Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Friday, February 17, 2012
Comme Une Scène de New York Minute.
Last night, after a full day of wannabe-interning and tending to my ready-made family, I headed out to a quintessentially French named hotspot called Le Tribal Bar. After doing a quick search on my phone at where it was located, I found out that it was actually pretty close to my apartment and so I got off at my normal metro and planned to follow my feet towards Cour de Petites Écuries, a small wee inlet that jutts off a street.
I was about two blocks to the left of my street and I literally thought I'd stepped into a scene from one of those retro films set in Harlem, New York's notoriously Black suburb. Think of that scene from New York Minute, where MK and A come out of the sewer through the manhole and head for the closest shop, a hairdresser, complete with ghetto beats, bling and a whole lotta afro. The street I was walking down was like this, replicated. One such hairdresser, aptly named Haut Afro (Top Afro), was lined outside with youths in baggy jeans and inside was like an explosion of corn rows, weaves and, of course, afro's. If the area wasn't getting increasingly dodgy for a SWF it would have been hilarious. As often happens at night, the street was deserted of cars and people were spilling across the street, their espresso cups filled with a murky substance that was fooling no one. There were boom boxes filling the windowsills and hishhash permeating the air. Walking home, I thought for sure that I was going to get sprung.
I guess you have to expect that in an area with a bar that gives you free moules frites ou cous cous avec your drink.
I was about two blocks to the left of my street and I literally thought I'd stepped into a scene from one of those retro films set in Harlem, New York's notoriously Black suburb. Think of that scene from New York Minute, where MK and A come out of the sewer through the manhole and head for the closest shop, a hairdresser, complete with ghetto beats, bling and a whole lotta afro. The street I was walking down was like this, replicated. One such hairdresser, aptly named Haut Afro (Top Afro), was lined outside with youths in baggy jeans and inside was like an explosion of corn rows, weaves and, of course, afro's. If the area wasn't getting increasingly dodgy for a SWF it would have been hilarious. As often happens at night, the street was deserted of cars and people were spilling across the street, their espresso cups filled with a murky substance that was fooling no one. There were boom boxes filling the windowsills and hishhash permeating the air. Walking home, I thought for sure that I was going to get sprung.
I guess you have to expect that in an area with a bar that gives you free moules frites ou cous cous avec your drink.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Le travail et les autres trucs qui sont nécessaire à vivre.
Despite Paris' freezing temperatures and the coldest European winter in about 40 years, I have been managing to avoid faceplanting in ice, freezing my hair or losing any fingers. Definite plus. I've also been super busy traversing pretty much from one side of Paris to the other numerous times a day.
My latest ventures have landed me an internship at a film festival company in which I work for an Australian man and am constantly told I have a strange accent. The office is hidden away down a garden path in a beautiful area of Paris. So once I'm inside I could be in the Bronx, but the walk there is lovely. It is an eclectic group of people that work there, dominated by Italians but also featuring people from Denmark, Norway, Estonia, Canada, Poland, England, Spain, Australia, France and then me, the lone New Zealander that is constantly asked to repeat herself to be understood and speaks in a jumble of French and English to get points across. Nothing like adding a language barrier to a new job. My official role is "social media content advisor" which briefly translates to 'making-coffees-running-errands-and-doing-whatever-is-needed". No, luckily I don't make the coffee's. That person is above me.
So my day is spent organising aspects of the website and their various and diverse social media platforms (check out ECU Independent Film Festival Paris for more information, see that plug I chucked in there? What a segway.) So, other than the fact that the French don't eat for long periods of time, (and asking to pop out for a baguette at 12pm would be like suggesting to the French they leave out cheese from their diet), and therefore the only lunch time music lighting up the office is the sound of my empty and grumpy stomach demands. But despite this, I feel like I have one of those real people jobs where you wear tailored suits, heels and walk with a purpose, like you're late for perpetual meetings (of which I do none, and come to think of it, have none. Though as a result of having to catch three metro's to get there, I normally am running.)
