tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42056325003978864932024-03-08T19:35:23.536+01:00Not quite down and out in Paris, but almost...Read about my mishaps, new friendships and adventures in Paris as I search for a job, experience French bureaucracy, and learn to appreciate a more relaxed way of life.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-60696544478112291462011-12-11T12:53:00.001+01:002011-12-11T12:56:23.379+01:00The Final InstalmentParis, like anywhere else I have lived for an extended period of time, is filled with memories. Having now made the decision to leave the city these memories are more profound than ever. Walking to work the other day from Gare de l’Est I passed the Numericable shop at Republique where Soraya and I went to set up our shared internet connection in July 2009. This was only a couple of weeks after having arrived - I could hardly speak a work of French and was engaged in a constant battle against the cockroaches in my tiny studio apartment on Passage des Recollets.<br /> <br />Continuing along Rue du Turenne I looked up at the ivy covered walls of Katy and Emily’s old apartment where we spent many a summer’s evening drinking cocktails, listening to music and playing with their cat Mr Obama. To avoid the crowds on Rivoli I veered off on to a side street and found myself next to the restaurant where I first met Charles, with John, having a pizza and where Kaye and I had had a beer one evening after work and discussed our trip to Amsterdam with great excitement. Eventually, as I approached the restaurant, my thoughts wandered back to the days when I was teaching English and working only part time as a serveur. Josy, Ellie, Ian and I would work a variety of half shifts throughout the week with Bobby in the kitchen, my latest playlist on the stereo and a restaurant full of seemingly polite, courteous French customers. At that point everything was still rather novel and it wasn’t until a few months later that I began to develop a more realistic understanding of the average Parisian inhabitant. <br /><br />Upon Darrin’s return I went to stay with my Aunt in her spacious, bright and modern apartment in Sarcelles, a suburb of Paris, perhaps 20 minutes from Chatelet by RER. Here I was to stay for my last month before moving to Cyprus to spend the summer working for a tour operator. This decision was not made lightly however, and before I accepted the position I spent many an afternoon apartment hunting in the spring sunshine. To give you an example of just how sought after property is in Paris and how important location is, I viewed a studio, very centrally located on Rue Rambuteau in the fourth arrondissement, priced at €750 per month. Our entrance into the apartment was a little strange to say the least. The owner knocked on the door and entered whilst asking me to wait outside. A few moments later the current occupant exited doing up his shirt and dripping water all over the landing. As I entered the apartment I was engulfed by a cloud of steam and as it cleared I realised I was, in fact, <span style="font-style:italic;">in</span> the shower cubicle. I tip-toed carefully over the slippery tiles and walked down a narrow passage with a couple of cabinets and an electric hot plate against one side – the kitchen. This led to the living area which comprised a dark, cluttered room with a sofa bed in one corner, a desk and a table with a microwave and a kettle on it. That was the apartment in its entirety. <br /><br />By contrast, for just an extra €100 a month, I viewed a beautifully light, modern apartment in the 20th. This apartment really was something special with soft luxurious carpet throughout, a balcony dappled with shade from the surrounding trees and a modern, well fitted kitchen and bathroom. The owner of the apartment showed me round with his wife and both were very amiable. Unfortunately they required a dossier which is something all house-hunters in Paris need if they intend to take out a lease on a property. This includes wage slips, references, details of a guarantor should you default on the rent and bank details. This is a tedious collection of documents to put together and, considering the apartment was right at the top end of my budget, I let it go. And so, with multiple unsuccessful viewings under my belt, the decision to leave Paris came about. <br /><br />Sarcelles is rather a poor area but the apartment itself is bright, cheerful and homely. I slept very well during my time there. It is serviced by the infamous RER D which always has a strong police presence at night. The last two trains are at 12:15 and 12:45. Breakfast in America closes around midnight so there was always a mad rush to get from St Paul to Chatelet in an attempt to catch the 12:15. Line one, of course, closed at 10pm for the month of April so invariably I would miss it. As a result of these time restrictions my social life took somewhat of a nose-dive during my last month. <br /><br />Nevertheless, Darrin kindly volunteered his apartment once again for a joint birthday party for Lucy and me at the end of March and, to mark my leaving, we all made a trip to a wonderful Ethiopian restaurant where Mike, a guy from Ethiopia who used to work at Breakfast in America, worked. Sam, Alex and Bamlak, all from Ethiopia and who worked in the kitchen, joined us and we enjoyed a lovely meal of injera with various accompaniments finished off with tea flavoured with cinnamon.<br /> <br />My last month in Paris passed extremely quickly and, astonishingly, the weather was beautiful. I remember walking to the RER each morning in the sunlight and feeling ecstatic at the thought of spending a summer filled with endless days spent in the Mediterranean heat. My last shift came and went (Lucy brought in a bottle of Bailey’s and we toasted with Bailey’s milkshakes after all the customers had left). I shipped my belongings back to England and spent my final night at Rose’s in her quiet, peaceful apartment in Juivisy. The following morning we made our way to Gare du Nord and the Eurostar terminal. As I made my way through to check in I turned to wave to Rose who was standing faithfully, in her red coat, waiting for me to go through. She waved back and I scanned the rather impressive interior of Gare du Nord one last time before I turned my back on Paris and passed through the security barrier for the final time. <br /><br />Footnote:<br />I spent almost seven months in Cyprus. It was a stressful summer and at some of the lowest moments I would have given a lot to have been in Paris sitting in Rose’s apartment eating a delicious Ghanaian meal, or even working a brunch shift at BIA. I returned to Paris for a few days in November and stayed with Katy and Emily. It was bitterly cold and, once again, I found myself walking the Parisian streets in the drizzle. However, I went back to BIA and saw many old friends, indeed, we had an excellent night out at Jenny Jones’ new bar next to Bastille. It felt comfortable and easy and I know Paris will always feel like a second home, despite the flaws!Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-23624073743525893892011-03-04T15:28:00.001+01:002011-03-04T15:30:11.015+01:00From Chateau Rouge to Gare de l'EstLife in Paris continues as normal with very little worthy of mention. Consequently, it has been several months since I posted anything on this blog. The majority of staff members at Breakfast in America have left Paris to return to their home countries and we have an almost entirely new team, of which, I have been made Assistant Manager – a small point, perhaps worth mentioning.<br /> <br />Upon returning to Paris after the Christmas break and finding my room black with mould and smelling heavily of damp I made the decision to, at any cost, get as far away from that disgusting apartment as possible. Meeting up with several friends in London whilst in the UK reminded me of how much I miss them. However I was still left with mixed feelings about once again moving to the capital and immersing myself in the corporate competitiveness that comes with working in an office in London. Getting out of Chateau Rouge is, however, my number one priority and, for the moment anyway, I have accomplished this. The General Manager at work, Darrin, has gone on holiday for a month to Mauritius and New Zealand and, during that month, I will be staying in his apartment at Gare de l’Est (my old quartier) looking after his sweet and enormously fat cat Fifi. <br /><br />My feelings towards the apartment at Chateau Rouge quickly deteriorated as winter took hold and seeped cold into every corner of my room. My flatmate, who claimed to be completing his thesis whilst looking for a job was, in fact, doing neither and I’m not sure he left the apartment the entire time I lived there. Knowing that I would come home every day to find him ensconced in his room with breakfast and lunch dishes piled high in the kitchen accompanied by a sickly sweet smell of incense, of which he was a great fan, was hugely dispiriting. On the days he deigned to get up early I would be woken by the sound of him thudding down the corridor towards the bathroom, the whir of the fan and the sound of him hocking up the night’s phlegm into the bathroom sink – a habit I fail to understand and which I find absolutely disgusting. In the summer his parents came to stay in Paris. Rather than booking a hotel they stayed in our apartment and he stayed with a friend. For a month. I endured his non French, non English speaking parents for a month and I think this was the point at which I realised, in relation to my flatmate, I had not chosen well. <br /><br />Darrin’s apartment is, by Parisian standards, pretty luxurious. There’s central heating, double glazing and a distinct lack of mouldy walls. There is also a multitude of gadgets and home cinema equipment. This ranges from a robot hoover to a giant projector screen enabling me to watch Supernatural on the equivalent of a 50 inch plasma screen together with a whole host of other quality dramas saved on the hard drive. I feel very relaxed here. There’s no conflict over the bathroom and kitchen (except when Fifi jumps in the sink for a quick drink just as I’m about to brush my teeth) and the apartment is warm and quiet. <br /><br />Moving in Paris is a perpetual nightmare and this occasion was no different. Having packed my clothes into two enormous suitcases I proceeded to utilise a selection of carrier bags for my books, electronics, DVDs and toiletries. My ever-faithful friend Rose came over to help with the move and we ordered a taxi. The driver took one look at the array of possessions, closely resembling those of a bag lady, muttered that he didn’t do déménagements (moving) and left. The next half hour was spent fruitlessly searching for a taxi around Chateau Rouge. Eventually I found one and managed to convince the driver to take me, along with half of my more cumbersome belongings, whilst Rose waited for a second taxi she had ordered. She would then follow with the suitcases. <br /><br />It wasn’t until later that evening, after we had enjoyed a delicious Indian meal at a restaurant a short walk from Gare de l’Est, that, upon surveying my belongings, I realised that a bag containing all manner of crucial items was missing. I frantically called Rose and my flatmate both of whom remembered the bag in question but not having seen it in a taxi. I had checked both taxis anyway and there was nothing left in either one. Nevertheless, I contacted several taxi companies over the course of the next few days as well as Les Objets Perdus office in the 15th but to no avail. I can only assume that someone stole it from the entrance to my old apartment building as we loaded up the first taxi which was parked a little way down the street. My flatmate had propped the door open and followed us down to the taxi as Rose and I were loading things into the boot thus leaving all my belongings unattended. Perhaps the most important item that was in that bag was my passport.<br /><br />Having grown used to French bureaucracy and things being as difficult as possible in Paris, it was with some trepidation that I paid a visit to the British Embassy. Once past the surly French security I was led into a warm, modern office with a reassuring photo of the Queen smiling out from behind the desk – I smiled myself as I noticed the English plug sockets dotted around the walls. Rather than being faced with endless sighs and cries of ‘oh la la’ the girl behind the desk explained efficiently that I had only to complete one form and provide passport photos and a new passport would be issued within five days! They didn’t even need any original documents – a huge relief since my birth certificate is in the UK and, when I think about it, probably lost too. I’m now waiting for my new passport to arrive whilst searching for a new apartment – it won’t be long before Darrin is back and I will have to move again. I pray the next time will go smoothly.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-43582254348767455552010-10-26T21:28:00.002+02:002010-10-26T21:34:40.968+02:00Do the Right ThingSeveral months ago, somewhat predictably, I had my iPhone stolen on the metro at Chateau Rouge. Last week I acquired a new one through a friend of mine which I have now restored and synced with my computer so that it more or less resembles the old one almost exactly. However, I hadn’t backed the original up for several months before it was stolen and, as a result, a lot of the latest music saved dates back to almost a year ago. In a strange twist of fate the weather in Paris has suddenly turned bitterly cold, I have also been teaching some English classes again and, ironically, I find myself listening to the same songs I was listening to last winter when I was traipsing the icy streets of Paris doing exactly the same thing. <br /><br />This time, however, the classes are slightly different. Gone are the small groups of attentive adults who were polite and keen to learn. They have been replaced with a minimum of ten children ranging in age from four up to eleven. They have no desire whatsoever to learn English, very poor manners and such severe attitudes they could give some of the finest Hollywood divas a run for their money. I had four hours with such a class this morning and spent my time separating fights, confiscating marbles and trying desperately to explain the various activities whilst attempting to detach the tiny four year old, the youngest in the group, from my right leg.