Inconveniences

Something that was hard to get used to here in France was how early stores close and how they are often closed on Sundays.  I was unused to being inconvenienced, used to going shopping when I wanted.

Here, by the time I get off work the stores are all closed. So forget dropping by the grocery store on the way to someone’s house for dinner. Countless times I drove down to the Intermarche to get some snack before heading over for movie night or what not at a friend’s house, and to my dismay found it closed.

Other times I would head into Paris on Sunday with the intention of going shopping, and have to make other plans due to the fact that I wasn’t where the shops were open. They only are open in tourist districts on Sunday, with the exception of some small vintage shops in the Marais which I now frequent often on Sundays.

But that was at the beginning. Lately I really hadn’t even thought about it. I remember distinctly being disgruntled about it  back in September, but now I’ve planned my week around it and it doesn’t bother me in the least.

So maybe it isn’t necessary to have stores open from early morning until late at night, 7/7, sometimes even 24/7, like it is back home. It’s all a matter of getting used to it.

In class today, my teacher brought up this exact topic for discussion. Since there is a new “gouvernement,” there will be changes coming and this is one of the changes being discussed. We each gave our opinions in class, starting with the Germans who have it even stricter at home than it is in France. They were of the opinion that it was a good thing, saying how they didn’t want to work on Sundays so why should someone else? They work their schedule around it and it works just fine. They asked the rest of us why we would need a store open 24/7 anyway. I made up some silly reasons, but really why do we need that?

Another point brought up was how it allowed for families to be together. This is a value quickly being lost in America, and it’s our own fault. Minimum wage workers often work countless hours leaving them no time for their family. So things fall apart.

All I can say is that I hope that Hollande doesn’t let up on the strict rules about stores openings. It’s part of a rich culture, and can be gotten used to. We don’t need to be served all the time.

After all, we work to live not live to work.

French Kiss

Something that I find really lovely about Paris is the fashion.

There’s all this hype about going to Paris because of shopping and fashion, but when I arrived and looked around I was sorely disappointed. People weren’t that well dressed, and everything was overpriced.

However, as time has passed I’ve found the joy of fashion and style in Paris. There’s something so freeing about dressing here. Not freeing in that you can wear whatever you want, because don’t you dare walk out of the house with jogging shorts and a t-shirt, you will be asked if you just went and exercised. Freeing in the sense that you can be fashion forward and do things that only the girls in the movies do.

One of the biggest things I find living here, is the urge to buy red lipstick.  I have never had that urge before. I am not the only one though, I think all of my friends here have red lipstick.  Casual dinner with friends? Someone’s probably sporting some pretty red lipstick. Out for the evening? Red lipstick. Wandering around Paris? Lipstick is ready in the purse for re-application.

The other day I went into Paris for the evening and right before I left I saw a lipstick sample on my desk that I’d pulled out of a magazine. In absence of a lipstick of my own I grabbed that and stuck it in my wallet. Throughout the evening I got out my little lipstick sample and re-applied it. I have given in to the lipstick mania!

There’s something in the atmosphere of Parisian fashion that makes you just want to be classy.

I’m all lost in the super market, but I can shop happily

Today I took a risk that I knew had the potential to go badly.

I took my 6-year-old to the grocery store.

Okay, so moms do it all the time, but prefer not to, right?

I decided to go for it though; it was better than leaving him home alone with his 11-year-old sister who was preoccupied with homework.

So off to the super market we went! The store had recently been all re-arranged so we spent an extra long time wandering around and searching for things and little Edouard prided himself on being able to show me where things were even though he had about as little of an idea as I did. I could tell he was just trying to be helpful, but was pouring his energy into asking for things like alphabet shaped pasta and candy and running through the rows of food.

So I decided to see if I could channel his energy into something more constructive. I told him I needed his help and if he could carefully carry the eggs for me since I didn’t have room in my bag. I let him pick the box, and refrained from snapping at him when he pretended to drop the eggs, instead laughing.   He carefully held the eggs for the rest of the shopping experience…until we got to the check-out line where he lost interest in helping, put them on the floor by my feet, and went to check out all the gum and tic-tacs.

