Dealings with the Mafia Landlady

A quick note before I deal with the main topic of this particular blog post, a post which I somehow already feel might be a rather lengthy one so go and make a cup of tea before you sit down to reading this one. (If you don’t drink tea you need to sit down and have a stern word with yourself). My reasons for not having blogged recently are as follows:

1.       I haven’t done anything of particular note. Unless you want to hear about the passé simple which by all means I can talk about but somehow I think that isn’t a favourite subject for most people, not even French students.

2.       I’ve been mostly trying to do some work. Strange I know. Most university students are trying to drink their body weight in alcohol. (Some of this I have done – Freshers week was a true triumph but I must confess that some of my most entertaining behaviour has been from very sober nights out)

Right. Now that we’ve dealt with that let’s get down to business.

So I’m in a new flat! No longer am I in my small garret at the top of seven flights of stairs. I have finally reached a point of relative luxury in my renting life as I’m now on the GROUND FLOOR! It’s amazing no longer do I have to lug my bottles of wine up those painful, winding stairs. Now I have no limit to how much I can buy!! Such joyous news!

But the new flat has a rather unfortunate nickname – The Ice Palace. It has yet to show us its true colours but maybe as the winter draws nearer I may yet find that I am shivering as I type. I now happen to live in what some people delightfully have named “the corridor” as you have to walk through my room from my darling flatmate’s to get to the kitchen and the bathroom. This has mostly highlighted to her my interesting inability to get up in the morning and my love to sitting cross legged curled up in my duvet for several minutes just to make sure that I’m not still asleep and dreaming.

Alas, it is not us in this flat of ours! We have another flatmate. How exciting? Living with someone we don’t know. Is this what Halls were like for people who go to normal universities? We have been rather fortunate that he isn’t a freaky weirdo and is in fact British (not a crazy Frenchman, thank goodness) but I do think he has rather judged me for watching Jeremy Kyle when cooking my lunch.

We have all definitely bonded over the peculiarities of our landlady. She is, how can I put this, er, interesting. Firstly, for you dear readers to get a handle on what this woman is like I should probably mention that she decorates all of the apartments she owns with her own “works of art”, a term I am using loosely in this context, they all mostly depict snowy, mountainous scenes and are rather large as well as being on the whole not the best. She never answers an email with an email. She loves calling you up at the most annoying times possible. It’s like she has a sixth sense for when I’m really busy or when I’m holding too many things to be able to pick up the phone. But it isn’t just the wonderful Madame B that we have to deal with. It’s her son as well. He has some of the bluest eyes I have ever seen and hair so blonde and coiffured that it just doesn’t seem real. He is about 17 and seems to be his mother’s little protégé when it comes to her empire of apartments.

Moving on to the “mafia” nature of her conduct, she likes to be paid in cash. Or cheque. But never bank transfer. I always feel rather dodgy when handing over big wedges of cash (as Parisian rents are notoriously high) and to heighten this feeling I think in future I might start putting the money in brown envelopes and placing them in a designated spot for her to pick up at a later date, but that might just be my fantasy to be in a John Le Carre or Ian Fleming novel playing out in my head.

Even so she does seem to like us and we have only had two complaints about noise which I consider rather poor on our front. Seems like we haven't been having enough rowdy parties. Maybe that will all change in the coming weeks. Who knows? Anything is possible.

INCIDENTAL INFORMATION: Since beginning this post some weeks ago I have since bought myself an oscillating heater from Darty for the princely sum of 15€. It has changed my life considerably. I now do not have to worry about getting frostbite in the coming months and can sit at my desk without being covered in as many blankets as I can fit on my person. 