<br /> <br />I had a 15 minute meeting at a language school that my Aunt had given my contact details to and before I knew where I was I had been given various activities, several lesson plans and a variety of classes each week. These were to take place at a Montessori style school in Montmartre. The manner of teaching at the school, it seems, is rather laid back and it is acceptable for students to wander off by themselves and do something else if they are not interested in the current project. After four hours of teaching these children, some of whom it must be said were very calm and interested, I was hoarse from shouting, disappointed that I had had to shout (I always fancied myself as one of those teachers who simply had the power naturally) and full of new found respect for those poor student teachers we put through their paces when I was at school. The children left the language centre of their own accord at 13:00 (fingers crossed none of them got run over) and I spent the next half an hour cleaning up the mess before making my way slowly home. The first thing I did was to send an email to the language school informing them I would not be continuing with these classes but if they still needed help with corporate clients I would be more than happy to assist. <br /><br />Despite this strange repetition of my Parisian routine I had two friends staying with me at the weekend and we managed to do a variety of things I had not yet accomplished myself. We found ourselves in the queue for the Catacombes at 15:00 on Saturday. The last entry is at 16:00 and we were the last ones to make it in before they cut the queue. Everyone ahead of us was in a great rush to make it down into the depths of the underground tunnels and we found ourselves completely alone wandering down the dark, dripping passages in complete silence. This certainly added atmosphere to the occasion and before long we found ourselves walking slightly faster than normal with visions of being locked in over night or something equally as terrifying. <br /><br />The whole experience was extremely interesting and once we had completed the catacombs we made our way to the Grand Palais to the extensive Monet exhibition currently in place. This, too, proved fascinating and charted his whole life from early childhood in Le Havre to his final home in Giverny where one can find the famous water-lily pond. <br /><br />The day was marred only by one occurrence and this took place whilst we were waiting to enter the Catacombes. The queue was formed just next to a little park comprised of several trees, a couple of benches and a wide, sweeping path that cut through the middle. Sitting on one of these benches was an elderly homeless lady in her late 50s or perhaps early 60s. She was dressed warmly in a thick padded jacket and was sitting, swigging occasionally from a can of beer. Presently, a homeless man dressed in jeans and wellington boots with a thick, grey beard approached her and began shouting at her. Things escalated and before long he had punched her in the face, hard, several times. The lady continued to sit benignly whilst the man continued to storm off and come back for another attack several minutes later. In between these assaults she would spit blood on to her palm and take another swig from her can. When the man returned for the final time he didn’t hold back and cracked her with the palm of his hand full force across the face. The sound of this slap echoed around the park. Presently, two policemen happened to be walking by and would have continued had they not been alerted to the situation by a passer-by who, by that point, was crouched next to the lady asking if she was alright. The Croix Rouge arrived soon after and we went into the Catacombes and didn’t see the conclusion.<br /> <br />Throughout this entire incident the whole queue was watching the events unfold with interest but at no point did anyone (myself included) make any effort to intervene. I felt terrible afterwards and recounted the story to a couple of friends who were quick to point out that it only takes one knife or one gun, used by such a man in a fit of rage, for things to end badly. Does this justify allowing oneself to be merely an observer? In a society where aggression and violence are rife how much must one be subjected to before they do the right thing? And what, precisely, is ‘the right thing’?Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-25936339635206309732010-10-03T15:20:00.003+02:002010-10-19T17:43:19.752+02:00Chateau RougeI’ve lived in Chateau Rouge, a rather infamous area in the 18th arrondissement, for a little over six months. As such, it seems fitting to give an account of the area, its inhabitants and the general atmosphere of the place. It is commonly regarded as rather a poor neighbourhood with a lot of crime. However, it borders Lamarck and is just behind the Sacre Coeur so, if you live on this side of the metro, as I do, you will find leafy, tree lined streets, reasonably priced accommodation and a selection of excellent restaurants. <br /><br />It is true, however, that when one descends down to Chateau Rouge metro one will find a seething mass of residents camped out on the street selling pirate DVDs, counterfeit wallets and cheap sunglasses. Others make their living by selling corn on the cob, popcorn and a curious vegetable which looks rather like a small, bright purple aubergine. These they lay out meticulously on a cloth and buff to a radiant shine. On descending into the metro there will generally be two queues: one for those who have legitimate tickets and wish to pass through legally, the other for those who are intent on barging through the exit gates as they open for an unsuspecting passenger who has just got off the train. Either way one can expect cramped conditions, no manners and a multitude of imbeciles who stop just in front of the gates to search, endlessly, for their Navigo card or to simply chat with their friends. Enormously fat women waddle, painfully slowly, on their swollen feet along the concourse weighed down by bags of meat and vegetables purchased from the market as new mothers jostle for position with their pushchairs or, even their babies who, sometimes, are arranged on their back tied with swathes of cloth. It is a constant battle when one hears the metro approaching not to make a bolt for it but don’t expect for a second you’ll make it, you won’t. You may not even make the second one for no one will quicken their pace or get out of your way.<br /><br />It takes energy and commitment to face the market but, if you are suitably <span style="font-style:italic;">en forme</span>, it is worth making the effort as you will find a decent selection of fresh fruit and vegetables as well as a wide variety of meat and chicken all at very reasonable prices. The quality is generally good although the presentation leaves a lot to be desired. Enormous vats of tripe are displayed in glass compartments with the various furry pieces all smushed against the glass, whole chickens are stacked unceremoniously together in similar compartments and vast supplies of oxtail and goat pieces are scattered liberally in the spaces in between. Red meat is really the best bet since all the chickens are scrawny with hardly any meat and are really only any use for using in soups or stews. <br /><br />The entire boulevard leading from Barbes (an even more infamous area) up to Chateau Rouge is lined with only two kinds of shops. Those selling mobile phones and those selling outdated, poorly fitting, cheap bridal wear displayed on chipped, rather sinister looking mannequins. Despite the ubiquity of these bridal shops it is impossible to find a wedding card anywhere on this street – I have learnt from experience. Just across from the metro, at the top of this boulevard is my local boulanger. Mercifully, he stays open all night and I have enjoyed many a delicious baguette or pastry from him at 4, 5 or 6am. <br /><br />My friend Lisa and I were in search of a local flea market several months ago and we decided to ask for directions in a restaurant a few hundred yards up the road from my apartment. We were informed that there was no such market that they knew of. It was a cold, miserable day and the staff were so friendly and helpful that we decided to stay for some lunch. For €8.50 (insanely cheap by Parisian standards) we each had a delicious steak, pommes de terre sautées and a salad. Lisa also had an espresso which cost an additional 70 centimes. The atmosphere in the restaurant was like that of a student pub but with vastly superior food, a more mature clientele and excellent service. I have been back several times since and have always been equally impressed. <br /><br />Rose and I see each other regularly but, as a result of always having little or no money, rarely do anything other than eat together which suits us fine since we both love to cook and, indeed, to eat. At the end of last month, with almost no money left, we decided to try one of the African restaurants in the quartier which advertised a formule for just €5. We entered the tiny restaurant through a beaded curtain and took a seat at one of the trestle tables with rickety wicker chairs. Unfamiliar with the African dishes on the menu it was up to Rose to explain to me what they were. I settled for a groundnut beef stew which was served with what, at first, appeared to be cous cous but turned out to be a lot more substantial. This arrived, fresh from the microwave, and piping hot. However, the meet was tender and flavoursome, the sauce tasty with just the right level of <span style="font-style:italic;">piquancy</span> and the portion size generous. The atmosphere was somewhat lacking with a constant stream of people stomping through the restaurant shouting into their mobile phones together with an extremely powerful stereo system that pumped out the latest in African pop music. However, we had dined relatively well for €5 so we had no complaints. <br /><br />There are many different personalities living in Chateau Rouge. There is the rather severe looking African prostitute who begins her night in the metro drinking beer before grinding up against passengers on the platform and eventually, when her luck is in, going home with someone. I have seen her accompanying many a different man through the streets of the quartier. With her closely cropped hair, extensive eye makeup, stiletto heels and, of course, her reputation she is not the most prepossessing person to see coming towards you on a dark night. <br /><br />There is also the man with an enormous grey beard and wild hair who stands at the top of the metro exit distributing flyers, the man who stands quietly at the entrance of the metro with an enormous muzzled German Shepherd surveying everyone but with no apparent authority and the poor homeless man with no feet who sits on the platform. <br /><br />These are the various elements that contribute to life in Chateau Rouge. Depending on my frame of mind I sometimes feel grateful for living in such a multi-cultural, bustling neighbourhood. Sometimes I long for the quiet, clean streets of a more respectable neighbourhood like the 16th. Nevertheless, this is Paris – a huge amalgamation of classes, cultures and ethnicities. Each makes a valid contribution to the overall atmosphere of the city and the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-86982918903107910672010-07-11T22:17:00.003+02:002010-07-11T23:02:45.726+02:00It's Paris, isn't it?Paris breeds bitterness. It’s not just me who feels it either. Many friends of mine who I have spoken to are in complete agreement. Having spent an extended period of time in the city one is constantly reminded of the ridiculousness of Parisian life. All too often a horrific story of French bureaucracy, unhelpful employees and appalling manners is shrugged off with a simple ‘it’s Paris, isn’t it?’ Paris is by no means an inconsequential city. In fact, more often than not it is listed alongside London and New York as one of the great cities for culture, fashion and art amongst others things. Be that as it may, having lived in London and visited New York, I can say categorically that Paris trails dismally in the wake of these two clean, efficient and modern cities. <br /><br />Jessie, a friend of mine who works at Breakfast in America, was negotiating the metro recently. Of course, no one could say that the underground or the subway are particularly clean, but the metro is home to hundreds of homeless people, ripe with the fetid stench of excrement, a breeding ground for thousands of cockroaches and lined with gutters filled with questionable sludge and muck. One homeless man approached Jessie and asked her for some change. She apologised and attempted to pass along the platform at which point he pinched her, hard, on the thigh. Shocking as this may seem, it’s Paris, isn’t it? <br /><br />John and I are continuing our walks of Paris. An attraction of one such walk was a clock mounted on the side of a building surrounded by ornate figurines depicting a fight scene between a giant serpent, a man and a phoenix. The guide book advised us that every hour, as the clock strikes, this scene comes to life and a battle is waged until one side is defeated. Happy that we had been fortunate enough to arrive at five minutes to nine we positioned ourselves in a perfect vantage point. Presently, however, we noticed a sign affixed beneath the clock informing viewers that the mechanism used to power the figurines was, in fact, <span style="font-style:italic;">en panne</span> i.e. broken. Rather than repairing the mechanism, in their infinite wisdom, the Marie had decided it made more sense to affix a permanent sign to the building and leave the clock broken indefinitely. Hey, this is Paris, remember? <br /><br />The Auld Alliance, a Scottish pub near St Paul, is a favourite of ours and we often frequent the terrace at the front and take advantage of the shaded aspect and relatively cheap drinks. We were enjoying a particularly relaxing afternoon recently when we spotted one of the many clinically insane homeless people living in Paris shambling up to our table. He hobbled along on his bare, deformed feet and proceeded to lean over the table and screech violently for several minutes all the while dribbling thick strands of brown saliva from his toothless gums onto our table. I was struck by how little effect this episode had on all of us. We continued our conversation as though nothing had changed and even after he had shambled off no one felt it necessary to discuss the matter further. I once saw another man raging at his poor dog who, loyally, was following with his tail between his legs occasionally letting out frightened yelps of distress. I would be interested to ascertain what, precisely, the protocol is in the UK for dealing with homeless people who have mental problems since it is rare that one finds any roaming the streets. There is clearly no such protocol in this city but it is Paris after all. <br /><br />Liz and I were chatting the other day about how, regardless of nationality, Paris will create a propensity in you to instantly dislike anyone outside of, or linked in some way, to your friendship group. The Parisians, of course, are the first to come under fire. With their tendency to repeat everything you say to them and their thick, gungey accent they are incapable of remaining quiet when thinking of what to say next but instead develop an assortment of noises which can be slipped into conversation where necessary simply to avoid a moment’s silence. <br /><br />Walking towards a park in the suburbs the other day, Rose and I found ourselves in the unfortunate position of being in between two French chavs one of whom had walked slightly ahead of her friend. The one behind us called to her friend who refused to turn her head when she responded and as a result the conversation went like this:<br />‘Il y a quoi la?’