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.

My cute presents II- things for Miss Seven

These little ants are marching across the back of the lunch tin!!

The emu stamp also comes with a rolling stamp to make little emu tracks. I put in the ipod headphones so you could see how TINY those lip gloss cupcakes are.
This little sequinned galah will make the most PERFECT Christmas present.