There and Back Again: An Unexpected Italian Journey

No, this isn’t some kind of weird mash-up between The Italian Job and the Hobbit. It is in fact a rather detailed account of my trip to Venice using the overnight train from Gare de Lyon with my forever faithful travelling companion, my darling sister – Pip. Now this sounds like a very good idea in theory, I will grant us that. We got extra time in Venice by sleeping on the train so we saved money on our “hostel” – definite bonus. The piece of the puzzle that we hadn’t banked on was other people. These other people were more specifically tourists. That group of people who seem to always be in the way when you don’t want them to be and who always scupper your plans for a nice relaxing break. Now obviously someone reading will be saying to themselves (either out loud or internally it depends on how vexed they are) “But Kate, surely you count as a tourist?!” Dear reader, you are sorely mistaken. Of course I’m not a tourist, I’m a Parisian (I can technically say this now after living here exactly a year!!!) We barge past as many tourists as we can; it’s like the city’s sport.

Anyway back to the story. So we were meant to be in a six bed sleeper compartment at the very end of the train.  We ended up being in a different compartment because being the kind citizens of the world that we are we swapped with someone in another compartment so that he could be with his family. I did have one thought that this could all go a bit Agatha Christie and one of us could get murdered in our sleep instead of this guy who was a secret Mafia boss – or at least he was in my head…..

Our new compartment consisted of us two, a Brazilian couple and an Italian couple. There was me thinking that I was going to be able to dazzle my fellow Parisians with my wonderful French. Sadly this pleasure was only for the train worker who took our passports for when we crossed over in Switzerland. The compartment itself was comfortable enough. There we two top bunks that were permanently there and the back rests for the seats folded down to make the bottom and middle bunks. Whoever got the bottom bunks were in for an interesting night as they also came with the headrests of the seats. One of these lucky people was me. It wasn’t the worst night’s sleep I have had but it certainly wasn’t the best. But I must concede that the benefit of being on the bottom was that I could look out of the window each time we stopped and have a good nosy at the different train stations we stopped at. My favourites were Lausanne in Switzerland and Milan in Italy, the worst being Venezia Saint Lucia our final destination. Maybe this last choice is out of anger from my latter experiences there but we will return there later, I must keep chronological!

Arriving in Venice our first thoughts were that is was beautiful and as people had told us before, just like the pictures. Indeed my pictures must look much like those that were taken by every other tourist there, save for a few very interesting selfies. The next step after actually arriving there was to find the hostel we had booked. The website said that it was in the centre of town and that if we got lost then we were to go to the only McDonalds in Venice and to ring them and someone would come and fetch us. We decided that it was probably best to go to Maccy Ds and to wait as we’d already got surprisingly lost in the 20 minutes that we had been there thanks to the myriad of dark little alleyways that are the main highways of Venice. So we were met around 10 minutes after I had called the hostel by an Italian woman and her 5 year-old son who was wearing matching green sandals and green glasses. No names were exchanged but she asked if we were the girls for the Rialto Star hostel. We said we were and that was that. She took us down “roads” that we would never have found by ourselves until we got to the building which contained our “apartment”, a room with two single beds with a door onto a kitchen and a bathroom down the corridor. Apparently there were two other people there but we never saw them!

We were then left to our own devices. So after tracking down vast quantities of pizza, pasta, spritz and a slack handful of museums whilst dodging all of the tourists with a sprinkling of ice cream for good measure we were Paris bound again. This time we thought that we were going to have a compartment to ourselves but alas we were joined 3 or 4 hours into our journey by an Italian girl who had the most luggage I have ever seen one person carrying!! This was fine until we were joined by three Korean lads at Milan who also had three enormous suitcases and rucksacks. We both managed to avoid the game of Tetris that was arranging our fellow travellers’ luggage by pretending to be asleep. A wise tactic I think you may agree!   

It was overall an enjoyable trip. Well any trip involving an overload of carbs and frozen dairy goods can’t be all that bad can it? But it’s good to be back in Paris where I can actually understand what people are saying and having a moody stare is obligatory. What I’m most looking forward to now after a short spell back at home is definitely getting back to uni (well Freshers Week) and fingers crossed finding a new job!

August in Paris

It is a truth universally known that Paris in constantly full of tourists. But this is so much more the case in August when all of the Parisians very sensibly decamp to their summer homes in the South. I have been reliably informed that this month is the best time to pick up a man who works in the city because all their wives have taken themselves down to the coast. Somehow my mind is more set on moving flats than become some sleazy guy’s mistress!