<br />‘Il y a un parc’<br />‘Un quoi?’<br />‘Un parc’<br />‘Un QUOI?’<br />‘Un PARC!’<br />‘QUOI?!’<br />At this point Rose and I were so sick of listening to the two of them that we picked up our pace and didn’t stop until we were well ahead of both of them. It isn’t just the Parisians who irritate those of us who have lived in the city for an extended period of time however. Upon hearing an English or Irish accent the natural assumption the city imposes upon you is that they are typical tourists who want nothing more than to climb the Eiffel tower, get spectacularly lost, eat a full English breakfast and get annihilated in one of the expat bars. Americans face a similar fate with the exception that they are generally louder. ‘Tyler’ and ‘Dwaine’ or whatever other unfortunate names the parents have chosen for their children will be the subject of a longer ridicule simply because their parents have chosen to announce their presence so forcefully thus providing more time for mockery.<br /> <br />After work yesterday evening we went for a drink and then played a game of Beer Pong. I needed to be up early today so I left at 2:00 with the intention of getting a velibe and being home by 2:30. I passed, perhaps, eight different velibe stations, the majority of which were empty. Two or three, however, were full of fully functional bikes but, of course, the station itself was broken and would not release any. I attempted to get a taxi after this process continued to repeat itself but naturally there wasn’t a single one available. After an hour and a half of walking I arrived at Gare de l’Est and finally found a taxi. The driver was reluctant to take me since Chateau Rouge was such a short ride (five minutes by car, fifteen on foot) but eventually he agreed. He wacked his meter up to the highest tariff possible and off we went. As I watched the figures soaring I reminisced about the days in London when I would walk from the West End down to Trafalgar Square, buzzing with people, and await the friendly glow of the N155 back to Clapham. That was, of course, towards the end of the month, at the beginning I would have taken one of the thousands of vacant taxis cruising through the streets until all hours. <br /><br />Presently we arrived at Chateau Rouge. I wanted to give the driver a tip since he HAD agreed to take me after all. I asked him for three euros change giving him a generous tip. This he handed me without a word. I paused for a second before getting out and slamming the door as hard as I could and making my way, furiously, back home. There was no friendly chatter as one can expect from the London taxi drivers, nor was there any cockney good wishes of goodnight. It’s Paris, isn’t it?Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-33687780264213958002010-05-25T20:46:00.001+02:002010-05-25T20:53:06.490+02:00What next?On the 4th of July it will be exactly a year since I arrived in Paris and it is looking increasingly likely that at the end of July my flatmate and I will have to move out of our apartment. This calls for all sorts of potentially life changing decisions to be made. Moving to another apartment in Paris, in July as well, would be so hellish due to the heat, the multiple flights of stairs and the organisation it would probably be less stressful to move back to the UK. However, this alone is not a good enough reason to do so.<br /> <br />I certainly don’t dread going to work in Paris like I used to in London but, having said that, it doesn’t take long for my mood to plummet proportionally according to the number of fresh orange juices, café au laits and milkshakes I have to make. On top of this I’m not exactly furthering my career but I’m not prepared to justify my career choices to some starched collared executive at a big corporate firm in London so I’m not too concerned about that. The thought of returning to a stifled office and career obsessed colleagues from 9am – 5pm is terrifying. Sunday nights would, once again, be accompanied by the ‘Sunday horrors’ at the prospect of another week in the office and my time would be spent ironing five work shirts and polishing my shoes. No thank you very much. I’d much rather be where I am for the moment. <br /><br />The colleagues at Breakfast in America continue to be among some of the nicest I have ever worked with. The atmosphere is open, relaxed and friendly and I am continually amazed at how fast the days go by. Ian, who I have written about before, together with his girlfriend Lisa and Bobby, one of the chefs, have become good friends of mine and we regularly go to Ian’s pub quiz on Sunday nights. Ian is the kind of person who will get steaming drunk and shave all his hair off but is, in fact, hugely intelligent. We have spent many an evening discussing all manner of philosophical topics such as religion, politics and literature. He and Lisa make the perfect couple – I never know any of the answers to his quiz questions but she gets lots and claims it is not a result of her general knowledge but her knowledge of Ian himself that allows her to divine the answer. These kinds of personalities are so far removed from those I encountered at my office job in London that, together with the type of work and lifestyle on offer in the UK, they provide a solid argument for staying in Paris. On top of this my French continues to improve. <br /><br />Learning a language is a funny business. I’ll go through plateaus of struggling with simple phrases, verb conjugations and tenses and then, suddenly, I’ll notice a vast improvement and find myself having a perfectly normal conversation, using all the correct tenses, as I would in English. I joke with the customers in the restaurant, speak naturally on the phone and give updates en masse to the people standing in the queue as to how long the wait will be. <br /><br />So, really, I’m no closer now to deciding what I should do in July than I was at the start of this entry. Any advice would be very much appreciated. In the meantime, perhaps I’ll do a pro and con list.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-43627950889201564932010-05-06T10:29:00.004+02:002010-05-06T10:33:09.121+02:00A rather French affair...Paris is not a nice place to be during the winter. In fact, due to various circumstances such as my appalling apartment and anti-social working hours, this last winter was one of the most unpleasant and miserable of my life. Perhaps I am exaggerating slightly – there was, of course, always the option of returning to the UK for good, but, since I chose to stay in Paris, this suggests I couldn’t have been too unhappy. In hindsight however, the living conditions and lifestyle in general, I would certainly not be prepared to repeat. <br /><br />Finally the bitter cold is being replaced with balmy spring air, the drab, soulless cafes are alive once more with people spilling out on to the streets and the long dismal nights are slowly but surely being encroached upon by the longer, more relaxing days. Paris in spring, on the other hand, is a wonderful place to be. As I write this I am sitting beneath a cherry blossom tree in full bloom in Buttes Chaumont. The sunlight is filtering down through the leaves and I can hear the birds singing, the children playing and an elderly French couple chatting quietly behind me. This vast turn around in my opinions toward Parisian life has been aided, not only by the improvement in the weather, but also by my working hours. I now work mostly day shifts meaning I am free from as early as 4:15 to have a siesta, a shower and recuperate in a pub with some friends or go out for dinner. A couple of weeks ago I spent an evening in an especially French fashion at a dinner party. <br /><br />French schools are closed on Wednesdays and, each week, my friend Rose looks after two boys, Dimitri and Guillaume, for the day. They are nice children and sometimes I go for lunch or to play table tennis with them. They seem to have taken a shine to me and often report back to their Mother what we got up to during the day. It is because of this that when Rose, in her infinite wisdom, decided to cook for almost the entire family, the boys and their parents, insisted I come. <br /><br />It was with some trepidation that I climbed the stairs to the fifth floor of their rather pleasant apartment near the Pantheon. Upon entering I was relieved to find that no one had arrived yet. However, I did find Rose and her sister Aba huddled over the stove in the kitchen engulfed by a cloud of smoke. Presumably, not being used to the induction hob, Rose had misjudged the temperature and burnt the first lot of tatale: a delicious combination of mashed plantain, deep friend until slightly crispy on the outside and gooey on the inside. Not wanting to add to Rose’s problems I settled myself at the breakfast bar – having a solid barrier between myself and the tension in the kitchen felt rather reassuring. Presently the others began to arrive. First it was the boys’ Aunt and Uncle who came with their two children and then the parents arrived home too with the boys. This made a total of 11, of which, only two spoke any English. <br /><br />Thankfully, the Father, Frederic brought out the alcohol and provided me with a beer with a dash of Picon – an orange flavoured addition that made it taste rather like marmalade. I sat quietly making kebabs and chatting with the boys’ Uncle whilst Rose and Aba pottered about in the kitchen, the boys played with my iPhone and the little girl spilled her juice, fussed and generally irritated everyone, except, of course, for her doting parents.<br /><br />I had, without really thinking, brought a bottle of wine which, although wasn’t the cheapest in the ‘Alimentation Generale’ wasn’t anything special either. Frederic opened this and we eventually sat down to dinner. Rose made a toast which induced the boys into fits of giggles and resulted in them taking it upon themselves to try and extract a toast from me as well. Within minutes the entire table was chanting ‘<span style="font-style:italic;">Allez, James! James!</span>’ Naturally I went puce in the face with embarrassment before making my rather forceful excuses. Not being a connoisseur of wine I thought my bottle was rather delicious. Frederic was also very complimentary although I can’t imagine that a €6 bottle of red from the corner shop compared particularly favourably to the expensive looking bottles of Chianti and Merlot that were lined up in the kitchen. <br /><br />The meal was wonderful and, before long, I was more relaxed and chatting fairly comfortably to Frederic and Celine, the boys’ Mother. Throughout the meal the boys’ cousin, the little girl of about three or four, was a constant nuisance. Sweet, in a clichéd sense, with blonde hair and blue eyes she was constantly seeking attention either by whining or crying. Once we had all finished eating her father offered her a chocolate mousse. Before opening it he checked with her that she was sure she was going to eat it to which she replied with a withering look and a Gaelic shrug ‘<span style="font-style:italic;">Bein oui</span>’. This caused the parents to visibly swoon with affection whilst I did my best to keep my food from making a bid for freedom. <br /><br />After we had cleared the table we moved into the living room for champagne and dessert. Celine had made some delicious cookies which she sandwiched together with a thick, creamy strawberry sauce and summer fruits. The little girl insisted upon meandering around the coffee table upon which were perched everyone’s champagne glasses. Celine and Frederic were somewhat wary about this but didn’t say anything - her parents were oblivious to their precious little girl’s stupidity. Inevitably, before long, she knocked one off the table (luckily for her it wasn’t mine) which caused everyone to wince, draw breath or cry out. This caused the little girl to burst into tears. Rather than giving her a good smack and making her sit down finally, the father swept her into his arms and cooed softly in her ear for the next 15 minutes whilst Celine went about clearing up the spilt champagne. <br /><br />Eventually, tired, full and relaxed, Rose, Aba and I bid our farewells. We left the warm glow of the apartment and went down the narrow stairs to the wide, Parisian boulevard outside. I was wheeling Rose’s shopping trolley, the kind popular with elderly Grandmothers. The wheel of this contraption kept spinning off causing Rose to chase after it down the street. It was a warm evening and the cafes were still busy, couples walked slowly, arm in arm bathed in the soft moonlight and the imposing outline of the Pantheon stood behind us as we made our way down to the RER and home.