hheeeeellllsss nah. Ma'am have all the seats on the back. All of them. 2b. Please give your children a half a xantax. If you think you're stressed out imagine what them babies feel like. Especially considering they can't speak - all that crying makes me feel a little stabby. NOT good 2c. Flight attendants can not be crabby. Isn't it in your contract to be annoyingly helpful. You can't be mean old mother hubbard. No get your attitude in check, and come bring me my cool beverage. 3. On a 5 1/2 flight it is impertinent that all the toilets work. All of them. Having to stand in line doing the pee pee dance, is not what good in the hood. Its not was hot on the cal de sac. Only to find out that when you get to the bathroom, you can't flush. No. Next time I go anywhere, I'm flying Virgin. Rirchard Bronson doesn't subject you to the foolishness. On the plus side, despite having a window seat, my seat was nice, the people that were next to me, were cool too. The pilot was the man and he came out to apologize to the customers about the bathroom situation.

All in all - it wasn't a half bad day. I made it to my uncles safe and sound and he is literally the most helpful kind hearted person. Just genuinely full hearted, and always happy to have me. That definitely helps. I'm excited to be spending the week in London. Its the only real "vacation" I'll get before, I start hunting for jobs, and apartments. Next week is Paris. The city of Lights. Look forward to a lot of pictures, and a lot of blogging.

Hoping you all stay tuned.

Sid