It’s strange though. The mood of the city has completely changed. Instead of being buffeted by clouds of endless cigarette smoke it is American tourists getting really excited at “authentic French food” in Monoprix. It makes going round and doing all the super touristy things that I secretly quite enjoy doing a lot easier as I don’t feel like I’m being judged by all of the super cool Parisians especially when we end up in the zoo despite our intention of going to the Natural History Museum in Jardin des Plantes….

Admittedly despite my usual hatred of tourists (they’re slow at walking and get in my way when I have too many bags of shopping) I’m quite liking them at the moment. Mostly due to the fact that all the usual places I go to are an awful lot quieter – take the supermarket for example there was hardly a soul around so I felt less judged taking my basket of pretty much completely Monoprix own-brand goods to the till.

So despite my initial apprehension when I arrived back here on Thursday night, I’m back enjoying myself again. Looking for the positives in everything. Even moving all of my things down my seven flights of stairs – free exercise right?!

Mon Retour

I’M BACK! After a whole month of being back on my native shores I am finally back in the land of frogs’ legs, cheese eating surrender monkeys and croissants. Naturally I have been welcomed back by no internet in my flat. How very kind and thoughtful of them! So I have reinstalled myself in Starbucks in much the same fashion as I did when I first moved out here except with larger coffees and more pastries.

So I got back last night after having had to sit next to the most annoying romantic break couple in the history of the universe. Luckily I bought myself some AMAZING headphones which blocked out their canoodaling (thank goodness for the wonders of TKMaxx and not having to pay full price) and my books of choice was Thank You Jeeves so at no point did I feel like I was plummeting into the depths of despair.

Instead of getting the RER back into town I decided on the bus as it has a much better aroma than the train plus you get to look out at much more interesting scenery. Indeed one scenic benefit of getting the bus as opposed to the train is that the graffiti is much better. The stuff you see from the train is very average I comparison to the surprisingly good Simpsons characters I saw last night as the bus wound through the Parisian suburbs. This was all helped along by a good soundtrack of superb Diana Ross classics such as Upside Down – in truth I must have looked truly bizarre bopping around in a disco fashion.

Backtracking a little bit here but I really do have to tell you about the taxi driver I had to the airport from lunch. Now I don’t have a good track record when talking to taxi drivers, in fact recently one tried to tell me that I didn’t sound like I came from the Wirral even though I’ve lived there all of my life….. But this one was alright after the usual chat inquiring as to where I was travelling etc and him asking me all sorts of questions about living in France namely what the weather was like and if I’m fluent in French. We also touched on the subject of how awful we both are at German. When we arrived at the wondrous John Lennon Airport (some people don’t believe me when I say that Liverpool named its airport after a Beatle but trust me it’s true) he commented on how delightful it was to talk to me – I may not be cursed with annoying taxi drivers after all!

All Change On The 7th Floor

So today was my last day working. I’m feeling more emotional about leaving the job than I thought I would be. I did have to hold back the tears as I finally left by the backdoor – but even on my final day working I was treated like a servant, bet this kind of behaviour doesn’t happen on Downton….

The change started earlier this week when I went to sign for my new flat. Yes, soon I will be living with other human beings who aren’t related to me by blood so won’t just put up with my one word grumblings in the morning- scary I know. It feels quite odd to leave my little attic up here in the skies. I suppose most people feel melancholic when they move out of the first place they had on their own. I’ve had some good memories and some bad ones here (the bad ones mostly being when the WiFi doesn’t work and I have to decamp to Starbucks).

I feel less bad about leaving my weird angular abode due to the new neighbour situation. Since about March there has been another English girl living down the corridor, which has been… how can I put this…erm…interesting?! She likes to run down the corridors and ring my shrill doorbell at odd hours to get some toilet roll for the communal toilet (which I’m still rather smug that I don’t have to use). This sets us up quite nicely for next part of this sorry tale.

