8 days a week

Ok, well, I don't have to work 8 days a week. It's total Beatles-mania over here and it's a bit catching.

But I do have to work 5 days a week, starting at 9am and typically not leaving until 8pm, sometimes later. And then, as mentioned in Saturday Markets, I also have to work a couple of hours on Saturday morning once or twice a month. It's a lot of hours and a severe change in lifestyle for me, being used to either the flexible university student lifestyle or even when I worked full-time in retail I could still run errands during the day without a problem. Not anymore....



A typical day runs thus:
Arrive 9am, baby handover from Mr
10am, Little J has nap
11.45am, Little J wakes up. Get him dressed if he wasn't when I arrived.
noon, feed Little J
12.30, Mr and Mrs come home from the office for lunch cooked by Mr (Normally a simple style of meal, I'm lucky if I see so much as a vegetable shaving, although at least one bottle of wine is typically drunk.)
2pm, Little J down for arvo nap
2pm/ 2.30pm Mr and Mrs return to the office
3.45pm, get Little J up, ready for school pick-up and play in the park
4pm/ 4.15pm leave home for school pick up
4.30pm school's out. Battle my way through the throngs of parents, grandparents, au pairs and other children through to the narrow gate, down the narrow path to the tiny courtyard where I have to wait for E to wave at me from her Juliet balcony. She then points me out to her teacher, who I have to acknowledge and wave my little blue security card at (it's got E's photo on it).
4.35pm, give E her afternoon gouter (snack) that I brought with me, she then runs off onto the lawn to play with her friends. French schools typically don't have much space to run around at lunch time, so it's their first chance to run off some steam.



I now have to entertain Little J, give him a gouter, stop him from crawling onto other people's rugs or taking their balls or eating mysterious ground-matter. Spending time in the park has become much nicer now that I've made friends with an American nanny. I'll call her Beth. Beth has a 3yr old and a 7yr old. They're more independent, so she doesn't have to supervise too closely at the park. But they're also quite rude, so I think I prefer my high-maintenance but cutie-pie 1 yr old.

5pm, leave Parc Monceau, walk home with E. If she's lucky I've brought her little razor scooter so she can trip home on that, otherwise she has to walk (which she doesn't like much at all. I tell her sport's good for her, and that she's just being lazy.)

5.25pm, back home. Try and convince E to play with her brother, because he loves it so much and laughs like crazy around her.


5.45pm Little J has last nap of the day. Give E something else to eat, do her homework, play with her, tidy her room

6.30pm bathe Little J, make sure E is also showering or bathing.

6.45pm, put the wriggle machine into his pyjamas, and into his high chair for dinner. Dinner takes a minimum of 25 minutes. Which never really ceases to amaze me, that even if he's on his best behaviour it still takes that long. It would definitely go quicker if I could feed him through his ears. I spend so much time looking at his ears while he scopes the room for the object he most wants to bang around his tray table for all of about 30 seconds to max 2 minutes. Then it's back to scoping for the next object.

7.15pm, playing with Little J, making sure E's room is tidy, listening to her piano practice

Between 7.30-8pm Mr arrives home, Little J can go to bed, I can do the baby-baton change and head home.

Variations on a theme:
Sometimes, like today, I get a phonecall around noon saying Mr and Mrs are too busy to come home for lunch, so I'll have to cook something myself. I would like this more, I think, if their pantry came stocked with my choice of food. However, I still like it because it means I get to eat lunch earlier (today it was a pan-seared chicken fillet with tabole and tsatsiki) and then after lunch I take Little J for a walk to my fave bakery and we grab an espresso and something sugary, like a strawberry tart, berry danish or today's choice, escargot. He also gets to eat my complimentary meringue, which is fab cos it gives me a head start eating the sweet-yumminess that I ordered.


Or I might get a call around 7pm saying I have to cook dinner for E. That call's not as much fun.

Saturday Markets

Late in my second week I discovered that I was just 'expected' to be available on Saturday morning to help look after Little J while Mr and Mrs completed their errands for a few hours. Afterall, they said without a trace of irony, Saturday morning is the first chance all week we have to go grocery shopping, drop by the bank and do a million tiny things that we didn't have time for during the week. No shit? Had it occurred to them that when they're at work, I'M AT WORK??!! Why don't they do what normal people do and either take turns at the errands or take baby with them??