I waited in line while he systematically went to every check-out and pulled out a different mint or gum package to show me and request that I buy it. As he got further and further away, his voice got louder and louder. People were definitely checking out me and my yelling child. I told him to quit yelling, with no success, so I just quit turning around. He yelled my name across the store a good six times before finally coming over with his item to ask me for it. I simply told him that I would not answer him unless he came to me and asked me because we do not yell in the store. Lesson learned. He stuck around my check-out after that.

Children can be a real pain to take shopping, they ask for literally everything they see; they touch, they grab, they run, they yell. But I think that if you harness all that energy to use it for good, shopping can still be fun. Reading How to Talk So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk helped me realize how important it is to work with the child’s feelings and desires rather than suppressing them and telling them how they feel is wrong. Kids like to feel helpful, they like to feel like their voice is being heard and that what they say is important and has a bearing on what is chosen. By giving Edouard a task so that he could help, and also asking his opinion on certain items that I was buying, I managed to involve him, making the whole trip a lot more pleasant for me, and for him.

I didn’t end up living in Paris for a year and only learn stick shift

I complained early on  about how in Paris people would hear my accent and start speaking in English to me right off the bat. So naturally I made one of my goals while here to be to improve my accent.

I realized a few months ago that my accent must be getting better because now when I conversed with people they didn’t switch to English on me anymore. Instead they say, “You have a little accent, where are you from?” I’m always pleasantly surprised when I hear this and I like to make people guess. I’ve gotten many different responses varying from a Polish accent to a Croatian accent.

I even had a little girl ask me, “What language do you speak, Chinese?” I replied, “No English. Do I look Chinese?” “Yes.”  So maybe my appearance has more and more influence on why people can’t figure my accent out. Here people always try to figure out what nationality I am from how I look and I get all kinds of different things. I’ve gotten Turkish, Moroccan, Spanish, Portuguese, but never American.

But what makes me happiest of all is when people cry in surprise, “Oh you’re American? You have no accent at all!”  I think this is only in comparison to many of the Anglo-Saxons that they are used to hearing, but it still is very gratifying.

I know, however, that I still have a strong accent, my soccer team reminds me of it weekly. But the fact that I have developed a sort of mystery accent makes me happy.

Whether or not my new accent is actually an improvement is for you to judge, but I’m content because at least I don’t get people speaking English to me anymore and telling me to, “go eat a hamburger.”

A Parisien Sunrise

I never stop wishing that I could be closer into Paris. If only I didn’t have to take the train 20 to 30 minutes to get into the city. But really I should view it as: here I am surrounded by a forest and fields, and only  20 minutes from Paris.

This morning really made me to realize just how lucky I really am. After a restless, and in the end sleepless, night, I decided a little before 6 a.m. to go find a place to watch the sun rise. I drove down the hill a little bit from my house, took a left which lead me to a  little road right between the forest and the big, now empty, field that leads away from my little village.

I parked the car, got out my cheetah print snuggie, and listened to the birds and bugs making noises and to the rooster crowing as the sun came up over Paris. It was a bit  too cloudy to really see the beauty of the sunrise, but what really hit me was that I was in the country, and yet I was watching the sun rise over Paris, not something that many people can say for themselves. The noises all around me were the noises of the country, but in the distance I saw cars heading down the highway to work.

I then went and bought myself a fresh croissant from the bakery before heading home. Once home, I had no desire to explain where I had been, so I snuck stealthily back into my little room. I’m pretty sure my host Dad saw me though, as I walked right in front of the window where he was eating breakfast. But some things are just better left unsaid.

Do you actually want to bring up bébé, or is baby just fine?

I feel that since my blog name is Nanny McFille Au Pair I should write more about my experiences as an au pair. So since I arrived in France, I’ve read a few articles about an American lady, Pamela Druckerman, who described her experiences with French parenting. Seeing that I am also having experiences with French parenting, I thought it was only right that I write a bit about my own experiences with it.

The articles I read glorify the way French parents are firm and manage to have well-behaved, obedient, and well-adjusted children. Well, here I am an au pair for said children. My friends are nearly all au pairs as well. I spend half an hour every day watching parents interact with their children after school, I hear stories from my friends, and work with a few different families here. I must say that I beg to differ with Ms. Druckerman. Maybe the experiences of an au pair in France have little to do with normal French family life, and maybe many of these children have been scarred by having American au pairs (as I have quite a few North American friends), God forbid, but I would say that some of the parenting methods I’ve observed here have left me cold.

