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.