Anyway, Saturday morning I arrived at 10am for my once/twice monthly 'coup de main' (more like a favour than strictly speaking part of the job). Mr, Little J, his stroller and their grocery cart (think of a nanna-trolley) and I headed off to pick up fresh bread, fish, fruit and vege, cheese and wine. I very quickly took charge of the shopping caddy, leaving Mr to deal with the wonky stroller (unless you're using two hands it constantly veers to the left. I think of it as working out my core strength muscles everytime Little J and I take a stroll.) He offered me the choice and I quite honestly said I'd prefer the caddy just to mix things up a little.

I find food markets an incredibly exciting experience. There's so much POTENTIAL at a market, all those meals that could be....

The poissonerie was definitely a highlight. So much gorgeous, glistening fresh seafood to choose from. And not just the range I see in Melbourne either, random things like what I think is abalone (in spikey cases?) and live crabs and shells with fish in them that I didn't even know you could eat. The smell of a well-kept fish shop is a wonderful thing. I feel healthy just being in there!

The green-grocer was interesting, with one or two things I hadn't seen before, such as funny-shaped tomatoes or things I don't see very often like epinards. I also noted that their little pineapples were selling for 6e a pop. Twelve dollars for a PINEAPPLE!! And 1e per kiwifruit. Good to remember sometimes how lucky I am that some of my favourite fruits are cheap in Aus.
(Below: Their punnets of berries here are too cute- love the little baskets. Below Right: prices are hung from little boards above the fruit. Bottom left: a general feel for the shop. It's quite narrow, often people don't even go in the shop assistants hear what you want and bring it all to you. Bottom right: the strange tomato, I think called a Spanish tomato.)

Mr has known the fishmongers and the grocer for 10 years, and went out of his way to introduce me to them all so that if I came by to pick up some things for the family, I would be looked after (and it would just be placed on his account.) A relationship like that would be impossible for me to cultivate in just 12 months on my own. I would still be considered a stranger otherwise, even if I went every week. As Mr said, it means that they won't give me dodgy produce. Heartening, isn't it?

The cheese shop was fascinating, but not as personally exciting. I don't know my cheese very well, and it's one of those things I really like having a couple of my key cheese-friends around to let me know what's what. I can't handle anything too mouldy, and sheep's cheese is a complete and utter no-no. Blargh!

One of the perks of the Saturday coup de main is that I got to stick around for the yummy homecooked lunch, which was french pan seared prawns (a little too fresh- they were alive when he bought them and he didn't put them in the freezer first to put them to sleep before frying them. Sob) followed by boiled fish (this sounds really strange to me, but it tastes just like steamed fish) and rice with hollondaise sauce, followed by a selection of cheeses with baguette stick (about 6 cheeses to choose from.) The lack of vegetables in French cuisine would likely annoy me more, except that I can go home at the end of each day and eat heaps for dinner.

Is the Tour Eiffel over rated?

(Left: taken from the Tuilleries, looking through Place de la Concorde. Right: taken from the Champs de Mars)


I have heard it said that the Eiffel Tower is overrated. It's too touristy, the French don't like it, it's a glorified transmission tower, the restaurants are a rip-off, the lines are too long...you're much better off at the Tour Montparnasse. The view's just as good, the queues are shorter and it's not so cliched.

And it's fair enough that people may have these opinions. But on Sunday afternoon I decided I needed a 'Paris' moment, so I went to have coffee looking at the Tour Eiffel. It it felt lovely. Perhaps not an activity that made me feel like a veritable Parisienne, but a moment that made me feel I was very much in Paris.

So, I have included some of my photos of the Tour Eiffel, and also one looking back to Tour Montparnasse (the only skyscraper within the walls of Paris.) What would you rather look at over your coffee?

(Left: when trying to leave the Champs I was totally miffed at the construction fencing that didn't have a single gap anywhere in it for me to shimmy through to my metro stop. Instead, I had to turn around and walk half-way back down the Champs to the nearest gap in the fence. Lucky I did- this was the view I got turning around. It was a nice reminder to just enjoy my day. Right: That building in the distance in the middle of the trees is the Tour Montparnasse.)