One article I read said, “French parents established early on that they were not the children’s servants and that ‘no’ meant ‘no.’” I mean, if you consider a great deal of yelling a good way of establishing that, then yes. But from what I have seen, obedience is no more a priority for French kids than American ones.

I went to a fellow au pair’s house the other weekend, and her kids were little tyrants, refusing to listen to or obey either my friend or the kids’ 20-year-old sister. So not only was there generally a great deal of yelling going on, but we couldn’t even enjoy a nice meal together without an adult figure screaming at one of the children.

The article claims that the American parents over parent, “helping their toddlers do laps around the kitchen island, or getting down on the floor to build Lego villages” instead of socializing with the other adults. Again, maybe I’m biased because obviously if you have an au pair you aren’t home a lot, but some of my au pair friends have employees who aren’t ever home for their kids. One friend’s host-mom (a single mother of two) would rarely be home during the week, constantly going on dates and coming home around 1 a.m., or not even coming home at all because she wanted to spend the night at her boyfriend’s house. The kids were only with her every other weekend because they went to their dad’s house, so she wasn’t making up for it on weekends.

For another family, family time is watching a movie together on Friday night. The parents are overbooked, running from one event to another, coming home late, leaving early in the morning. The kids beg their parents to do things with them or for them, but they don’t have time, and their au pair does it instead. I don’t see all French parents spending enough quality time with their kids, and if I had children of my own I would rather they be over parented than neglected.

That same article claims that, “One of the keys to this education is the simple act of learning how to wait. . . . It is also why French toddlers will sit happily at a restaurant. Rather than snacking all day like American children, they mostly have to wait until mealtime to eat.” Every day after school, I wait in the school yard with numerous other French mothers, all of us holding a little “pre-snack” snack for the darling children who can’t wait 5 minutes to get home to eat snack. And this time it has NOTHING to do with my being an au pair. All the mothers are doing it too. I don’t consider this teaching a child to wait.

I could go on and give examples about how my experience has been different from almost all of the arguments made in the various articles I’ve read, but I’ll stop here. I just wanted to throw this out there before you deludedly started believing that all French parents have some sort of superior knowledge on how to raise kids.

I recommend if you want to have obedient and well-adjusted children to not try to parent like a French mom but rather take a look at American authors Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish’s books How to Talk So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk and Siblings Without Rivalry. I’ve been reading these two books since I’ve been here, and the tools that I’ve taken from them have made my life significantly easier. These books focus not on repressing the children’s needs and emotions (by yelling, etc.), but rather acknowledging their emotions and working with them. I believe that these methods rather than the French ones can help achieve a more idyllic atmosphere for raising a child.

Trials in France for Someone Who Grew Up in a Customer-Oriented Society

Monday morning I woke up early with the intent to go to La Sorbonne to sign up to take the DELF (a language placement test that will hopefully allow me to study in the French University system later on).

I knew I had to work at 12:30, so I left early so that I could arrive early and be home in time for work.

On the form that I had printed out from the internet it said I could go in between 9:30 and 12:00 on Mondays. Simple enough.

So I finally arrived at the right place, at about 9:40 (I took the train at 8:00, got to La Sorbonne at 9:00, was told I was in the wrong place, then walked for 40 minutes to find the right one). A little annoyed already, I saw a lady standing by the door of the office and asked if I was in the right place. She said yes, but that I couldn’t see the lady in charge until 10:00. I was okay with that, so I waited. Other people started to show up too. We all waited.

Meanwhile, I see a poster right by the door that says that the time to sign up for the DELF on Monday is from 9:00 to 12:00.  So when I see the schedule on the office door that said “Monday mornings: closed” I refuse to believe it. I had been given three different times, 9:00,9:30, and 10:00 for when I could sign up; being closed was not an option and couldn’t possibly be true. So I waited.

But then I got sick of waiting. I knocked on the door. I asked every person I saw who looked like they worked there. No one could or would help me. People were downright cold. I saw a faculty member come out of the faculty bathroom so I went up to see if she could help me and she told me she didn’t work there. Is that why you were in the faculty bathroom with a code on the door?