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-29484320873460952962010-04-05T12:19:00.002+02:002010-04-05T12:22:38.501+02:00Easter in the UKI’m spending Easter in the UK and, before returning to my hometown of Oxford, I broke the journey with a night in London catching up with old friends. Living in London last year I remember being crammed into a corner on the tube and thinking how desperate I was to move from this city to a more relaxed and refined lifestyle in Paris. Now that I have realised that lifestyle it is, of course, a classic case of the grass being so much greener in London once again. I spent the whole day seeing as many people as possible and thinking to myself how refreshing it was to have people wait for you to get off before swarming onto the tube themselves. By comparison people are decent in London: They hold doors for you, they wait at zebra crossings and are generally far more polite than in Paris.<br /> <br />The ‘buzz’ in London is also another factor worth mentioning. We went out on a Monday night, probably the quietest night of the week, and yet still found the streets thronged with people, the bars and clubs busy enough to provide a good atmosphere and the various sandwich shops and burger restaurants open all through the night to satiate those post-alcohol munchies. I took full advantage of this and bought a delicious sandwich from Subway before getting the night bus, followed by a salt beef bagel from an all night workers’ cafe along the Bethnal Green Road on the walk from the bus stop home. This scenario is about as far removed as possible from the lonely walks I have made, even on a weekend, with no taxis in sight, from Bastille to Gare de l’Est craving some hot food but knowing that the only thing available at such an hour is the cold pasta in the fridge at home. <br /><br />Back in Oxford, driving along the familiar roads to have lunch with an ex-colleague or drinks with an old friend I found some old CDs in the glove compartment which instantly transported me back to my Uni days. Oxford is full of memories. Very little changes but it will always have a rather bittersweet value because of that. My schoolboy self walked the same streets and went to the same shops, whilst at Uni I drove along the same dual carriageways and went to the same clubs and I even used the same routes each day on my commute to and from my first job. Although it feels as though I’ve left it behind somewhat, I know I can come home and it will always feel relaxing and safe.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-22278521551967827592010-03-09T20:28:00.001+01:002010-03-09T20:29:29.267+01:00Moving onA lot has happened since the last time I wrote: for various reasons, I am no longer teaching English, I have increased my hours and am now working almost full time at Breakfast in America and, most importantly, I have moved into a much more congenial apartment near Chateau Rouge. I have a big, comfortable bed, a warm, spacious room and as much hot water as I like – enough, even to fill the luxuriously big bath in the bathroom. In comparison with my tiny studio at Gare de l’Est this apartment feels rather like a boutique hotel. The apartment was only the third one I viewed so no one could say that the search was particularly difficult. However, the two previous apartments I saw were so completely unacceptable, it was a huge relief to find this one. <br /><br />The first apartment I viewed was in a quiet block just next to Telegraph on line 11. Upon knocking I was greeted by a volley of barks from within and a lot of scuffling noises whilst the owner presumably moved the dogs into the back room. As it transpired she had six. Six small yappy creatures that all slept in the same room and shared a bed with the owner - a toothless lady in her 50s who showed us around in her pyjamas. Despite the unfortunate dog smell which had permeated the rest of the apartment, in general, it wasn’t bad at all. The living room was light and spacious with rather grand, out of place, marble furnishings. The kitchen and bedroom were also adequate. It seemed that the owner preserved the rest of the apartment quite perfectly and rarely used the living room or kitchen. Her room on the other hand was awash with dog toys, stained bed sheets and clutter. Aside from the smell and the six dogs I simply wouldn’t have felt relaxed living with someone so much older than me who allocates the use of her balcony solely as a loo for her dogs so I moved on to the next viewing.<br /><br />This apartment was much less agreeable. It was small and poky and I would be sharing with an Indian man who would have to walk through my ‘bedroom’ to in order to access his. It really couldn’t be accurately described as a bedroom in any case – it was just off the kitchen and really only offered enough space for the bed and the walkway between the kitchen and the owner’s bedroom. This man was very particular about my working hours since he claimed to work from home a lot. Once it transpired that I worked mainly evenings he explained that the apartment wouldn’t be suitable for me. I could have told him that from the second I walked in the door in fact. <br /><br />My current apartment is in a traditional Parisian building and my room has large French windows with a view of, well, the wall of the building opposite actually, but it is light nevertheless and the apartment is quiet and warm. The kitchen has an electric hob and a mini oven but this took nearly an hour to cook a pizza the other night so I’m going to invest in a new one so I can, once again, indulge in mid-week roast dinners, boeuf bourguignon and macaroni cheese. <br /><br />The apartment has made a huge difference to my quality of life. I sleep better, I feel more relaxed, I’m more enthusiastic about learning French and I eat better. Coupled with this the weather in Paris lately has been wonderful - clear blue skies, a slight warmth to the sun and trees and plants starting to bud in anticipation of Spring. I’ve found myself meandering through the streets feeling really rather positive about living here – something I haven’t felt for a long time. <br /><br />After work on Saturday I went to Corcoran’s to meet some friends. It was the first time I had been there since long before Christmas and I was surprised at how little things had changed. Nicky was still lumbering about behind the back bar shouting at several new starters whom I didn’t recognise, Nabeel was still prowling across the floor with his earpiece, in constant contact with the door staff, and several other staff members who I remembered where still working frantically with sweat dripping off their faces. In hindsight I’m surprised that I put up with the management there but this, of course, is easy to say now that I am settled, have a steady job, friendly colleagues and a regular income. In July, starting out in a new city with no job, only a couple of friends and an unfamiliar environment I was prepared to put up with a lot more to make a go of things. Luckily, it seems to have paid off.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-7714375737999701212010-01-18T14:15:00.002+01:002010-01-18T14:18:12.586+01:00Return to ParisHaving spent a glorious two weeks at home for Christmas I am now back in my icy apartment with a fridge that clangs all night long, a fresh spattering of mould on the walls and a loo that is now completely broken courtesy of the disgusting old man who lives down the corridor. It may not actually be his fault but since he has woken me up every morning since I got back by unlocking the loo door and leaving it open whilst he urinates loudly I think it only fair that he be held responsible. Now that my fingers are growing accustomed to the cold and can, once again, operate sufficiently to type and my brain has got over the shock of discovering that a friend of mine who lives in Shrewsbury pays the same for her two bedroom house as I pay for my studio, I thought I would continue with my accounts of life in Paris. <br /><br />In stark contrast to the type of behaviour expected in London, for example, in Paris, no one was surprised by the sight of a rather frazzled old lady boarding the metro with a pigeon clinging to her bag. She settled herself in one of the folding chairs and the pigeon looked round indignantly at the other passengers as though warning them to respect his personal space. He then ruffled his feathers resignedly and dived into the bottom of the bag which I could see was covered with an assortment of seeds and other delicacies. I suppose the lady was grateful for the company for she seemed to be homeless.<br /><br />Walking home from Breakfast in America towards Bastille the other night I was, once again, reminded of the amount of poverty and homelessness in Paris. This particular stretch of road is lively and full of people during the day but at night it transforms into almost another world. Each shop doorway is occupied by a homeless person together with an assortment of belongings. There is one notable elderly lady who takes up almost the entire length of a shop window with an assortment of packing cases, clothes, sleeping bags and deck chairs. She makes herself a little camp each night and stomps about in her tartan skirt and stockinged feet rummaging through her belongings, tidying up her little space and watching the world go by from one of her deckchairs. I regularly see her tending to someone (presumably her husband) buried underneath a thick pile of blankets and pillows. Several residents of this strange nocturnal neighbourhood make little fires and the whole scene resembles something out of <span style="font-style:italic;">Escape from New York</span>. <br /><br />Just a few doors down from me, I discovered recently, is a perfect sleeping spot which is densely populated with tents and sleeping bags. I have taken a different route home these past couple of nights and have been sure to tiptoe silently past the sleeping lumpy shapes to get to my building. I suppose this sort of place would be my choice if I were homeless – not only is it quiet but there is also a metro grate which expels warm air to the lucky one who is first on the scene in the evening. Of course, there is also the option of sleeping in the metro itself which, although warm, means putting up with the trains passing until 1am and then again from 5am so, for me, a little backstreet seems the best option.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-67727097620346454712009-12-06T12:49:00.002+01:002009-12-06T12:52:20.728+01:00Un Mélange of AnecdotesSeveral Sundays ago I was in the midst of a terrible hangover and trying desperately to lie still and sleep when from across the room I heard my mobile buzzing furiously on the table. Thinking it might be something important I wrenched myself out of bed and after much searching located my phone under a pile of bills. It was Deborah from Breakfast in America who explained that they were a man down and asked if I could go in at 4pm instead of 7pm. And so, with puffy eyes, a splitting headache and a stomach that felt as if it might make a bid for freedom one way or another, I fought for a place on the metro and arrived at work just before 4pm. Brunch was in full swing and there was a queue of around 25 people waiting outside, whilst, inside, there were plates stacked high on every available surface, pancakes with sticky containers of maple syrup at almost every table and a very frazzled looking staff doing their best to satisfy every demand. I surveyed the room with a feeling of despair and immediately popped two Doliprane in an attempt to ease my headache before I joined the fray and began taking orders and clearing tables. Whether it was a result of the Doliprane, the pace of work, the heat, or a mixture of all three I’m not sure but within an hour or so I realised I was feeling relatively normal. My headache had subsided, I no longer felt queasy and I was feeling rather energised by the atmosphere in the restaurant. Perhaps forcing your body to perform in such a situation induces your metabolism to speed up and purge itself of all the toxins left over from the night before, I was certainly feeling better, regardless. <br /><br />Despite having a wealth of things to do in my spare time such as searching for a new apartment, writing this blog and, of course, learning French I have become so drained by the lack of long hot showers, central heating and pretty much any creature comforts that all I seem able to do is lie in bed and watch Brothers and Sisters and Spooks. However, I am off until 7pm tonight, which is unheard of, and, having just had a delicious and comforting meal in a warm delicious restaurant with my friend Camille, I feel rather energised so thought I would channel this energy into something productive. <br /><br />Last Sunday I had enjoyed a lie in and was just getting through the daily obstacle of showering in a cupboard when I heard someone come up the stairs and knock, either on my door, or on Soraya’s (they’re so close together I couldn’t tell which). The last thing I felt like dealing with was anything that required speaking French so I stopped singing abruptly and listened for further developments. Presently Soraya answered her door and I heard an anguished cry from our neighbour below us who exclaimed ‘Il pleut dans ma maison!’ literally translated this means ‘it’s raining in my house’. I felt sure this was caused by my shower but I was in no mood to deal with this kind of problem on one of my precious mornings off so I quietly finished my shower and got dressed. All the while I could hear Soraya and the other woman murmuring outside trying to determine whether it was Soraya’s sink or the loo or something else entirely. Eventually Soraya went downstairs to see where the water was coming from and I snuck out to buy some lunch. As I passed the doorway to the apartment below mine I noticed that it was ajar and I could them still trying to determine the source of the leak. <br /><br />When I returned with a fresh baguette, some smoked salmon and some cream cheese all was quiet so I made myself a sandwich and decided to Skype my parents who had just got back from an extended holiday, as such it was the first time I had spoken to them in around three weeks. About five minutes into the conversation there was a loud knocking at the door. I wearily answered it to find Soraya who anxiously explained to me about the leak. Despite my protests she ran off to get the neighbour below us silencing me with shrieks of ‘J’arrive toute de suite!’ I explained to Dad that I would call him back, sprayed some Febreeze around the place to get rid of the smell of fish and waited for the neighbour. She surveyed the shower and exclaimed ‘Oh la la, c’est sympa eh?!’ I studied the peeling paint, the mouldy skylight and the ancient tiles on the walls and shrugged before she explained that she wasn’t sure where the leak was coming from but would try and arrange for a plumber to carry out some tests. I agreed and she went home, Soraya returned to her apartment and I went back to my sandwich. I haven’t heard anything since so I’m hoping the cause of the problem was something entirely unrelated to my apartment. <br /><br />Breakfast in America is as enjoyable as ever and we rotate duties regularly meaning that one day I am taking orders, the next I am on the door and the next I am on the bar. This creates a nice variety of tasks and regardless of what I’m doing I always have fun whilst I’m there. The staff are extremely easy to get along with and we all seem to have a similar sense of humour resulting in a great atmosphere. <br /><br />When working on the door one is responsible for seating new customers and clearing tables. The restaurant is so popular and so small that there is nearly always a queue of at least twenty people in the evening and it is the job of the person on the door to explain to them how long the wait will be and to juggle tables to seat everyone as quickly as possible. There is a notice outside that asks customers to wait outside to be seated since there simply isn’t enough room for people to wait inside. Last week, when the restaurant was as full as it is possible to be, a group of four French girls came in, ignored the queue, and asked me if I had space for four. I looked at them for a moment trying to judge whether or not they were being serious and, deciding that they were, made a mock scan of the room as if to convey the fact that there wasn’t an empty seat in the place. They didn’t catch on. I explained that we didn’t have any seats at the moment but if they’d like to join the queue outside there’d be a wait of around 20 minutes. They smiled and explained that they only wanted to eat a couple of pieces of cheesecake. Rather than explaining that they should, in fact, wait longer than all the other people who were already in the queue and wanted proper meals, I explained again that we didn’t have any tables at the moment. They decided to order the cheesecake to take away but in the ten minutes they were waiting for their order insisted upon waiting at the bar, getting in everyone’s way and asking me continually if they could sit at every table for two that became vacant. We were all very glad to see the back of them.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-77716401536886363962009-11-16T20:38:00.001+01:002009-11-16T20:41:05.124+01:00My NeighboursOne of the many factors I dislike about flat living is the different smells that waft out from each flat as the inhabitant starts cooking their evening meal. In our building each floor is, naturally, linked by a staircase. However, there is an absence of any doors to seal off the floors and the result is a medley of odours from each floor amalgamating and hanging in the communal air until their go stale. Imagine, for example, floor one provides the fried onions, floor two provides steamed fish, floor three, roasted garlic and by the time you get to floor five with Soraya’s various curries and lamb dishes the air is so heavy with the various scents that it’s a huge relief to close the door on them all and breathe the relatively fresh, albeit slightly damp air, in my apartment. It seems that the patch of mould that is slowly moving its way across the ceiling is responsible for this but I have also noticed that the wall behind my bed is constantly wet so I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole apartment crumbled away to nothing before too long. <br /><br />The inhabitants of my building are a varied bunch. On my floor there’s Soraya of course but there’s also the old man who lives directly opposite the staircase. We have a strange relationship – each morning I hear him shuffling past my apartment, unlocking the loo door and urinating loudly with the door wide open before shuffling back to his apartment without using the flush. This is followed by a bellow of range on my part when I visit the loo half an hour later to find a generous sprinkling of urine all over the stone floor and an unflushed bowl. I proceed to hammer loudly on the wall adjacent to his apartment whilst shouting obscenities before returning to my apartment and listening to some music at full volume to vent my anger. This is all played out anonymously and when we meet each other on the stairs we are, generally, perfectly amicable with one another and will discuss topics such as the weather and the state of the building. He’s a strange man, not least because he is in his sixties and living in a studio apartment, but he also has a lazy eye which always looks skyward and a slight limp. The thought of him shuffling past my door in his dressing gown and slippers at night is the stuff of nightmares. <br /><br />On the floor above is a very cruel looking Iranian guy who is possibly one of the most unfriendly people I have ever met. He has a waxen complexion and is completely bald except for a thin sprinkling of black hair around the back and sides of his head. He wears dark, misshapen clothes and I have had the misfortune of coming out of my apartment just as he is going past and having to endure five flights of stairs looking at the back of his head. This has happened on several occasions and never has he made any attempt to smile or speak to me. Once he was eating a cream cheese sandwich and kept dropping pieces of cheese which he would scrape off the floor and wipe on his trousers. <br /><br />On the third floor lives a rather large lady with a ruddy complexion and unkempt greying hair. She’s much more friendly than the Iranian man and will always stop to say hello no matter how short of breath she is from climbing the stairs (usually with an array of packages and boxes). She gives the impression of always being tremendously busy and I often see her stomping around in her hiking boots and cycle gear as if she’s just about to embark on an expedition to the Alps. The door to her apartment is surrounded with pot plants which I thought were hers until one day I saw the little old lady who lives next door to her tending to them.<br /><br />The elderly lady who lives on the third floor inhabits the apartment on the left hand side and can usually be found either pruning, dead-heading, or watering her pot plants or else pottering about in the storage room which is full to bursting with old bed parts, microwaves, assorted pieces of broken furniture and paintings. She has fine, wispy white hair which she wears tied up in a loose bun and milky blue eyes. She reminds me very much of Kralefsky’s mother in Gerald Durrell’s My Family and Other Animals although she certainly isn’t bed-ridden nor are her flowers exactly exquisite. She too is very friendly and always calls me ‘Monsieur’ which, although relatively normal, still makes me feel rather important. <br /> <br />Finally there’s the man who lives upstairs who I originally met at the laundrette and lent some washing powder to. He likes to practise his English when we meet in the stairwell and claims that his girlfriend (who also lives with him apparently) is English. <br /><br />Thus, these are the residents who I interact with on a regular basis and who make up life in my building. There are others; the two guys who come home each night at 1:30am and thunder up the stairs, the girl on floor two who had the house party for her birthday and the Chinese man and his wife who live on the fourth floor. However, the ones previously mentioned are the most relevant and interesting characters in the building, and I portray them in order to give you an impression of the various personalities flourishing in a little side street, near Gare de l’Est, in the 10th arrondissement.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-53732714900977979732009-11-08T15:05:00.002+01:002009-11-08T15:13:55.266+01:00A TributeI want to make a slight diversion from the normal route these musings take, although not entirely, to pay tribute to the King of Pop, Michael Jackson. It’s been almost five months since his death and a day hasn’t gone by when I haven’t listened to at least a couple of his songs. Sunday evenings at Breakfast in America have become comfortably familiar. More often than not I work with Josy and Ellie (who has mellowed a great deal since her argument with Ian and is now much more likeable) and we spend an enjoyable time working hard but also having fun. Occasionally we’ll ask the kitchen to make us some French toast towards the end of the evening which is always devoured in minutes. The atmosphere is great and staff and customers alike are always laughing and having a good time. A couple of months ago I made a playlist which we tend to use on Sunday evenings and, naturally, Michael Jackson is featured heavily. There is a huge range on the playlist including everyone from Aretha Franklin to Brian Adams. However, no one is as pleasing to the customers as Michel Jackson and when he is playing I can cast my eye around the room to be met with a sea of bobbing heads, tapping feet and even some dancing. There have been many squeals of appreciation as customers hear their first MJ song of the evening and whole groups sway in motion in time to the music. It really is a testament to his unrivalled talent and skill – he is known and appreciated the world over by all generations and I feel sure that his style and longevity will never be equalled.<br /> <br />I went to see ‘This is It’ at the cinema at Les Halles yesterday evening and, as predicted, there wasn’t an empty seat in the house. His dance moves and vocals were as impressive as ever and I’m sure the planned concerts would have been a huge success. I was also struck by his patience and gentle temper, something that seems to be a common trait amongst all his siblings the more I see of them on the television. Michael’s death really is a tragedy. Rest in Peace. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.staragora.com/images/flux/default/e/9/9e8bf586da065254c7f84dbc692a995e4a4ddf21421b7.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 495px;" src="http://www.staragora.com/images/flux/default/e/9/9e8bf586da065254c7f84dbc692a995e4a4ddf21421b7.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-65362767078255109642009-11-02T21:21:00.002+01:002009-11-02T21:30:57.999+01:00It couldn't have turned out better, really...Towards the end of a recent shift at BIA I was standing behind the bar with Josy when a homeless man entered and shuffled his way towards us. He stood by the bar and asked Josy for a coffee or some food. Josy called through to the kitchen who put together some nachos and some leftover chilli and passed it through to us in a take-away box. Whilst he was waiting the man kept making these strange clicking noises with his tongue which were starting to drive me crazy so I was glad when the food finally arrived. He looked at it and asked how he was supposed to heat it up since he didn’t have a micro-wave. Now, it wasn’t entirely cold and did, in fact, look rather delicious – I would have been happy to eat it myself. Josy said that we weren’t going to heat it up for him and he began to argue for a minute or two before shuffling out clicking away to himself. We were just discussing his audacity (the phrase ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ perhaps more appropriate than ever before) when he marched back in with his take-away box, dumped it on the bar and said if we weren’t going to heat it up then he didn’t want it - then he stormed out. This whole episode made me especially angry because Josy had taken the time to prepare this food for him, it was perfectly acceptable food, delicious even, and he had effectively thrown this act of kindness back in her face. To make matters worse he came in again the following week to ask for something to eat and we all rounded on him and categorically said ‘no’. He smiled sheepishly, realised he’d lost a potentially reliable source of food for ever, and walked out with his tail between his legs. <br /><br />During the last couple of weeks I have encountered two further personalities in my classes which are worthy of a mention. The first is a Cambodian lady of about 60 called Pom. She is in an absolute beginners’ class which is exactly the right place for her since she is one of the most challenging students I’ve had yet. She’s rather an intimidating lady with a shock of black hair, very small eyes emphasized by her black rimmed glasses and a mouth which is forever coated in a thick layer of peach lip gloss. Throughout the lesson she sits to attention with her legs apart and takes on the appearance of some sort of Eastern dictator. Despite her appearance she’s actually fairly friendly but, as mentioned before, her English skills require a lot of improvement. As I repeat the phrases over and over again for her she jettisons further and further from the original version until she has effectively created an entirely new sentence altogether. It takes every ounce of energy to rein her in and have her repeat something even vaguely similar to what I have said. Her dictations are an absolute minefield and I am sure to allow at least half an hour for a single dictation in her group because, more often than not, I will have to re-write hers entirely. She really does write what she hears and, considering she has a very limited knowledge of English words, together with a very poor ear for sounds, this results in catastrophe. <br /><br />The second student is a quiet but very likeable guy called Lionel. He’s in an intermediate group with two other students. All three are of a fairly similar standard and, as a result, are a lot easier to teach than Pom’s group. I was teaching them the expression ‘to cheer someone up’ last week, a classic, which no-one ever seems to understand. In an attempt to make it clearer I explained to them that I had been teaching for six hours, it would take me an hour to get home (I was in the 16th for this class) and I hadn’t eaten yet, as such I was in a rather bad mood (I wasn’t, in fact, but it helped to demonstrate the point). Then I asked Lionel what he would say to me to cheer me up. He was silent for a moment whilst he thought of something appropriate before he tentatively replied ‘Erm...you are a very sympathetic teacher...?’ I beamed at him and congratulated him on his success in cheering me up – it had, actually, done just that. Then I asked him if he had meant ‘sympathetic’ or nice and he replied ‘oui, oui, les deux’ which just helped to boost my cheeriness even further. They understood the novel expression and I got a little pick me up for the rest of the class – I plan to use the same technique as soon as I have to teach ‘to cheer someone up’ again. <br /><br />Last week I received an email from ‘A La Carte’, the rental agency I was unceremoniously fired from when the owner found someone with more experience than me four days into my trial period. I opened it with some trepidation expecting to find some claim that they had overpaid me or similar. In fact, the General Manager, Anne, had written to offer me a different job at weekends welcoming the new arrivals and showing them into their apartment. Although this would, no doubt, have been fairly easy money and something I would have quite enjoyed, I am already at capacity when it comes to working hours and, more importantly, I have too much pride to go back to work for that creep with the cruel blue eyes and orangey perma-tan. However, having said that, I am grateful to him because things couldn’t have turned out better. I have a varied and interesting schedule, have met a great deal of new and interesting people and don’t have to sit in an office bored to tears all day long. He has helped to reinforce my desire never to return to office work either in France, the UK or anywhere else in the world for that matter.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-84709845066072118902009-10-19T15:53:00.002+02:002009-10-19T15:58:28.593+02:00Parisian PersonalitiesEvery one of my classes at Anglais Oral Accéléré contains different personalities and I have encountered a wide range of people. Some have an excellent sense of humour and are friendly and pleasant. Others are not so easy going and are so over confident in their own abilities that it takes a great deal of energy just to convey the necessary corrections. One of my favourite groups comprises Katie, Nadia and Hung. Hung is an extremely enthusiastic guy from Vietnam. He is fluent in French and in Vietnamese but has a great deal of difficulty pronouncing English words. Nevertheless, he tries hard, is very keen to learn and, the atmosphere in the group is such, that each member feels comfortable enough to laugh, either at their own mistakes or at those of others without any malice. <br /><br />Nadia is an interesting character. She is, I suppose, in her late fifties and usually arrives late accompanied by a wave of expensive perfume, perfectly coiffeured hair and designer clothes. She apologises profusely for her lateness before settling herself into her chair and adopting a look of utter concentration which is only interrupted by fits of laughter at Hung’s mistakes. Last week we were discussing music and, when asked what kind of music she liked, she replied R and B. Interested as to whether or not she was just responding with the first thing that came into her head, I probed for a little more information. As it turns out Nadia is a fan of all the modern R and B artists including Chris Brown, Ne-Yo and Kanye West and listens to them on CD in her car. I have no doubt that this is, in fact, the case and I ca picture her cruising round the affluent 16th arrondissement in a brand new Mercedes sampling the newest tracks from her favourite artists. <br /><br />One of my lessons yesterday was a new group and I could tell instantly that they were going to be an easy and rewarding group to teach. Firstly they were scheduled to complete the book in 15 hours as opposed to 30 - if people do very well in their original assessment, but not quite well enough to do the next level up, then this is what we recommend. Secondly they were friendly and adapted to the method very quickly. They seem to be a particularly studious group and when they were checking their dictation for mistakes it was highly amusing to listen to the low murmuring coming from each person interspersed with jubilant cries of ‘ahh oui!’, ‘J’ai oublié ca’ and ‘Ca s’ecrit comme ca!’. I had a big smile on my face by the time they had finished and I went round to each person to double check for errors they had missed. <br /><br />Last weekend was particularly eventful and started with the Saturday night shift at Breakfast in America. Ian had been working since 11am and was to take an hour break at 6pm before coming back at 7pm. In the hour Ian was away Ellie worked behind the bar and I took care of the floor with Lucy who would be leaving for the evening at 7pm. The first point of contention arose when Ian returned. Ellie asked him to go behind the bar for the evening but, since he had already been behind the bar for seven hours that day he didn’t want to do it for the evening shift as well. I should point out that Ellie has no more authority than Ian, in fact, she doesn’t have any more authority than me either but does have the advantage of having been there longer. As I have mentioned before Ellie tends to flap and as a result loses her patience fairly soon into a busy shift. It didn’t help matters that almost every party were ordering milkshakes - something that vexes Ellie over anything else is making milkshakes – you have to ask the kitchen for the ice cream AND clean the blender afterwards, I mean, honestly! <br /><br />As a result, Ellie was in a foul mood and snapped at Ian and me all evening, that was, until she needed stock from the cellar. She asked Ian who refused point blank and this was when things really came to a head. I was on the floor when I head Ellie scream something from the kitchen and Ian retaliate with a volley of abuse. Ellie banged down to the cellar and Ian returned to the floor looking a little sheepish. No one really spoke for the rest of the shift and when all the customers had left they really flew at each other. I went outside to sweep the pavement of discarded cigarette butts left my people waiting in line for a table and when I came back things had quietened down somewhat. By the time we left they seemed amiable enough to one another and we each went our separate ways to join our friends around the city who were taking advantage of ‘La Nuit Blanche’. <br /><br />‘La Nuit Blanche’ involves artists displaying installations all around the city for one night only. The whole city comes out to view these attractions and there is a wonderful party atmosphere. By the time we had finished at Breakfast in America and had a couple of drinks after the shift it was nearly 1am and I went to meet the others in a pub. Needless to say I saw very little art that night which is inexcusable. Instead we moved from venue to venue before consuming a huge amount of food bought from a Greek take-away shop. The night ended with my struggling with the velibe system but eventually managing to release one and cycling home.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-4961326566669509492009-10-10T18:46:00.002+02:002009-10-10T18:52:40.855+02:00Schedules and SchemesMy classes at Anglais Oral Accéléré are mostly very enjoyable and the type of work affords a schedule that results in my having some time off during the day, either for lunch or a siesta, which is always nice. Since my working hours change each week it also doesn’t feel like a routine which prevents me from getting bored. There are two offices; one on Boulevard Voltaire near Oberkampft metro and the other in the prestigious 16th arrondissement on rue Paul Valery. I have to walk right past the Arc de Triomphe when at the Paul Valery office and it is then that I feel most like a true Paris resident as I’m casually listening to my iPod rather than snapping away at the arc or the Champs Elysees with a digital camera. <br /><br />One day last week I had a two hour break between classes at the Paul Valery office so John and I decided to get something to eat. Most restaurants that we came across were very expensive and in the end we settled on a somewhat dubious looking Chinese in the next street along from the office. It was a tiny little place and all the food was pre-cooked and sitting in trays waiting to be micro-waved by the staff behind the counter. There were just two other guys inside sitting at the counter talking quietly. I strolled in feeling rather confident of my French at that point and, as a result of being so used to working at Breakfast in America, announced to the room ‘Bonjour, vous etes deux’, what I should have said was ‘nous sommes deux’ – there are two of us, instead of there are two of you. The people behind the counter looked at me, somewhat puzzled, whilst John burst out laughing and I hurriedly ordered my food and went to sit down with a very red face. <br /><br />Yesterday I was, once again, given a demonstration of how much poverty there is in Paris and, as a result, the numerous scams people come up with in an attempt to save money. I was exiting Oberkampft metro on my way to teach a class and as the automatic barriers swung open to let me through a homeless man with filthy clothes, a wild mop of tangled hair and a stench unlike any other shoved me to one side in an attempt to get through the barriers before they closed. At first I naturally assumed I was in his way for some reason so made an attempt to move to one side before my brain caught up and I came to the conclusion that, for once, I wasn’t in the wrong. He was far too late anyway and the barriers had shut behind me long before he had a chance to get through. Nevertheless he kept on struggling to get past me and when faced with an unusual situation I usually switch back to English and so, in my best English accent, I asked him to ‘please get out of the way’. When I was clear of the barriers I looked back to see him struggling with the queue of people who were exiting after me, none of whom looked at all impressed with his efforts. <br /><br />After this little episode my student who I was supposed to be teaching that afternoon was an hour late. It wasn’t worth going home again so I was getting some fresh air outside the office when a man walked past me and bent down to pick up a ring he had allegedly found on the pavement. In fact, he had had it in his hand all along and I had been warned of this scam before. He offered it to me and I said I didn’t want it but he kept on persisting and in the end I raised my voice and said that he should have it if it was such a nice ring. The scheme is such that when some unsuspecting individual accepts the ring, along with the unexpected kindness of a complete stranger, the scammer demands five euros for it. Since they have owned it all along it is probably made from a worthless metal and spray-painted gold. I wanted to explain that I didn’t want a great fat gold wedding band that he had ‘found’ on the pavement, that I knew he hadn’t found it at all and that I certainly wouldn’t pay him for something if he had found it on the street, but I don’t think my French would have been quite up to it.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-74944826075137055222009-10-04T12:31:00.002+02:002009-10-04T12:39:07.569+02:00Art and HistoryThe other day I was exploring Montparnasse and out of nowhere suddenly loomed the Montparnasse Tower – a huge, black, imposing skyscraper that, at night, is especially dark except for the red lights that shine out from every other floor giving it a demonic presence. The tower itself is very reminiscent of Centre Point in London but is newer and not nearly as friendly looking. It has, in fact, caused a lot of controversy and Parisians generally hate it for destroying the skyline of historic Paris. I took the metro home just past midnight and just as we had left the station the train lurched to a halt, the carriage was plunged into darkness and it suddenly became very hot. Whilst I quietly waited for the dementors to arrive another girl was not quite so calm and started screaming and jiggling around in her seat. Her friends consoled her in a half joking, half serious manner and within a couple of minutes we were on the move again. Nevertheless it was rather un-nerving especially since there was no explanation from the driver. <br /> <br />I paid a visit to The Louvre the other day. I have to say I was somewhat disappointed. It was too big, there were too many people and it was too hot. Despite my having timed my visit for a weekday afternoon it was still absolutely packed and rather than spending time looking at the works of art I seemed to spend more time dodging people who were taking photographs. Instead of wandering peacefully from room to room as one does in London galleries you can either fight against hoards of people surging through the various galleries or you can simply go with them, which, although might make for an easier visit, certainly doesn’t make for a more pleasurable one. Aside from all this, very few of the paintings seemed to have blurbs written about them and most just had a line or two giving the name of the artist, where they came from and the date. They say that if you spend just three seconds looking at every piece of art it will take you three months before you’ve seen everything. <br /><br />Once I’d found my way out I decided to go and sit in the gardens just in front of the museum. It was a lovely sunny day and as the rats scampered back into the hedgerows I settled myself in a quiet spot in the shade. I was teaching in an hour so I set my alarm and dozed peacefully for 30 minutes. I woke up feeling refreshed and energised. I stood up to leave and caught sight of a used condom that had been lying just a couple of feet from where I had been sleeping. Needless to say it marred the experience somewhat and I hurried off to get the metro.