La rentree (the return to school)

I still have E home with me for the morning because school doesn't start until the afternoon, but she’s in and out with her Dad getting last minute school supplies. Yesterday I had to cover all her text books (we’re talking about a seven-year-old, remember) in plastic. Not sticky contact, as in loose plastic and sticky tape. Contact as I know it is apparently a French rarity. Who the hell knows how they missed out on that? I had been worried about my covering job not being up to scratch for E’s exclusive private school (the school of French celebrities). And then, genius!, E popped up with a pair of tiny scissors wanting to help me. Well, I wasn’t going to turn that offer down. So, together, we cut and she, to the very best of her seven-year-old abilities, sticky-taped away. Bless.

La Boulangerie

I had spied an artisan baker on my strolls up near their apartment, so I kickstarted my Thursdayday with an espresso and a sweet something. It’s strange, but all the espresso here seems to smell divine. (Perhaps I am just in dire and constant need of coffee...?)

I’ve hit the jackpot with this boulangerie- they have by far the cutest collection of bakers I’ve ever seen. Who knows if they can even bake? Who cares? Brushing their pain to glossy perfection before gently sliding it into the oven, it’s hard not to bat your eyelids. And yet only in Paris is there just as much chance that you’re admiring the loaf and not the baker. No wonder the women of Paris look so good so early in the day.

My espresso and what I thought was the world’s smallest muffin (about the size of my thumb squished into a patty pan) arrives. It turns out to be the world’s smallest piece of flourless cocoa-driven heaven. I get a caffeine high, a sugar hit and the best view in the quartier. All for under 2 euro. Hello new morning routine?

Dinner on the hop

E was upset her parents were going to be late, but her little eyes lit up when I said this meant she could eat dinner a couple of hours earlier than usual. And so, one of my standard no time, no ingredients, no recipe meals popped into my head. Spaghetti bolognaise. Wonderful. We’ll go past the tiny mini mart on the way home and buy what I need.

This idea was somewhat altered by their lack of spaghetti, mince, tomato paste, garlic…you get the picture. Spag bol became tuna penne. This was, of course, assuming they had tuna. Which, if I could just remember the French word for tuna I’m sure I could find…

The Arabic guys running the store were lovely and very helpful. It was the same shop I dropped past after the first Monday night, to purchase some wine (and chocolate biscuits) from. On the Monday night, I had arrived teary and became worse when I came across a tin of cat food with a dead-ringer for my own cat on it. She’s so pretty, with long white fur, deep green eyes and a purr that’ll blow your house down. That Monday, while watching me sniffling and packing my wine, biscuits and tin of cat food into a bag he had slipped an extra chocolate bar in there and I am eternally grateful for his thoughtfulness.

So I have no doubt he remembered me, when on Wednesday I did my crazy dash around the shop, asking him for “fish in a tin in olive oil.” (Thon, I finally remember, is French for tuna.)
Being able to wrap up the evening according to my own schedule suited me much better. Children’s natural clocks are early, so being able to bathe, feed and bed baby by 7pm, and E by 8.30pm was more my style. In the week since I have struggled a little to cope with the elongated evening home-stretch. If the French have a reputation for being rude, and for being food-obsessed, it’s because the two go hand-in-hand. If you only ate twice a day, 7 hours apart, no snacking, you’d be rude and bloody hungry too! (I would like to add that this is a vicious stereotype, that I have seen disproved more than I have experienced.)

Zebra Crossings

We trundled off for an afternoon promenade dans la pousette. I was confused by all the zebra crossings, which appear with helpful regularity, yet most unhelpfully cars ignore any pedestrians and zoom through them. What’s the point of the crossing? And then, having taken the wrong street and wanting to perform an immediate street-crossing, I realized. When people say the French touch-park, they mean it. It’s impossible enough to squeeze myself through the kissing bumpers, let alone la pousette. French zebra crossings are like that school matron at 1950’s dances, making sure there’s thirty centimeters of decency between dancers.

While out on this late afternoon stroll I received a very strange phone call from Mrs. She prefaced it by saying, “What I’m about to tell you I don’t want E to know.” Her discretion was somewhat foiled by the constant and loud traffic on the street, but I managed to convince her I wouldn’t give anything away. Without, of course, actually saying that. (This entire exchange felt more like a scene from Borne Supremacy than The Nanny Diaries.) Her aunt was in the hospital in a serious condition, she might die in the next few hours. Don’t tell E anything, but we won’t be home until late. You’ll have to cook dinner and feed the children.