I went to the front desk and asked if they knew anything about it. They sent me up to the fourth floor. Once there they told me that they couldn’t help me and sent me back down to the first one.

I waited some more.

I went back to the front desk, and was a little angrier this time, insisting they do something. They said they couldn’t help, so I asked if they could at least call her. They hadn’t even thought to do that. What is the point of having someone at the front desk if they can’t give you any information about the people who work there?

Of course the woman in charge didn’t answer the phone though.

So I went back and waited some more.

I kept knocking at the door, having heard movements inside. All I wanted was for someone to come out from the office and tell me to come back the next day. Otherwise, I felt certain that as soon as I would leave, that she would come out and start taking applicants.

But it was getting later and later, and since not a soul in the entire building seemed to know anything about this mysterious woman and her job, I decided it was time for me to go.

I left the building on the verge of tears. Never in my life had people been so unhelpful. I wanted to scream at them, “I am paying 245 euros to take this test, and you are about to lose that money if someone doesn’t help me right this minute.”

I’m used to getting what I want when I’m the one with the money. But when I told my host mom about my trials and tribulations, she didn’t seem at all surprised and said, “Now you understand why it’s been so hard for me to get your insurance stuff straightened out” (which we’ve been working on since September).

After all that I nearly decided it wasn’t worth signing up for the test anyway. I could never come back and live somewhere where government workers give terrible customer service, work when they want, write whatever they want on the internet, posters, and their door.

But, I decided in the end that it was indeed something that could come in handy in the future, so I went the next day and signed up. It was quick and simple enough, so I decided not to complain.

I got home though, took out the copy of the paper with my test information and saw that my name was not “Erika,” but “Patricia.”

No(r)way To Live

As I described back in February, I got a little taste for Sweden when I was over there for a few days. It was like love at first sight. With Norway I’m having a similar affair, but it’s more like when you hear about the perfect man and fall in love with the idea of him.

My friend, Ingrid, another au pair,  is from Norway, and she has managed to convince me, without even trying, just through casual conversation that there is in fact a perfect (or nearly perfect) society on earth.

Over sushi, Ingrid and I discussed how we were both quite homesick, and a little bit of why. She asked me what it was that I liked or missed most about American society, and I was unable to give her a real  answer. I said something vague about the opportunities we had to succeed, nothing very concrete. My homesickness, I explained, was more linked to missing my parents and friends than the culture or society exactly.

I began to ask Ingrid more about Norway, throughout the conversation, and kept being taken aback by how perfect it all seems.

She asked me a bit about what I thought about capitalism, and I gave my best explanation of its value, and why I would still consider myself pro-capitalist (mildly, but nonetheless). Then she explained to me a bit about the Norwegian Socialist system.  Essentially there is a huge middle class, and then some really rich and some really poor on either side. The rich are extremely highly taxed and that money goes indirectly to the “poor.” But let me explain what it means to be poor in Norway. If you live off the government, you still have a reasonably good quality of life. You can have a nice apartment, etc. You’re taken care of.  Ingrid told me about a guy she knew who didn’t work, but had a nice apartment and played video games all day.

In America, we try to avoid people taking advantage of the government funds, making it essentially impossible to live off of them. In Norway there are obviously people taking advantage of this system, but there will always be people taking advantage. I came to realize that in America, the people profiting off of us not having a more equal system are the rich people. So if either way, someone is going to profit, shouldn’t it be the people who actually could potentially need it?

Never in my life has socialism made so much sense.

But then I told her that I would be scared to live in socialist America, because we would have to give up so much of our power to the government, which was a terrifying idea. Not only was our country founded on principles that kept the government from getting too much power, but I can’t fathom the damage that our corrupt politicians would do to not only our country but to the world.

“Oh, but in Norway we trust our politicians,” Ingrid replied. “I am always surprised when I read about how corrupt the French and American politicians are.”  Their politicians live among them instead of being some sort of modern royalty. Ingrid has often met her Prime Minister just walking in the woods, no big deal. And his daughter and Ingrid have many mutual friends. The politicians are their neighbors, not corrupt liars that we watch from afar.