After having bumped into said neighbour earlier in the day who told me that she was leaving the next day I assumed that the person ringing my doorbell at 11h15 in the evening might be the one neighbour I actually know. So I pulled on a hoody over my really rather attractive trackie bottoms and what I can only describe as an interesting hairstyle, mostly piled on the top of my heads in a wet and wavy mess. Turns out it wasn’t said neighbour. How embarrassing. Not as embarrassing as it was for the -what I can only describe as overgrown child - who had actually rung my doorbell and it turns out everyone else’s doorbells. The answer to the question “Am I disturbing you?” when posed to me after 10pm is usually “But of course you are, I’m watching MasterChef you crazy fool”. This wasn’t what I replied with but I feel I portrayed it with the expression on my face. I seem to have improved my steely glare since moving to Paris and it has never been more useful than this particular moment. So this young boy proceeds to ask me about who I have as a WiFi provider even though I had already said that I was asleep when he rang the bell. I must admit that whatever I did say to him must have seemed like the angry crazed ramblings of a mad woman because my French comes out as a weird mix of words I’ve only just managed to string together in my head.

Unfortunately there are still far too many mosquitoes here though – for more information about my recent problems with insect bites please see my twitter feed where I think I have spoken about this subject perhaps a little too much. I was trying to beef up my arm muscles a little bit but the handily placed swellings have made me look like Arnold Schwarzenegger on a bad day. (Sorry for that horrific image).

Returning to my last day of working, it started with me standing at the school gates for the very last time (or at least until my next nannying job). Half the children pouring out of the doors were crying because they didn’t want to leave school, well either that or the were coming down off the sugar high which had been induced by the extraordinary amount of sweets small kids think they can eat on the last day of school.

What happened in-between me arriving at their flat and leaving was of little consequence so I will only tell you dear readers of my departure. Both of the kids came to see me out, half the time they can’t be bothered so it was rather sweet that they actually wanted to say goodbye. L gave me the biggest hug and just looked me in the eye and said “It’s been a good year”. Now I’m not one to get overly emotional at things (one of the only films I’ve cried at was Gladiator) but I did have to hold back the salty droplets forming in my eyes. J kept saying “Goodbye” along with “Merry Christmas”, “Happy Paques” and “Happy Birthday”, which they both knew to be 1^st August (I have trained them well, haven’t I?) They even tried to walk up the stairs with me but stopped as soon as I threatened to pack one of them in my suitcase and take them back to the UK with me.

I never thought that I’d be particularly good at looking after kids but it seems to have worked out quite well at least no one hurt themselves while under my supervision and J now knows how to say “anticonstitutionally” which is a word in French but the translation doesn’t really scan that well.

Maybe I will get another English teaching job or maybe I’ll find something different but despite the frustration this one has given me, it has also given me some hilarious anecdotes indeed far too many to put on this blog. I will home at this time in 5 days and I’m not back in Paris until mid-August to go and move into the new apartment. I guess what I’m trying to say is that there will probably be a bit of radio silence from now until then. So it’s over and out from me until then. 

Mornings in Paris

No not a post channelling the creative atrocity that was Woody Allen’s film “Midnight In Paris” but a charming reflection on my past year that I had sat in a café waiting for an appointment at the British Embassy Consular Services building.   

I thought it was pretty apt today to upload this post as it is the day after the Wirral Grammar Leavers Ball and therefore (almost) exactly a year since my mum woke me up with the words “A chic French woman has left a voicemail for you!!” I waited nervously all day for her to ring me back and was ready at any moment to run away from getting my make-up/hair done to go and be amazingly charming and try to sound responsible. The call back didn’t happen for a few days but I did get the job which I’m just a week away from finishing.

I’ve been trying to get lots of things done in my last few weeks before I return to the UK in 11 days’ time. For starters, we had to sort a flat for August to move into with my two sidekicks in general Parisian filled frivolities. I also had to get an extension on my passport so that I could return to the cloudy shores of my homeland once again. Both of these things required getting up relatively early. As many people might be aware this is not something I am particularly good at. I tend to need a good cup of coffee and some kind of baked goods inside me before I can make any kind of intelligent conversation. So this is what I vowed to do.