By night, I moonlight as a responsible, respectable babysitter for three loud but charming children. (which really translates as me playing grown-up but really enjoying finding my true calling as a 10 year old). Single-handedly looking after a 12, 9 and 2 year old is not the easiest job I could think of but it sure keeps thing interesting (read: forgetting that 2 year olds probably shouldn't cross the road by themselves..)
Although I'm supposed to combine my babysitting hat with my teaching English hat, I really just end up learning French from someone 19 years my junior. Yesterday we played "guess the animal" which consisted of me asking the two year old what animal it was that I was holding. Little did she realise she was teaching me the name of a variety of animals. However my personal favourite was the colour game which followed the same idea. But this time, when I pointed to yellow, I asked her what the colour was and she responded "yellow". I instantly stopped.
"Uuuhh, huh?" I asked, stumped.
"Yellow" the French two year old repeated.
"Ahhh, oui, tres bien" was all I could muster.
I am still failing to understand how on earth she knew to say yellow when it really should have been 'jaune'. Guess my English teaching skills are better than I knew. (I'll just skim over the fact that I hadn't even mentioned yellow yet, but what the heck.)
So regardless of a few tears here and there (theirs, not mine, though I'm not sure which is worse), and the mission of trying to control 3 energetic, crazy French children, I'm practicing my kid-French and learning that not everyone in Paris lives in as ridiculously small apartments as I do.
I just hope they don't pick up New Zealand accents with my influence. Having been away from home so long, hearing the accent is, ummm, interesting.
Ay?
My latest ventures have landed me an internship at a film festival company in which I work for an Australian man and am constantly told I have a strange accent. The office is hidden away down a garden path in a beautiful area of Paris. So once I'm inside I could be in the Bronx, but the walk there is lovely. It is an eclectic group of people that work there, dominated by Italians but also featuring people from Denmark, Norway, Estonia, Canada, Poland, England, Spain, Australia, France and then me, the lone New Zealander that is constantly asked to repeat herself to be understood and speaks in a jumble of French and English to get points across. Nothing like adding a language barrier to a new job. My official role is "social media content advisor" which briefly translates to 'making-coffees-running-errands-and-doing-whatever-is-needed". No, luckily I don't make the coffee's. That person is above me.
So my day is spent organising aspects of the website and their various and diverse social media platforms (check out ECU Independent Film Festival Paris for more information, see that plug I chucked in there? What a segway.) So, other than the fact that the French don't eat for long periods of time, (and asking to pop out for a baguette at 12pm would be like suggesting to the French they leave out cheese from their diet), and therefore the only lunch time music lighting up the office is the sound of my empty and grumpy stomach demands. But despite this, I feel like I have one of those real people jobs where you wear tailored suits, heels and walk with a purpose, like you're late for perpetual meetings (of which I do none, and come to think of it, have none. Though as a result of having to catch three metro's to get there, I normally am running.)
By night, I moonlight as a responsible, respectable babysitter for three loud but charming children. (which really translates as me playing grown-up but really enjoying finding my true calling as a 10 year old). Single-handedly looking after a 12, 9 and 2 year old is not the easiest job I could think of but it sure keeps thing interesting (read: forgetting that 2 year olds probably shouldn't cross the road by themselves..)
Although I'm supposed to combine my babysitting hat with my teaching English hat, I really just end up learning French from someone 19 years my junior. Yesterday we played "guess the animal" which consisted of me asking the two year old what animal it was that I was holding. Little did she realise she was teaching me the name of a variety of animals. However my personal favourite was the colour game which followed the same idea. But this time, when I pointed to yellow, I asked her what the colour was and she responded "yellow". I instantly stopped.
"Uuuhh, huh?" I asked, stumped.
"Yellow" the French two year old repeated.
"Ahhh, oui, tres bien" was all I could muster.
I am still failing to understand how on earth she knew to say yellow when it really should have been 'jaune'. Guess my English teaching skills are better than I knew. (I'll just skim over the fact that I hadn't even mentioned yellow yet, but what the heck.)
So regardless of a few tears here and there (theirs, not mine, though I'm not sure which is worse), and the mission of trying to control 3 energetic, crazy French children, I'm practicing my kid-French and learning that not everyone in Paris lives in as ridiculously small apartments as I do.