I have perhaps a very simplistic understanding of Norwegian elections, but here’s a brief explanation of how that works. Apparently they don’t vote directly for their prime minister, instead they vote for a party. But for a party to get control, they must have 50% of the votes, which is very difficult seeing that there are about ten parties. So instead the parties join together to get 50% of the votes, and then those parties come together and pick a prime minister. Right now there are three parties in control.  No one party is able to get too much control at anyone time, also perhaps giving the governmental system more stability.

Norwegian health care? Don’t even get me started. Similarly to France, they pay almost nothing for their doctor’s visits, a little more for specialists, and nothing at all for going to the hospital.  Ingrid told me about one of her teachers whose daughter had a rare disease. The doctors in Norway were not able to help her, but her father found some doctors in America who could. So the Norwegian government paid for everything, the doctors, the flight, the stay. The primary role of the government is to protect and take care of its citizens, so why do we in American still have citizens who can’t afford to get the medical care they need? We’re obviously tragically behind.

Not to mention, Norwegian maternity leave is a year and a half long. Many European countries have long maternity leaves though because it’s their way of encouraging their citizens to have more babies. So I looked up online to see if Norway had a low birth rate. Au contraire, they have one of the highest fertility rates in Europe. So the length is perhaps more a matter of respect for motherhood, than out of necessity.

But in Norway not only do they take care of them when they’re sick but they also work to prevent illness. I remember a while back, someone gave Ingrid a blue candy, and she exclaimed how strange that was that it was blue. In Norway they aren’t allowed to use blue food coloring because it’s bad for you. Wait, the government actually stops companies from poisoning its people even  when poisoning them is financially profitable?

Ingrid told me how she always had to be careful about what she bought in France, food-wise, because she was scared about things being unhealthy. Like when she buys apples she was always worried about how they look so polished and waxed. I laughed because I always felt safe in France compared to America with food. I told her never to go to the grocery store in America.

Another thing that Ingrid misses is the sense of security back home in Norway. She is tired of always being scared of getting robbed here in France. Wouldn’t it be lovely to live somewhere where you were able to feel safe?

Education in Norway actually more accurately fulfills the term “American Dream” than education in America does. It isn’t a matter of affording university, like in America, it’s a matter of having the grades. In Norway you know if you can get into a school or not just by looking at your grades, as simple as that. Then once you’re in school, the government pays for it unless you start getting bad grades, then you have to pay them back for you education.

I told Ingrid that she’d done a good job at selling Norway to me  and that I would probably move there if it wasn’t for the cold weather.

“I’ve actually suffered more through this winter in Paris than in Norway because we are prepared and know how to make it comfortable,” Ingrid explained to me when I told her that Norway sounded perfect and I would  move there in a second if it wasn’t for the cold weather. But she quickly helped me make up my mind, ”You know how in San Antonio, it’s really hot but you guys have made it enjoyable or  at least livable? Well it’s the same in Norway. We have things that make it less cold, less unpleasant.“

Well, now I’m convinced and know where I’ll be moving next!

I could keep singing praise for Norway, but I don’t want everyone else to immigrate over there before I get the chance to and make it hard for me to get in.

Un Coeur d’Artichaut

I always fall in love when I go to other countries.  As they say in France, I have “un coeur d’artichaut,” falling easily and often in love.  But when I went to Gothenburg, Sweden, I knew this time it was true love.

Okay, so I was only in Sweden about 48 hours. But when it feels right, it feels right.

I had a bit of a rough start in Sweden, my wallet having disappeared shortly after arriving at Gothenburg City Airport. However, I was able to get it back the next morning thanks to numerous people going out of their way to help me. I quickly realized that everyone in Gothenburg was willing to go above and beyond to help out, which is not what I’m used to in Paris, or even at home in dear San Antonio.

I just continued without cease to be impressed. The city was tidy and beautiful, the people were absolutely lovely (as in really good looking) and kind, the food was fresh and the air was clean. But one of the most marking experiences was after my friend, Zoe, and I decided to take a short coffee break in a cute cafe called “Viktors Kaffe” off the Avenyn.

After a nice cappuccino and chokladbollar (wonderful Swedish dessert that we indulged in perhaps too much), we decided to head over to the cute store across the street. As Zoe and I exited the cafe, to our left we saw a stroller pushed up parallel to the wall just outside the door. The stroller was full of blankets but as we peered closer in we saw a little  face peeking out from behind the blankets. The baby seemed content enough, not making any noise, just lying there happily.