First of all on Tuesday I had to go and get some groceries as my fridge had become seriously lacking in the food department. Things were getting serious – I had almost run out of both green beans and chocolate (two things I have started to rely on as food staples but not necessarily in the same dish). I made my way to Franprix which I knew opened at 8am but when I got there they had nothing on the shelves. “Monoprix would never allow this kind of shoddy business practice” I said to myself so I walked there post-haste. The ever wonderful and omnipotent Monoprix however was not open. But never fear there were many cafes nearby for me to purchase piping hot espresso and croissant in true Parisian style. So as I sat there watching the world go by and laughing at the silly Americans sat next to me I had a little think. Usually I don’t dabble in such dangerous matters but I was having a happy-go-lucky day so carried on in my pensive mood.

This year has been pretty good really. I’ve passed all of the modules of my first year of university. I’ve managed to live on my own without burning down the building or having to go to A&E. SOPPY ALERT: I’ve made some really awesome friends. Not the fake kind, but the kind of friends who will pass embarrassing photos of you round the lecture theatre but also the kinds of friends who offer to bring stuff round when your ill and ring you up out of the blue to organise a night out on the tiles.

The rest of my day was fairly uneventful but it did include a bit of sunbathing and reading James Bond so it was pretty epic really.

I also managed to combine the eating of baked goods with having to go to extend my passport. A task that I was slightly daunted by but it needed doing so it was going to be done. The fact that I was half an hour early for my appointment didn’t deter me, but the fact that the building didn’t open for another half an hour was a slight issue so I had a cheeky little wander. I haven’t really explored the 8^th arrondissement all that much which is a shame because it is gorgeous! I managed to scrap together all of the cents I had in my bag to go and grab a pain au chocolat and sit watching all of the goings on in the beautiful designer shops and the up-market hotels. Extending my passport was simple enough – I finally feel like a proper traveller now because I have a funky stamp in my passport.

The Au Pair's Guide to Babysitting

Before coming to Paris to take up a job as resident professional babysitter I had only ever done it once previously. I wouldn’t even begin to say that I think I have the art of looking after children down to a fine art after doing it for 9 months but I’m certainly starting to wise up to all the intricacies of getting two dangerously devious girls to do what I say. Here are my words of wisdom:-

1.       Make sure they know the boundaries. For example my girls know that I’ll let them stay up a little bit later if they don’t disturb me when I’m totally immersed in Game Of Thrones because if not they will incur my wrath. Something that is never pretty on a Saturday night when I could be out having fun.

2.       Don’t snitch on each other. I’ll tell your mum that you went to bed without a fuss and at the designated hour if you don’t let on that I’ve eaten most of the crisps. And drunk all the tea. And eaten most of the Percy Pigs.

3.       If I’ve let you watch Desperate Housewives past your bedtime (which coincidentally is really badly dubbed but it such a way that it’s even funnier) then you have to slowly glide from the living room into your own bedroom with the stealth of a leopard when your parents come through the front door – something I never perfected as a child.

4.       My solution for you being in a strop/scared of thunderstorms/not doing what I say is to tickle you. A fail safe negotiating tactic – why haven’t they tried this in the Middle East?

5.       Try hard to help with homework. Even if it’s explaining the German case system which fogs my brain in English never mind when I’m explaining it in French.  #linguistproblems

6.       Wifi passwords and laptop chargers are essential. But an emergency book is always good. Even if it’s just to pick up when the parents walk through the door so it doesn’t look like you’ve been watching a whole series of Real Housewives Of Atlanta back to back but actually reading Proust. (Fail safe technique – no one finishes Proust so you can keep it up for ages)

It is an occupation that is not without its certain struggles – I mean who can reason with 8 year olds? But it can be quite rewarding. My favourite moment babysitting was hearing some guy in the street screaming “YOU SHALL NOT PASS” to his friend. The Lord of The Rings nerd within me was quite gleeful that night I can tell you.