(I knew this would be upsetting for the family, the aunt was particularly beloved. She had been a very close part of their family life, looking after the children weekly.)

Breakfast in Paris

Today I took my first Parisienne breakfast; espresso and croissant on my way to work. After all the hot weather, the cool breeze was a perfect breakfast accompaniment and I strolled off to work feeling very French.

Having yesterday discovered the apartment’s internet access I was desperate to write home and touch base with everyone else’s goings on. This made me generally impatient for E to start school the next day, so I would then have Little J’s nap times to cybercruise to my heart’s content. But, alas, I had two children to entertain. When Little J was awake, it was him that needed the close attention and when he was sleeping it was nose back to the Polly Pocket-sized grindstone.

Parc Monceau

Work, day 2: Tuesday I arrive armed with fresh knowledge. I now know the full nap routine, including how to put him to sleep and how many sleeps he should be having each day (the correct answer is three.)

E played beautifully with her brother, which he adores because he adores her. We checked out the rather large and gracious Parc Monceau, ready for my impending after school pick-ups. I had been rather formally presented with the family’s collection of park tokens, with tokens for the swings and the mini carousel. Mrs pressed them upon me, making sure I kept them in my bag. She assured me that she would remember to ask for them back on Friday so I didn’t run off into the weekend with them (heaven forbid they miss out on a loyalty stamp.) The swings surprised me, looking very different to your average backyard tire on a rope or even your more up-market Australian-park number. These swings have an attendant, cost 1.10 euro a turn, and require two kids per swing. So I guess the money goes towards the matchmaking service provided by the swing attendant, plopping the right two kids on either end of a very dangerous metal pendulum. (Amazing that with the number of swing attendants I assume exist in France they still have such high unemployment…)

But, nothing broke, including me, and I reached the end of the day feeling very pleased with myself. Being offered a chilled glass of sauv blanc while we waited for Mrs to return, and discovering internet access, topped it all off perfectly. Mr pointedly indicated to Mrs that I had resorted to alcohol at the end of my day. Always with the cracks about my alcoholism, which, if you knew how little I drink at home, is either ironic ridiculous or both. I laughed it off and used his own words, saying it’s not wine, it’s an aperitif. Ho ho ho’s all round for that one.
I bid everyone a most cheerful au revoir after Tuesday’s dinner, thinking that this was indeed a job I could accomplish with my sanity intact. Tsk tsk.

Alone with les enfants, day 1

I would like to preface this post with a warning that it is being typed on a French laptop, with French keyboard that's driving me nuts. It probably woulnd't be so bad, except that I keep switching between my mac and this laptop and my brain's going a bit haywire.

E didn't start school until the Thursday, so I had 3 whole days alone with both children to look forward to. Not a terrible thing by any standard, although it was certainly a little different to the understanding reached on the telephone months earlier whereby I was only working in the afternoons......

E didn't want to be back in Paris. She was upset to be starting school soon and to no longer have the outside freedom she has in the south, where she goes for all her holidays. (And had just spent 2 months straight.) Little J, meanwhile, was grousy from the latenight flight on Sunday. The first time I tried to put him down for a nap he cried, hard, continuously for at least 30 minutes. When i went in to him he'd bitten his lip, which, with a bit of blood now around his lip, looked a bit scary. Ok, so no morning nap. Come lunchtime when the parents returned (as they always do to cook a big lunch at home.) and he didn't really feel like eating properly he was so tired. Only then, when he went down for his post-lunch sleep was I shown the sleep routine which is, apparently; always followed to a tee.

All the downtime from Little J was, of course, spent playing with E. I had professed to adoring Polly Pockets, so Polly Pockets it was. And my, haven't they changed?! Someone obviously decided a toy without clothes wasn't going to do much for share dividends, so they now look rather a lot like tiny tiny barbies. You thought a Barbie shoe was small, just wait til you try and find one of Polly's.

Jean awoke at around 3 and got grisly rather quickly. I had been destined to stay for dinner (as a regular thing, not just first night thing) but mentally decided that I was waaaaay past being able to wait around until after 8 for that to happen. Having already cried once when Little J was beside himself, I was feeling fragile.