“Do you think it’s normal that that baby is by itself like that?”

“Uhhh, not really. Do you see the parents around anywhere?”

“That lady inside the coffee shop is watching us; maybe she’s the mom?”

We were both shocked to see a child left alone and looked around awhile before deciding the mom must be the lady watching us from inside the cafe. Despite our Au Pair instincts kicking in, we decided we could go into the shop across the street anyway and just keep an eye on the baby.

In the store we couldn’t forget that that little being was alone on the sidewalk across the street, so we asked the lady working there about the baby being left all alone like that.

“Is it safe that there is a baby by itself like that? Isn’t that kind of risky?” we asked her.

“Let me guess: you come from the States, don’t you?” she asked, with a little smile on her face. She explained that in Sweden it wasn’t dangerous like in the States, and that they were able to do things like that, and that most probably the mother was in the cafe anyway.

I can’t even imagine living in a place where you feel safe enough to leave your child outside while you sit and drink your coffee (not that I’d really want to, but knowing that if I did want to I could is mind-blowing). It’s not just in the States that that would be too dangerous, it’s France, Mexico, Canada, Germany, just about anywhere.  I really feel like this is one of many things that sets Sweden apart from other countries.

So here I go again, putting another country on a pedestal. Of course, it could just be a matter of time until I find a more perfect country, but for now my coeur d’artichaut is at rest, and I have found Sweden to be my newest object of admiration.

“Ain’t I a woman?”

After class this afternoon I found my car in the church parking lot in Orgeval, the front left tire very flat. The day was already off to a good start: earlier I had backed into a tree trying to park, spilled my hot tea everywhere in the car, the store was closed so I couldn’t buy anymore phone credit, and now I had a flat.

I wasn’t sure what the best thing to do was. Should I leave the car, call my host parents and let them deal with it, or should I give changing it a try? I headed home on foot. In any case I needed to get some more clothes on if I was going to sit out in the cold and change a tire.

I really didn’t want to just call my host parents and let them do it because I feel so incapable and so useless when I do that. Last time I had car troubles I had to get them to help and it took a few days before things were done, so I was very frustrated by not being able to be independent.

So I called my host mom, informed her that I had a flat tire and that I would be changing it, and asked if she wanted me to take the car somewhere once it was changed. She told me not to worry about it and that her husband would change it after work tonight. So in other words, it wasn’t going to get done; he comes home around 9 p.m. I told her I was going to try and do it; that way I could take it to the garage tomorrow. She seemed doubtful as to my being able to do it, she herself having never done it. But the phone conversation just left me more motivated.

I watched a quick video on the basics of tire changing and walked down to the church parking lot and got started. I told myself that I was going to have to walk back up the hill again in the cold if I didn’t succeed, which was surprisingly motivating.

Everything I needed was in the car, so I felt pretty confident I could do it. I mean how hard can it be? I almost gave up right off the bat though because the tire had this plastic cover on top of the screws which wouldn’t come off and I was afraid to break it. Finally it came off and the real work began.

About half way through, a guy walking past asked me if I needed help. I told him that I thought I could manage. He didn’t push and walked quickly away. I don’t think he really wanted to help anyway.

As I was screwing the bolts onto the spare, I looked back and saw an old man watching me. I smiled at him and kept working. Finally he came up to me and asked if I needed help. I was done at that point, but I said if he wanted he could try making sure that the bolts (is that even what they’re called?) were tight enough. They were. Since he hadn’t gotten to help, he gave me advice for my next tire changing experience.

He explained to me how I needed to put a rock behind the tire so that if the jack moved the car wouldn’t roll. I had actually thought of that, but since there weren’t any rocks around I decided that wasn’t mandatory.

He also explained to me how I should have a pipe in the car to lengthen the wrench because the handle isn’t long enough and that makes it hard for women . . .  Not only that, but he started one of his helpful phrases with, “Since women can drive now . . .” Whatever that means. He also said something about getting a man to do it, so I told him I didn’t want to have to depend on men and was glad I accomplished it on my own.

So I changed my first tire,  and am very proud of myself.  I feel that much more independent now, and well, as Sojourner Truth said, ”Ain’t I a woman?”