Twelve Weeks in Paris
Here's where it all started - deceptive wholesomeness, the unashamed selfie, and "je suis un cheval".
I must preface this essay by stating that all names have been changed prior to publication.
On the twelfth week into my move to Paris, I decided to start writing about my experiences in the beloved city. In hindsight, I’m unsure where the decision to pack up and relocate stemmed from. Though I was possibly tempted by the move of a close friend nine-months prior, I think it was largely down to a feeling of lostness and a rash decision made by myself, one which I eagerly announced to my friends and family and therefore had to carry out. I do that often, declare my future plans, semi-boastfully, to loved-ones so they’re aware that I’m not planning to bum around my whole life. In my early twenties, I started to write a semi-autobiographical novel about all the jobs I’d tackled over the years and the comedic experiences I’d undergone; however, a thousand words in, I realised there were only so many ways I could humorously tell tales of hiding in coffee-shop kitchens or office store rooms, before I’d worn out the reader and successfully made them think that I’m a slacker – which would be a poor judgement anyway, as I’m not a slacker, I just tire of small talk with my colleagues. Frustratingly, as soon as the words leave my mouth that I’m working on my first novel, or an offer has been accepted on an enviably located rental in London, the outcome of these happenings turn sour. The prospect of said-novel becomes less inviting or achievable to me as there’s too much pressure surrounding it, or the dream future home wickedly falls victim to the nepotism game and is gifted to the landlord’s son. So, from now on, I’ve decided to keep quiet about future opportunities to give the God’s of Misfortune a break from ruining my life.
If I view my move to Paris through a romanticised lens, then I went to experience a new culture and, ultimately, improve my writing by inhaling rousing sights once witnessed by previous inhabitants like James Baldwin and Ernest Hemingway. However, following our countries doomed union departure, my ticket into France was only feasible through becoming an au pair. After months of waiting for a match with a potential host family and repeatedly increasing the wholesomeness of my profile’s photos – tormenting myself over whether I’d appear more suitable to play with kids if I was wearing a knitted jumper whilst hugging my dog, or if I was wearing a crisply ironed dress posing beside a bouquet of flowers – I finally found a pleasant and agreeable family. I think the flowers did the trick.
They subscribed to all my prior assumptions of the quintessential Parisian family, made up of a fairly young couple (man and woman) and their two children, a seven-year-old named Mathilde and a nine-year-old called Gabriel. Each of them was handsome and olive-skinned, led by workaholics who escaped to Normandy on the weekends, as navigating two young children round the bustling city was far too strenuous. After my first few months, I concluded that their online profile was relatively honest. Mathilde was indeed sociable and funny, with an “active personality” - which was a relief, as an ‘inactive personality’ would have been unnerving. Gabriel was described as curious, endearing and with plenty of energy. During our introductory video calls, Gabriel was also said to be eccentric and inquisitive. When I heard these adjectives, I thought I’d hit the jackpot. I love chatty and enquiring children, so there were to be no issues there. Looking back, a more fitting description would have been tetchy and unpredictable. ‘Endearing’ could be used at a push, as Gabriel often managed to giggle and win you over after previously screaming at you for tying his shoe laces incorrectly, paired with a half-hearted hug and an “Excuse me.”
Unlike most of the au pairs that I came across, I was not forced to spend endless hours playing monotonous games with the kids. Instead, I was somewhat of a human taxi service, marching the children to and from their daily activities, forced to navigate the various modes of transport that the city had to offer, all whilst trying to avoid a painful thump from a seven-year-old saying “Tag!” I also had to remain smiley and accommodating when Gabriel demanded his afternoon snack, often consisting of a pain au chocolat and a chausson aux pomme. If I’d ever refuse to buy him these pastries, as we were moments away from their apartment which was always fully stacked with delicious delicacies, he’d scream and then once in the house, proceed to bake an entire chocolate cake. I was always confused whether his cake routine was a place to channel his frustration, or whether he really could not function unless there was something sweet in his tiny stomach. Another reason I’d often avoid the boulangeries was it was an easy way for the kids to out me for not being a French native. I’d compose and ready myself to use the latest French that I’d been going over that morning, alas, before I had time to utter more than a “Bonjour”, Gabriel would inform the member of staff that I am actually English and they should not bother speaking to me in French. At first, I thought this to be a sweet gesture, this young boy was looking out for his new family member (of sorts), helping her before she entered into an uncomfortable encounter. However, I soon got to know this child and realised that this was no charitable good deed. He simply wished to inform the nice lady who makes the pastries that I am in fact...stupid.