I just hope they don't pick up New Zealand accents with my influence. Having been away from home so long, hearing the accent is, ummm, interesting.
Ay?
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Les Colocs.
Just met another one of my colocotaires (flatmates).
He's French, and, well, rather good looking.
I am officially not opposed to the French tradition of 'faire la bise'.
He's French, and, well, rather good looking.
I am officially not opposed to the French tradition of 'faire la bise'.
Moving Day!
Today is the day I officially lose my status as a stateless, homeless dweller, and join the elite in society as an occupant of an apartment, complete with real walls and a roof. Luxury.
Unfortunately the day began a little later than desired.
(This was following an interesting night last night in which I missed the last metro home. Again. Despite being adamant that I would not repeat the mistake a second time. But time flies and Hanna fails. Despite being told numerous times that it was snowing outside, we thought we'd be fine to walk to the local bus depot and catch a handy, multi seated vehicle to our homes. Little did we know that they don't run in snow. Handy. So after having a messy snow fight at around 2am in the deserted streets of Cardinal Lemoine, then swiftly regretting it when we were wet, freezing and still with countless blocks to trample through the snow in, we literally RAN through the snow, holding hands to balance ourselves and avoid slipping. Success! No one fell. But it must have been quite a sight.
Arriving at the location for the buses and finding there were none, we joined the homeless crowd on the grates. SO warm. We ended up breathing in that toxic, awful but warm air for about 10 minutes before bringing ourselves to the fact that things were not going to just fix themselves and we couldn't stay there forever. Well, technically we could, but the homeless men seemed to be catching on that we weren't actually homeless and just merely stealing their coveted warm air and were getting worringly close. So we hailed cabs and were met with instant warmth and finally, a ticket home. I stared, mesmorized, at the glimpes of delicious, fresh snow whizzing past from inside the comfort of a friendly taxi man's car. Paris decorated in snow is STUNNING. Something everyone should be lucky enough to see. I collapsed into bed in the early hours of the morning, unable to fall asleep for the beauty of the delicate beads of white snow, gliding down right outside my window against a backdrop of the horizon of Parisian roof's. I am SO lucky. And warmth should never, ever, be overrated.)
Needless to say, my plan to wake up early and get started on the difficult moving process became a little more difficult when it came to the follow through. So I rose late (with snow still everywhere!!), packed up all my stuff and got set for trip #1. Of two. I don't know what made me decide to try and do it by myself, by foot, with no means of transport, but I had set my mind on ignoring the taxi's streaming past eager to pick me up and get that instant 5euro because I had bags. But no. After carrying my suitcase down the 6 flights of stairs (its at this point that I think maybe my fear of lifts has gotten a little extreme) and head down the Grands Boulevards. By the time I arrive at my new apartment (which is on the ground floor, thank goodness) I am sweating on the inside and freezing on the inside and my body is clearly confused. I drop off my stuff, grab the trolley my landlord gives me for my extra boxes and head back. This time getting the trolley, laden with boxes down 6 flights of stairs seems a little more tedious. I stand and stare at the lift. And then relent. Sorta.
I manouevre the trolley into the lift, press the ground floor, close the doors and then race down all 6 flights of stairs so I can open the doors when it reaches the bottom. Pretty sure I looked like a complete nutter. BUT, I have reasons for this other than the idea that a small, swinging square suspended high up in a narrow shaft is not the most comfortable of images. Not only had the lift been breaking previously (the doors would often refuse to opena dn had to be shoved hard, or pushed from the other side) but also, I doubt I actually would have fitted in the lift with the trolley. The lift is THAT small.
Anyway, it was a success. I got my trolley down and managed to trample through the, now slush, relatively unharmed. I am now somewhat unpacked in my brand, spanking new room (but actually not brand, spanking or new. At all.)
There is definitely a trip to IKEA in the near future. SO excited.
Unfortunately the day began a little later than desired.