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-16297670616652350062009-09-24T19:13:00.002+02:002009-09-24T19:17:41.171+02:00Living Conditions...I have been here almost three months now and whilst my French has certainly improved, it hasn’t improved as much as I would have liked, and, moreover, I seem to have hit a wall in terms of my language development. I was in the laundrette last week when an old, dishevelled Frenchman with a big, questionable, yellow stain on his jeans came in and started chatting to me. He had grey hair, rheumy eyes and stank of alcohol but, nevertheless, seemed friendly enough and chattered away at me for a good half an hour. I understood very little but thanks to my ability to laugh at the right places in any language I don’t think he noticed. I’m not sure whether it was a result of his mumbling or my insufficient vocabulary, but it did make me realise that I need to re-launch my attack on actually learning French, that is, after all, the reason I’m here. I’m loathed to take anymore lessons because they’re usually boring and terribly expensive so I am considering looking for a house share with French people meaning I will be more immersed in the language and have more opportunity to practise. All my friends are either American or English so I rarely get the opportunity to actually speak much French, aside from taking orders for burgers and milkshakes of course. <br /><br />Moving in with a French person could also, potentially, improve the quality of my living arrangements which, recently, have taken a bit of a nose dive. I came home from a shift at Breakfast in America last Saturday to find the whole staircase lit up and thronged with people. The resident of one of the apartments on the second floor was having a birthday party and I could hear the bass from the music as I approached the building. As I entered, two guys who were hanging out by the post boxes had the nerve to ask me who'd invited me! I explained that I lived here and they sheepishly went back to their drug deal or whatever they were doing that required such secrecy that they had to leave the party and converse in hushed tones in the entrance hall. <br /><br />On top of this, the school just outside my building has become a hotspot for hip hop wannabes who come out at about midnight with their tinny phone speakers and play the worst kind of hip hop music whilst attempting to imitate the artists as well as holding loud, but poorly articulated conversations, interspersed with ‘cool’ hip hop lingo. This continues far into the night but usually I am forced to shut my windows to block out the noise so I don’t know when, exactly, they disperse. They clearly don’t have jobs but really ought to consider finding something because they’ll be waiting a long time if they’re holding out for a recording contract.<br /><br />Finally, the loo is becoming more and more filthy as everyone who uses it is disgusting, except for me. It is so bad that I wouldn’t even let a guest of mine in there, I’d be too ashamed. There are also two guys who live on the floor above me and come home regularly at around 1:30am. They clomp up the stairs, talking at the top of their voices and seem to have no respect for anyone who might be sleeping. In fact, I am usually still awake at that time, just, but it’s not the point. Once they have passed my door they will continue up to their apartment where I will hear the slam of their door before peace is restored once more. Well, except for the hip hop blasting up from the street of course. <br /> <br />Yesterday was Eid in Paris and, in classic timing, Soraya knocked on my door just as I’d got in the shower. I thought I’d ignore it at first but she kept on knocking so in the end I got out, threw a towel round myself, flung on a t-shirt and opened the door. I was glad I did because she presented me with a huge plate of cous cous, lamb, vegetables and chick peas. I thanked her profusely, wished her ‘Eid Mubarack’ and withdrew to my bed where I devoured the tasty, tender lamb and slightly sweet, buttery cous cous. I have booked my Eurostar tickets home for Christmas well in advance and am now, more than ever, looking forward to some home-cooking.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-29522008849865256832009-09-21T15:35:00.002+02:002009-09-21T15:39:09.565+02:00Employment!Since I last wrote there have been several changes to life in Paris: I am now employed and will be working as an English teacher for most of my time whilst also, with luck, working a couple of shifts a week at Breakfast in America. As well as my new found employment, the weather has finally broken and Paris has been cold and wet for the last week. Lastly, either as a result of the change in weather or just bad luck I have been ill. <br /><br />I will be working for a company called Anglais Oral Accéléré teaching English for between 25 and 30 hours each week. The company is run by an American called Eva and a Frenchman, Phillipe, who, ironically, doesn’t speak any English himself. I went for a final interview last week before commencing training last Thursday. It’s going well and I’m looking forward to teaching my first class on Wednesday. There are never any more than four in a group and 95% of the lesson is oral work, in fact, in each level students are introduced to over 1000 expressions which, due to the nature of the system, they ought to remember and go on to use in everyday life. <br /><br />Breakfast in America is also (surprisingly) going well and I enjoy the atmosphere and pace of the work. Dodging round tables with plates and cutlery whilst classic Michael Jackson plays over the sound system is more enjoyable and rewarding than I imagined. I have worked at both restaurants over the course of the last couple of weeks and have encountered a range of different personalities. Verity, who works at the bigger of the two, is from London and very easy going, friendly and fun to work with. On my first night she was explaining that Craig, the owner, would be in at some point and she would warn me when he arrived. This she did by just dropping the phrase ‘Craig’s here’ into the middle of one of her sentences whilst asking me to go and take an order. It was refreshing to be working with another English person and the camaraderie was great. Next there was Jen or ‘Texas’ as everyone referred to her. She was, unsurprisingly, from Texas and had a very strong mid-western accent. This proved highly amusing for me and we spent the evening trying to imitate each other. I happened to mention my cockroach problem to her and whether it’s her idea of a joke, an attempt at flirting or something else entirely I’m not sure but she has text me about 25 times since our last shift with various facts about the cockroach interspersed with invitations to dinner or drinks. <br /> <br />Verity and Texas both work at ‘B1’ as everyone refers to it. Debora works at 'B2' and is a skinny, anaemic looking American who asked me, after I had spent ten minutes of my eight hour shift gulping down a burger, if I was ‘wrapping up’. She then began flapping like all people who <span style="font-style:italic;">think</span> they are in a position of authority tend to do when they are stressed, and started ordering me about and explaining things that I had heard a hundred times before. Ellie, who also works at B2, is rather unpleasant to work with, not least because she is of the opinion that she has been given the most wondrous singing voice and resonates, entirely off key, for the entire shift, but also because she tends to flap too and, as a result, deteriorates into rather a rude character. It’s strange because after the shift, when she has calmed down, she is perfectly nice and easy to talk to. Nevertheless, generally the atmosphere at both restaurants is good, the majority of the staff are nice and the work is easy enough – the tips are also good and this is going to help a great deal over the coming months.<br /><br />Also at ‘B2’ are Ian and Josy, both of whom are down to earth and a pleasure to work with. The atmosphere is jovial when we work a shift together and, regardless of whether there is a queue of 25 people outside or not, they are constant and manage to keep a cool head. After all, there’s only so much one can do in the middle of a busy shift and getting uptight and stressed will certainly not result in a speedier service.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-64873589531010088782009-09-15T18:26:00.001+02:002009-09-15T18:27:54.480+02:00Just a quick snippet...Lucy, the girl who arranged the original gathering under the Eiffel Tower when I first arrived, decided to organise another to welcome all the new arrivals to Paris and to catch up with those who had attended last time. This took place yesterday evening. I had spent the day with Darshi exploring the canal and was late on account of an extended siesta which caught me unawares. Nevertheless, I eventually met Charles and we made our way to the little park, just to the right hand side of the Tower, where there was a group of around 40 people sitting and chatting. The majority were Americans but there were one or two English, a couple of French and a few Norwegians. As per usual as 1am approached we all decided to make our way to Grands Boulevards for another Corcoran’s experience. Cat got waylaid en route flirting with the Gendarmerie and by the time we arrived at Corcoran’s she was on the phone to us explaining that she had managed to end up at Charles de Gaulle as a result of taking the wrong metro but would be making her way swiftly across town to join us as soon as possible. As 5am approached our numbers were reduced and it was just myself, Laura, an English nanny, Sophie, an English au pair and Camille, an American au pair. It felt very different from my visit two months ago and I realised, as I was explaining where we could get food and which metros everyone would need to take, that I have settled rather nicely into life in Paris and am starting to really feel comfortable in the city.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-18050590561368577712009-09-06T11:14:00.003+02:002009-09-06T11:24:21.115+02:00The return...Signalling the end of the summer holiday, the majority of Parisians are returning to the city. Unfortunately the cockroaches have returned with them and I arrived home the night before last to find one of the largest I have ever seen sitting on one of the shelves, just at eye level, waving her antennae menacingly. I feel sure this one must have been female because, although unfamiliar with the anatomy of a cockroach, she seemed to have a big pouch on the end of her body, presumably where she was storing her eggs. They say that cockroaches would be the only animals to survive a nuclear explosion. This certainly seems to hold some truth since one can spray directly on to their shell for however long a period of time with absolutely no effect. In order to finish them off completely one must spray to the side so the spray can come into contact with their body. <br /><br />In a cruel twist of fate my electricity was cut off yesterday. Emily had asked EDF to transfer the account into my name but, instead, they had closed it altogether. I called them and arranged for it to be reconnected but I had to go a day (and a night) without. Yesterday evening I was working a trial shift at an American diner called ‘Breakfast in America’ so, fortunately, was able to have some hot food there. However, I returned home, just before midnight, and spent an uncomfortable hour or so examining every piece of lint and every crack in the floor with my phone checking for cockroaches. Surprisingly I didn’t find any but this was of little comfort since I felt sure they were there somewhere. It would almost have been reassuring to have found one or two so I could give them a good spray before lulling myself into a false sense of security and falling into a peaceful sleep. <br /><br />I felt the shift at ‘Breakfast in America’ went well. It’s a tiny little place in the Marais, (although there are two – there’s a bigger one on Rue des Ecoles). This one seats around 35 people I would say and is decorated with typical ‘American Diner’ decor – red leather booths, a tiled floor and vintage art deco clocks on the walls. The staff were friendly as were the customers and although it was busy – at times there was a queue outside – it didn’t feel frantic like it used to at Corcoran’s. I was taking orders, serving food and clearing tables whilst Ian, another guy who I working with, was behind the bar preparing the drinks orders. This system resulted in an efficient operation and a relatively stress free evening. According to Jenny, the Shift Manager, I am to do another two trial shifts, for which I will get paid upon completion of all three, and then they will make a decision. I have yet to hear back as to when my next one will be and I am hoping they haven’t already made their decision. We shall see. <br /><br />A lot of the restaurants and bars seem to have their kitchens below ground level in the cellar. As a result there are great industrial vents which blow air on to the street. Some of these are particularly powerful and as they blow on to one’s feet it feels as though some sort of small animal has just run between one’s legs. I have passed a couple of these vents recently and each time I have leapt to the side in surprise to avoid standing on whatever creature was stupid enough to try and squeeze between my legs. Both occasions have been extremely embarrassing and have attracted many a strange glance from passers-by.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-61358653764694123252009-09-02T15:08:00.003+02:002009-09-02T15:16:16.863+02:00Squalor, interruptedOne of the things I miss most about the UK is not being able to cook properly. Minimal surface space, two tiny electric rings and no oven means I am limited to rather simple dishes which, although tasty, don’t provide a sense of achievement at all. I used to love cooking in London and would forever be making new recipes and trying them out on my flatmates. As such, when Darshi, a friend of Katy’s, announced that she would be house-sitting for a lady with an amazing apartment in the 19th we decided to make full use of the place. Last Sunday I bought three enormous pizzas and some beer and we spent, possibly, the most relaxing evening since my arrival, eating far too much and watching Friends videos slumped on the luxurious white leather sofa. We have since had a proper home-cooked meal and we’re planning a roast next week which I am very much looking forward to.