It was within these first few months that I began to adjust to the temperaments and quirks of the children. Some might say by this point I’d accumulated an emotion close to love for Mathilde, and by the end of my stay, I’d acquired a similar sort of love for Gabriel. However, despite this ever-growing fondness, as I’d embark on my daily ten-minute walk to the children’s school to pick them up, I was often greeted by a familiar sense of anxiety; a justifiable uneasiness due to Gabriel’s unpredictable mood swings. One day, he’d come out skipping and singing “Lucy in the sky with diamonds,” whilst encouraging me to join in with the only line from the song we both knew. However, on other afternoons, he’d come out of school and had decided he wanted nothing to do with me, meaning any conversations I’d attempt to start were met with an eery silence. Another cause for my anxiety was the language barrier and potential run-ins with French parents that I vaguely knew. Though I’d sit and do my daily self-taught French lessons, the process was slow and tiresome, especially when certain apps repeatedly taught me to declare to the people of France that “I am a horse.” Whoever started the rumour that emersion is the only way to learn French, has never been to France. Even when I started to understand the language in its written form, there is barely any correlation between that and when it’s spoken by locals. Most letters are not pronounced, and the ones that are, are very hard to pronounce with an English tongue and mouth.
Towards the end of these first twelve weeks in Paris, winter sneakily crept up on the world, meaning it was often daylight when I’d start my walk to the school, and nightfall as we returned home. Despite my daily dose of anxiety, I was also met with a feeling of gratitude on my afternoon school walk as I lived a few small steps away from the Eiffel Tower. Prior to my move, I had been to Paris twice, and both times I succumbed to the tourist bug and visited the iconic landmark. As was to be expected, living beside it resulted in its magic slightly wearing off. In addition, I assumed and somewhat hoped, I would inherit the Parisian cynicism and daily inclination to roll one’s eyes whilst passing the influx of tourists, gleefully and unapologetically whipping out their selfie-sticks to take photos with the Tower. On an afternoon like any other, in the midst of my walk, I readied myself to smirk and slightly shake my head at a young English girl fiercely posing in her recently purchased beret. However, as I prepared to take on the role of the irritable Parisian local, I stopped and noticed the individual who was taking the photo.
Behind the camera stood a boy, who I imagined had only just escaped his teenage years. He was wearing a black puffer coat and a freshly polished set of white trainers, which in today's age is the look of the English. Though the image he was presenting to the world was laid back and unfazed, on closer inspection, I noticed a glimmer of joy in his eyes and an undeniable excitement seeping out of the right corner of his boyish smirk as he took a photo of his girlfriend, who by this point was pretending to touch the top of the Eiffel Tower. It soon became clear that the boy was trying to resist the urge to ask for a photo himself. When the coast was clear and few were watching, he swamped the camera for a humble hands-in-pocket pose, and swapped positions with his lady friend. Unable to maintain his nonchalant appearance, a toothy smile appeared on the boy’s face, the city’s wondrous magic occupying yet another victim.
When coming across sites like this, I often found it difficult not to absorb some of the joy and elation given off by the unnamed passers-by. It is hard to distinguish whether it is the Eiffel Tower itself or the daily in-your-face reminder that you’re in Paris when you stand before the soaring monument. Though as time went on, I may have outwardly presented a pitiful smirk and eye-roll at the excitable sightseers, deep down I remained doe-eyed and contented by my fellow Brits unashamedly getting in my way as they pretended to give the Tower a hug. And besides, they’re providing great material for what is becoming a second attempt at my first book.