(This was following an interesting night last night in which I missed the last metro home. Again. Despite being adamant that I would not repeat the mistake a second time. But time flies and Hanna fails. Despite being told numerous times that it was snowing outside, we thought we'd be fine to walk to the local bus depot and catch a handy, multi seated vehicle to our homes. Little did we know that they don't run in snow. Handy. So after having a messy snow fight at around 2am in the deserted streets of Cardinal Lemoine, then swiftly regretting it when we were wet, freezing and still with countless blocks to trample through the snow in, we literally RAN through the snow, holding hands to balance ourselves and avoid slipping. Success! No one fell. But it must have been quite a sight.
Arriving at the location for the buses and finding there were none, we joined the homeless crowd on the grates. SO warm. We ended up breathing in that toxic, awful but warm air for about 10 minutes before bringing ourselves to the fact that things were not going to just fix themselves and we couldn't stay there forever. Well, technically we could, but the homeless men seemed to be catching on that we weren't actually homeless and just merely stealing their coveted warm air and were getting worringly close. So we hailed cabs and were met with instant warmth and finally, a ticket home. I stared, mesmorized, at the glimpes of delicious, fresh snow whizzing past from inside the comfort of a friendly taxi man's car. Paris decorated in snow is STUNNING. Something everyone should be lucky enough to see. I collapsed into bed in the early hours of the morning, unable to fall asleep for the beauty of the delicate beads of white snow, gliding down right outside my window against a backdrop of the horizon of Parisian roof's. I am SO lucky. And warmth should never, ever, be overrated.)
Needless to say, my plan to wake up early and get started on the difficult moving process became a little more difficult when it came to the follow through. So I rose late (with snow still everywhere!!), packed up all my stuff and got set for trip #1. Of two. I don't know what made me decide to try and do it by myself, by foot, with no means of transport, but I had set my mind on ignoring the taxi's streaming past eager to pick me up and get that instant 5euro because I had bags. But no. After carrying my suitcase down the 6 flights of stairs (its at this point that I think maybe my fear of lifts has gotten a little extreme) and head down the Grands Boulevards. By the time I arrive at my new apartment (which is on the ground floor, thank goodness) I am sweating on the inside and freezing on the inside and my body is clearly confused. I drop off my stuff, grab the trolley my landlord gives me for my extra boxes and head back. This time getting the trolley, laden with boxes down 6 flights of stairs seems a little more tedious. I stand and stare at the lift. And then relent. Sorta.
I manouevre the trolley into the lift, press the ground floor, close the doors and then race down all 6 flights of stairs so I can open the doors when it reaches the bottom. Pretty sure I looked like a complete nutter. BUT, I have reasons for this other than the idea that a small, swinging square suspended high up in a narrow shaft is not the most comfortable of images. Not only had the lift been breaking previously (the doors would often refuse to opena dn had to be shoved hard, or pushed from the other side) but also, I doubt I actually would have fitted in the lift with the trolley. The lift is THAT small.
Anyway, it was a success. I got my trolley down and managed to trample through the, now slush, relatively unharmed. I am now somewhat unpacked in my brand, spanking new room (but actually not brand, spanking or new. At all.)
There is definitely a trip to IKEA in the near future. SO excited.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
La vie Parisienne.
After arriving in Paris homeless, jobless and days away from kindly asking the local homless man if I could share his moth-eaten mattress and disintegrated underlay/doormat/cardboard, I seem to have finally found some luck (and here's hoping I'm not speaking too soon).
After an interesting Disney audition (which I'm going to slot away as 'life experience' and put in a vault I never open, along with my cellphone number and navigational abilities) I met a lovely American girl living in Paris, fresh from an eye-opening trip to South Africa. I let it slip that I was currently homeless and she kindly suggested I bunk with her (in which I became instantly worried about the Parisian style of 'bunking' given that normal Parisian living can include two to a bed) but soon found out she was offering her whole bedroom to me! Bliss. The door doesn't fully open, the large bed takes up more than half of the floor space and my luggage/boxes take up the rest, but there are superb views and its warm. And it has a roof and walls. Bingo.