<br /><br />The owner of the apartment has two animals that Darshi is also looking after – Lola a little Pekinese cross, and Koshka, a beautiful Siamese cat with enormous bright blue eyes. Koshka seemed to take a liking to me and would stroll across the sofa and settle herself right on my stomach staring lovingly up at me. As she got more comfortable she would lay her head in the little groove of my breastbone and fall into a deep sleep and start twitching in her dreams. Most of the time though she would lie on my stomach with her arms draped either side of my chest staring up at me – this was rather disconcerting and, uncomfortable in fact, since she was rather overweight and I had generally eaten more than was necessary wishing to take full advantage of decent food. <br /><br />There is certainly a great deal of poverty in Paris and it is rare for a day to pass without my being asked for ‘des petites pieces’ – some change, or a cigarette. The metro is riddled with beggars ranging from those who get on the train itself and launch into a spiel about the hardships of their lives to the burkha clad women who sit on the walkways like statues, palms outstretched. There are also those who busk and one of my favourites is an elderly Chinese man who is usually to be found, in the evening, at the Chatelet metro stop. He settles himself on the platform with an array of instruments and proceeds to play various Asian songs that fill the station with somewhat melancholy sounds. Every now and then he will put down his instrument of choice and burst into song. Despite being, at a guess, around 60 years old, he has an amazingly strong voice and fills the tunnels with a strange wailing. It is certainly impressive though and I always look forward to seeing him perform.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-43967110953628915282009-08-30T18:10:00.003+02:002009-09-07T12:40:43.777+02:00HeatwaveThere has been a severe heat wave in Paris this last week with temperatures soaring to 37 degrees. Similarly to London, Paris is rather landlocked and so, unlike a Mediterranean island for instance, there is very little breeze to take the edge off. During the day I have been taking full advantage of this and have read a great deal in various parks around the city. One in particular is worthy of a mention and that is Buttes Charmont. This is a huge man-made park designed by Baron Haussmann who was a civic planner in Paris in the 1800s. He is widely held accountable for the way Paris appears today and was responsible for introducing the wide, sweeping boulevards that are so common across the city. He also laid out the Bois de Boulogne and made several improvements to the other, smaller parks within the city. <br /><br />Buttes Charmont is just four metro stops from my apartment. The park is a traditional piece of English countryside located right in the heart of the city – almost like a New York Central Park for Paris. There is a lake at its centre and a huge island in the middle which provides superb views of the city. Emily and I had a picnic here on Tuesday and spent a relaxing day reading, eating baguettes with camembert and aubergine caviar and soaking up the sun from one of the many grassy slopes. I returned, by myself, on Thursday and spent the afternoon reading quietly appreciating once more the distinct lack of screaming children and city noise.<br /> <br />Although the heat was bearable during the day it was another matter altogether at night, especially when ensconced in my 12m squared studio on the fifth floor. I returned home, from a night out with Katy and Emily, at around 5am, and was hit with a wave of hot air as I opened my door. I staggered to the window and threw it open as wide as it would go but there was not a breath of air. I took the duvet from my bed and lay down on the mattress, desperately trying to get cool, but my heart was hammering and my face felt flushed so in the end I got up and had a cold shower. Despite the effect being only very temporary it did allow me to get some sleep that night. However, I woke up frequently and needed another two showers throughout the night in order to get my body temperature back to a bearable level. <br /><br />I want to, for a moment, return to the topic of Soraya, who lives opposite me. She’s a strange character, I’d say she’s in her 30s and yet she lives alone in an apartment that is even smaller than mine and, in fact, makes mine look like a palace. The walls of her studio are covered in mould and the place is always stiflingly hot with a damp smell about it. She has a huge, imposing, wardrobe made from a dark wood against one wall and a sofa bed against the other. She has a little kitchenette in the alcove where, in my apartment, the shower is located and, presumably, has to use the sink to wash in since there is no shower in the apartment. There are various pieces of mismatched material hanging over the windows making the room rather dark and depressing and a microwave resting on an office chair in the corner. Behind the front door is an electric heater attached to the wall meaning that she can never open the door more than a few inches and, until I discovered that this was the reason, I always assumed she was rather afraid of who might be visiting. <br /><br />Soraya is an avid fan of DIY and is always changing things round and replacing items with other things she has found on the street. Last week I was coming home from the supermarket and found her on the second floor of the building struggling with a chest of drawers she had found outside. I helped her up to our floor and somehow managed to get it through the minuscule gap in her front door. I have also helped her take her old refrigerator down to the street and carry some carpet tiles up to her apartment. She’s certainly rather quirky, but is friendly enough, and we always have a chat before she bursts into gales of laughter when I don’t understand something she’s said.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-70738961550171502442009-08-27T17:56:00.002+02:002009-08-27T18:01:33.423+02:00Minor inconveniencesMy current living arrangements are, most certainly, only suitable for the summer season. A lack of any real cooking facilities and a shower which has hot water for a maximum of four minutes at a time are just about bearable whilst it is warm and sunny outside but when the weather turns cold and the nights get longer I’m sure I will be craving some creature comforts. Another downside to this setup is, as I mentioned before, the loo being located outside the apartment. Before I moved in Soraya arranged with Emily and the other residents on the floor to have a lock fitted to the outside of the door and provided everyone with a key because, apparently, a homeless man had been spending the night in there. This will no doubt come as a shock to you but I am in some doubt about the truth of this story as the building isn’t in a bad area, is perfectly safe as far as I can see and, truthfully, the street is probably preferable to being cramped up in the tiny, dirty little loo. <br /><br />The room is approximately one metre squared, is finished with rough cement that was once painted a salmon pink colour and has a long funnel in the ceiling leading up to a skylight where no doubt all manner of bugs and insects live. The chain has broken off so in order to flush it one has to stand on the loo itself and reach blindly inside the cistern and grope about for a little tube which, when pulled, releases the mechanism and starts the flush. The walls are filthy and smeared with all kinds of questionable dirt and there is always a strong smell of rubber as a result of the big mat Soraya put down a couple of weeks ago. One of the biggest inconveniences is the lighting. The light is on the same timer as the lights on the stairs and this lasts a maximum of 45 seconds. Too many beers and too much rich, French food meant I had to pay an unexpected visit to the loo one night last week when I got home after a night out. I unlocked the door, ran back to the stairs to re-activate the timer on the lights and ran back to the loo. Despite my best efforts I was still plunged into darkness before long with the knowledge that anything might drop on to me from the skylight above or crawl over my feet. Reaching my hand into the cistern was particularly harrowing, being unable to see anything, and I was glad to get back to the bright lights of my cheerful little apartment. <br /><br />It is, generally, a cheerful little apartment and I could have done a lot worse. However, in the first month or so I had a big problem with cockroaches. I had never experienced these creatures before and would come home after an evening out to find four or five adults and several babies running around the floor and the surfaces. As a rule I don’t mind creepy crawlies, except spiders, obviously, but these would suddenly appear from nowhere and skitter past me before running for cover under the sink and I was certainly not a fan of their speed or intelligence. As soon as I would get in it was as though an alarm signal would go off and I could imagine the leader of the pack calling to the others ‘alright lads, he’s back! Scarper!’ (although, come to think of it they’re French cockroaches so they would probably have been communicating in French). This would be followed by a mad dash as they all ran, full pelt, for the nearest crevice of safety. They are so fast it is almost impossible to catch them under a glass, for instance, and on several occasions I squashed a couple with the rim which made me feel rather guilty. However, my guilt lessened as the infestation worsened and in the end I had to invest in same traps together with a powerful spray which I would blast round the apartment before going out for the evening. Whether this, or the increasing heat in August has deterred them, I’m not sure but they are certainly under control now and I rarely see any.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4205632500397886493.post-89541255640047716122009-08-25T21:40:00.001+02:002009-08-25T21:43:52.530+02:00NumericableLast week, finally, Numericable, our internet provider of choice, came and installed the wireless router. Luckily the Muslim woman, whose name I have now discovered to be Soraya, came home whilst the installation was taking place and was able to ask a few questions of the technician. We were under the impression that we would receive a cable that would stretch from my apartment, where the phone socket is located, to her apartment, enabling her to receive the additional television channels. This was not the case and, although the technician explained this was against their rules and that he would be unable to install such a cable, he had no qualms about telling us exactly what we needed to do in order to achieve the result we desired. <br /><br />We set off that afternoon to Castorama which is, I suppose, the French equivalent of Homebase. We were in search of a cable which would connect to the wireless router one end and into the back of the satellite box they had provided at the other. We found the cable easily enough but then began an arduous window shopping extravaganza with Soraya who wanted to look at kitchens, bathrooms and curtain rails. It reminded me of being at home and embarking upon a Sunday morning trip to Homebase with Mum in search of paint samples or shower doors. Once we had finally finished at Castorama we journeyed home and began the laborious task of running the cable between the apartments. <br /><br />Since there was not an inch of space under either door and Soraya wanted the wire to be as inconspicuous as possible in order to avoid angering the ‘proprietor’, the only option was to drill a small hole through to top of my door frame and feed the cable through. Soraya produced an ancient, green Bosch drill which I looked at dubiously before reluctantly attempting to drill through the wall. I had only a plastic fold away chair to stand on and this provided very little support and almost flipped over every time I tried to exert a little more pressure on the drill. Trying to block out my Gran’s reaction if she could have seen me drilling blindly through a wall that no doubt contained all manner of live electric cables with a drill that was continually sparking in my hands I made a little headway. However, it was thirsty work and it transpired that, after having misjudged the hole on each side a couple of times, the current drill bit simply wasn’t long enough. We went in search of another and eventually managed to locate a longer one which, ultimately, allowed me to drill through the wall completely in one smooth motion. For the duration of this process Soraya was comfortably installed in my apartment for some reason and was making herself at home examining my hair gel and vitamin pills as though they were valuable antiques. <br /><br />In an attempt to make the wire as inconspicuous as possible we began an arduous process of wrapping it painstakingly around the various wires and pipes that already ran across the ceiling of the hallway. These were black with grime and my hands were soon filthy. Eventually it reached Soraya’s door where I had to drill another hole before feeding the cable through and connecting it to the set top box. After a couple of false starts we successfully installed the new television channels and Soraya was thrilled. She offered me a drink of some revolting supermarket own brand cola light which I didn’t want but accepted eventually after having it virtually poured down my throat. When I did take a sip, either as a result of all the dust that I had swallowed or because I took too big a gulp, it went down entirely the wrong way and I proceeded to have a choking fit which lasted for at least five minutes.Mec about Parishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14766877511053673811noreply@blogger.com3