I begged off dinner, but got caught when Mrs asked me if everything was ok. I was right on the brink of tears when she asked, and being nice was just a bit too much. So, like Little J, I cried.

Mrs was concerned for me, but not at all concerned that it wouldn't work out. She told me that I was very courageous to be doing what I was doing, and all would be good tomorrow. Go home, drink some wine, fall asleep, come back tomorrow!

And so, I did.

Raspberry Tart

Knowing that I had just turned 23 they very kindly held a birthday celebration on the Saturday night. I had been to the bakery earlier in thw day and couldn’t resist taking photos of the tart selection, especially the glossiest, rosiest raspberry tart I’d ever seen. Well, didn’t somebody just sneak back there later and grab it? It came out after dinner, full of sparklers and big ‘23’ in candles, and a funny little franglaise edition of ‘Happy Birthday’. I was thoroughly tickled and THEN they gave me a birthday present. It was a bottle of Dior perfume, Miss Dior, their new fragrance ‘L’eau’. It just shocked my socks off because the ad campaign for this perfume had been filling Vogue magazines back home for months and months and I had torn out these ads of this stunning model, floating above the rooftops of Paris, Eiffel tower featured in the background, holding onto a bunch of pastel coloured balloons. I’d even discovered the television ad for it on You Tube. It’s directed by Sophia Coppola and features a song sung by Brigette Bardot, ‘Moi, je joue’. (Me, I play.) I’d play the ad on loop whenever I was getting fed up with work, justifying another Saturday night at home to save money for Paris or generally feeling mopey. I crossed my fingers it was a sign all would go well.

Le weekend

The weekend with the grandparents was very relaxing. (I don’t think I realized how relaxing until I returned to paris and was tossed in to work at the deepend.) E was adoring, happy to see me and play with me, yet didn’t need to me to get her things or entertain her really- she has a best friend who, helpfully, lives next door.
This meant my main and pretty much only duty was Little J. I got him up in the mornings and ready for the day so that his parents could sleep in late. I fed him, bathed him, played with him, took him off other peoples hands when they had something they wanted to do. But his grandparents, especially his grandfather, adores him. It was gorgeous to see the two of them together.
Because both the grandparents speak English so well, it made my weekend easy. I spoke French but if I wanted to tell a complex story I could switch into English and that way I felt like I could contribute all that I wanted to, and they in turn could get to know me. Being a foodie, it also made it easy to work out exactly what I was eating and where it came from, its history etc.

Castelnau le nez

It was a strange feeling going through the airport as part of their foursome. Really strange. My first sensation of ‘being an au pair’. I obviously wasn’t their child. Seeing how everyone around Little J interacted with him (cooing, kissing, other elaborate ploys to get his attention and giggles) and how he reacted to them (shyly, ducking his head, looking away) made me realize we really had hit it off the previous night. He had smiled and laughed with me, and wasn’t at all shy. It felt nice to be in baby’s inner circle.
On the aeroplane I mentioned my Mum was happy to know that the job was genuine. Mrs looked surprised, but what else would it be? I'm not sure, I said, but my Mum's just happy you haven't kidnapped me and whooshed me off to Romania. Mrs laughed, hard, that something like that would have even occurred to my family.
I think Mr and Mrs had one of their first moments of ‘oh, this is actually going to be really helpful having another pair of hands’ when we arrived at Casternau le nez. She had to make a work phonecall, he had to collect the baggage. And voilà! It all became so much easier when they could palm baby off into waiting hands.

Meeting Little J

I may my way back to their apartment at 6.30pm, where le bébé (Little J) was waiting, having been picked up from his elderly carer, the lovely 83 year old aunt. I knew from my phone calls that he was a chatterbox and didn’t stay still for a moment, ‘dynamic’ was the word his mother used.
He’s gorgeous. Blonde hair, chubby chubby cheeks, a wonderful gurgling laugh and best of all, he didn’t break into tears upon seeing me. So far, so good. I got eased into the routine, shown how to bathe and feed him. Bathtime was interesting, with Little J losing his balance (he loves, loves, LOVES to stand up in the bath and peer over the edge at whatever he’s tossed out) and getting head-dunked under the water. Mrs didn’t freak out, which I thought was a good sign. Then again, the French have a different attitude to water than Melbournians…
I was under firm instructions to be back at their apartment at 8am sharp in time to catch our flight to Montpellier in the south, ready to meet Miss Seven (E) and the grandparents at their house.
I wandered back home after dinner, enjoying the mild night and the feeling of finally walking down the street and through the blue door that I’d obsessed over on google maps for months.