I said yes before she'd finished and now I'm set up in her cute abode. But alas, I can't stay here forever and have been avidly searching Craigslist and the like (many which are close to being renamed scams.fr) to avoid overstaying my welcome. Finally, I got lucky! (On the apartment search... duh.)
I have nabbed myself my own bed (and room) in the 10th, sharing with 4 other people on the ground floor (ie. no stairs!! Not sure what this is going to mean for my derriere). I have my own bed, bookshelf, desk (think primary school styles) and key! Moving in tomorrow, not sure how. Will tackle that problem, umm, later.
I have also scored myself an interview for an internship with the ECU film festival, but I haven't got my fingers crossed. This may be connected to my last interview yesterday morning, unfortunately and regretfully conducted over the phone, in which I think I told 'Pierre' that I had never handled money, worked in a cafe or in fact drunk coffee, despite applying for a job that only wanted experience cafe workers and people with a reasonable standard of French. I think I made myself pretty clear on both counts. Though not intentionally.
On a side note, the Ice Age is definitely nearing. France seems to think its going to join the charge in showing that it can freeze anything (including homeless man pee that litters the sidewalk. They say don't eat yellow snow? Definitely don't go near yellow frost). I am now an expert at layering so that I can wear as many layers as possible without stretching all my clothing and have also become pretty proficient at stripping my clothes of as fast as possible when arriving indoors to a well/over heated apartment. Not ALL my clothes, obviously.
Tonight I'm off for some drinks with friends. One, to buy beers for a friend that I lost a bet against (the bet involving a sweet-talking, soft lipped French guy) and to bid au revoir, and hopefully a bientot, to the last of my Kiwi friends, off to the bright lights and big cities of London and the US.
After an interesting Disney audition (which I'm going to slot away as 'life experience' and put in a vault I never open, along with my cellphone number and navigational abilities) I met a lovely American girl living in Paris, fresh from an eye-opening trip to South Africa. I let it slip that I was currently homeless and she kindly suggested I bunk with her (in which I became instantly worried about the Parisian style of 'bunking' given that normal Parisian living can include two to a bed) but soon found out she was offering her whole bedroom to me! Bliss. The door doesn't fully open, the large bed takes up more than half of the floor space and my luggage/boxes take up the rest, but there are superb views and its warm. And it has a roof and walls. Bingo.
I said yes before she'd finished and now I'm set up in her cute abode. But alas, I can't stay here forever and have been avidly searching Craigslist and the like (many which are close to being renamed scams.fr) to avoid overstaying my welcome. Finally, I got lucky! (On the apartment search... duh.)
I have nabbed myself my own bed (and room) in the 10th, sharing with 4 other people on the ground floor (ie. no stairs!! Not sure what this is going to mean for my derriere). I have my own bed, bookshelf, desk (think primary school styles) and key! Moving in tomorrow, not sure how. Will tackle that problem, umm, later.
I have also scored myself an interview for an internship with the ECU film festival, but I haven't got my fingers crossed. This may be connected to my last interview yesterday morning, unfortunately and regretfully conducted over the phone, in which I think I told 'Pierre' that I had never handled money, worked in a cafe or in fact drunk coffee, despite applying for a job that only wanted experience cafe workers and people with a reasonable standard of French. I think I made myself pretty clear on both counts. Though not intentionally.
On a side note, the Ice Age is definitely nearing. France seems to think its going to join the charge in showing that it can freeze anything (including homeless man pee that litters the sidewalk. They say don't eat yellow snow? Definitely don't go near yellow frost). I am now an expert at layering so that I can wear as many layers as possible without stretching all my clothing and have also become pretty proficient at stripping my clothes of as fast as possible when arriving indoors to a well/over heated apartment. Not ALL my clothes, obviously.
Tonight I'm off for some drinks with friends. One, to buy beers for a friend that I lost a bet against (the bet involving a sweet-talking, soft lipped French guy) and to bid au revoir, and hopefully a bientot, to the last of my Kiwi friends, off to the bright lights and big cities of London and the US.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Timeforsnowangels.
Finally. It's snowing! This is the sight I woke up to. A light dusting across an overcast but beautiful Paris. 
Saturday, February 4, 2012
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