My apartment

It’s a triangular prism. My floor is a rectangle, and my back wall is a rectangle, but the two sidewalls are triangles and then I don’t really have a ceiling so much as a giant sloping wall with two skylights in it. It’s all fresh, white and full of light. Tiled floor, decent cupboard space, a kitchen sink with two hotplates, a microwave, a demi-fridge, television and the promise of free cable and internet. And a bathroom corner. A shower the same size as my kitchen sink and a toilet that is every bit as noisy as an aeroplane toilet when flushed. In fact, twice as noisy.
It’s funny how I seem to have lots of things I don’t need and not quite enough of what I do. There are two heaters, except that I live in the roof alcove and it’s hot up there. especially after six flights of stairs and closed windows all day. A fan is actually what I’d really like…I have more cleaning products than I can poke a stick at, for the toilet, the floor, the dishes, my hands, my body. I have a dust pan and brush, a tall dust pan and brush, a broom and yet another broom that I think is supposed to act as a mop. No toaster, no kettle and no lid for my saucepan. Although I do have two fry pans, one of which I’m sure can doubletime it as a lid. And someone’s stingey with the pillows. Although I later find out the French think pillows are overrated, and it’s a pretty normal state of affairs to not have a few pillows to prop up on. Maybe the men of France went on a pillow/cushion rampage and banished excess pillows. All of them.
After being taken for a preliminary grocery shop, I had a couple of hours by myself in the apartment. Had I known that my wardrobe would be so woefully inadequate for the following week of hot weather I would have hit the shops immediately. Then again, with all my guidebooks tossed out of my suitcase at Melbourne airport in a last minute frenzy to lose weight, I wouldn’t have known where to find said shops.

J'y suis arrivée!

Arriving at the airport into Paris I could just spy Mr and Mrs through the glass partition. They were just like their photos, which was a comforting thought. The looks some people gave me when I said I was going to be an au pair in Paris based on an website match-up…
They were warm and pleasant. Having forgotten my mobile phone at their office, Mr drove back to the apartment via my telephone and Mrs and I jumped in a taxi. Driving through the periphery and towards some of those guidebook landmarks was a wonderful sensation. It’s a bit strange, and stomach-flipping or butterflies isn’t really the right description. I’d been planning this trip for so long. It had been a vague intention since high school, and then all the right elements seem to come together over 12 months ago. But, despite the lack of butterflies I was definitely excited. The six of us- Mr, Mrs, myself and my three bags- couldn’t all fit into their elevator the size of a dishwasher, so I held my breath and got packed in for the ride.
Chilled champagne awaited me in their kitchen, and we toasted my arrival and a successful year together. Sitting in their very Parisien apartment, in typical Haussman territory, with tall French windows and ornate ceilings and parquetry floors, champagne seemed oh so appropriate. Lunch came next, at a favourite local bistro of theirs. Bistro is, to the French, quite specific term to describe a certain kind of restaurant. This one only does lunch, and certain kinds of prices accompany that. I was most surprised to see the red wine come out in an ice bucket (I thought only Queenslanders did that…). I had forgotten what to expect in the way of cheesy ravioli but it certainly done the French way, with a strooooong French-cheese soupy base. Main was “gambas” with rice. After entrée, main, and the wines, espresso just seemed like a natural way to help cut the rich glut now sitting in my stomach. For a latte drinker, its been a surprisingly easy transition. The French just don’t do them as well as the Italians, so I figure I’m better off avoiding disappointment. When not in Rome…
Next, onto my very own piece of the heavens in a shoebox. I was most relieved to have their assistance porting my luggage up six flights of stairs. No dishwashers moonlighting as elevators for me. It’s probably lucky that I’d researched what to expect in the way of cheap apartment living, because the French really do take compact to a whole new level. And my apartment was no exception.