A DREAM IS A WISH YOUR HEART MAKES

This week Elze went to a massive shopping mall half an hour outside of Paris. Elze had previously gone and bought a gigantic and beautiful Michael Kors bag for over 200 € to carry with her to work so she wouldn't feel like such a dork with her backpack full of her chef stuff. (I, on the other hand, look like a dork every day and with every chocolate biscuit dinner I have I'm starting to look more and more like a pudgy one.) Elze was practically beaming with pride at this beautiful bag but the first day she took it out of the house she encountered some serious problems. She had just closed the door of our building when one of the handles tore off. Being forced to use the only one left, it too, ripped off. She then had to carry it like those old school handle-less shopping bags (is anyone else shocked, by the way, at how long it took them to put handles on those?) or a crazy paranoid old lady convinced she's going to be pick pocketed everywhere in Paris.

Elze then was lucky enough to have one of the worst days at her internship and returned talking crazy about how she was going to go home, how she wasn't learning anything, how she was just suffering and was going to hate every second of it here. And to make things worse her baby of a new bag had torn and she'd spent too much money on it to begin with. I tried to soothe her. I knew how she was feeling, I've felt like that plenty here and I knew that she was mostly just venting. So I told her what I tell myself, that she'll look back on this and feel happy, that she'll always feel guilty and a little like a failure if she leaves early, that she may not be learning loads about pastry but she is learning valuable life lessons and growing as a person. All that daily sitcom end of the show lesson crap we all used to get on TGIF when it was still rocking Friday nights.

Most importantly, I told her not to worry about the damn bag. She could return it and get her money back. After we did our research we saw that the receipt clearly stated NO REFUNDS, because this was the Michael Kors Outlet, not the actual store. "Screw that," I told her, "we'll get your damn money. This isn't some hideous bag you thought was cute in the store and then had an epiphany about, this is actually a piece of crap and I'm sure Michael would be horrified if he knew the rubbish his name was on." She begged me to come with her because I talk a big game and as you may have guessed, I have my moments where I can be strong and stubborn and demand to get what I want. Plus I had already learned that this was how the French seemed to want to be treated. So I agreed to be her muscle and go with her on the journey to return the Michael Kors.

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I met Elze at the metro after she finished her day at work and the two of us crammed onto a train filled with commuters. It was hot and sweaty and smelled like people. People really don't smell all that great, but I held onto the disease ridden rod they give you for "safety" and we chatted about how her day today had gone so much better. Then we moved to an RER train which takes you out of the city. It also went to Euro Disney so we started talking about how weird it was when people came to visit France and visited Disney. I found it repulsive. Of all the things to do they're going to go to Paris Disney? To me it was like coming to Paris and making a regular stop at McDonalds. Blasphemy. Elze was somewhat more sympathetic but I think that's because she wants to be a nicer person than I.

However, as nice as she wants to be, she didn't tell me until we were in the metro that we were going to have to steal a little bit because we were taking the RER farther than our metro passes covered. So that meant that after another jam packed sweat fest I had to seriously invade someone's personal space and sneak behind them through the metro gates so that I wouldn't be stuck inside like some unwanted orphan. The man I followed gave me a quick suspicious glance, but that was all. We were on our way to the mall. I was less than thrilled.

I'm a pretty terrible girl. I don't get pretty every day. I buy shitty, cheap make up. I don't really know that much about designers. I bite my nails and never paint them, or when I do paint them I paint my toe nails and leave them on until they chip off on their own. I never keep important things like bandaids or clean wipes in my purse, except for a brief period and I got sand in my purse which contaminated all my clean wipes. I have very little patience for girl talk unless it's especially juicy gossip and I like that mostly because I'm judgmental and somewhat of a bitch. But where I really drop the ball is on shopping. I only have a two store limit and then I'm done. I go through a store and grab every single thing I could possibly want to try on in two sizes and pile it onto my arm until it's red, sore, and swollen. I then blow through them as quickly as possible and that's that. I'll do that for two stores and then I want to go home.

But I was excited to see Elze fight with a French man about a bag and even step in if necessary. But it really wasn't necessary. I found that Elze can through a fit just as well as I can. She was on fire. The man "helping" was so obnoxious that I wanted to jab a thumb into his eyeball. He was tall and handsome but thin like most French men are. His legs couldn't have been thicker than my pinky finger. With every word he spoke to us he had this huge smile and undertones of laughter that would flutter out from his sexy stubble every now and then. It was annoying as hell. I think he was trying to be charming and helpful but it came off as smug and indifferent.

Elze explained what had happened, that this gigantic bag hadn't even been able to handle the simple weight of her wallet, phone and a small water bottle. What then, was the point of making a bag so big if you couldn't use it? The man smiled and explained that this was one of their most popular bags and this was the first one that had a problem. Elze said that she found that hard to believe since it was obviously poorly made. You could even see how the stitching on the handles had been sloppily done and if she had examined it more closely she would've known it was a piece of shit before buying it. She explained how the sales lady had told her it was a strong bag and could even carry her lap top in it. The man said that while that was true it could only carry a small one. This continued for a while. She stated fact after fact on how this bag had failed to do its job and he continued to make excuses. Her voice became elevated with each round. When she demanded that she get her money back the man explained, "This is an outlet, we don't give refunds. You can have the bag replaced or get a store credit."

Elze wasn't going to have it and neither was I. She said that she didn't care, that the bag had fallen apart and she didn't want them to just replace it with another one that would do the same thing. She also didn't want any of the other bags. I made only one comment which was that she wasn't returning it because she didn't like it but because it was poorly made and why should she trust any other bag in the store? Sensing that we were not going to give up and that he and his asparagus legs could easily be taken by the two of us, he went into the back to do god knows what. He was probably taking a nervous pee or something like that.

He returned and said that he could give a refund but since the store was new it would take a while. Elze said what was my favorite line of the day, "Well, I'm waiting!" And so he began and Elze got her money back and we were both happy. She had over 200 € in her bank account and I had just witnessed Elze put a twig of a frenchie in his place. It was glorious.

We took advantage of the mall and did some cheap shopping and then after we were both worn out we made our way back to the RER for the train ride home. Since we are lowly interns we stole some more and bought the children's tickets because it's two for the price of one and no one is there to check them. On the ride home we were chatting quickly in english and I noticed a girl next to us taking quick glances at us. I then observed that she had an Illinois University sweatshirt on. She then leaned over and said, "I'm sorry to eavesdrop but I couldn't help but notice the American accent. Where are you guys from?"

I told her that Elze was actually from South Africa but that I was, indeed, a fellow patriot. I asked what she was doing in France, "I'm a flight attendant. I'm just here for two days and I'm getting back from Euro Disney." We both held back chuckles. What were the odds? And of course this girl was American. Here in her sweatshirt, giving us all a bad name, visiting Euro Disney and looking like she'd just went for a jog. But the truth was she was sweeter and friendlier than any French person I'd met thus far in Paris.

We continued to chat and I could immediately tell this girl was somewhat of a dork. I mean that in an endearing sense of the word, not in a judgmental sense. But I could hazard a guess from the ten minutes we talked to her that she probably wasn't homecoming queen. For starters she had a life goal to visit every Disney in the world. Don't get me wrong, I love Disney movies as much as the next girl, maybe even more (I even have some choice Disney songs on my Ipod), but I don't really see the appeal of Disneyland. It's horrible because Christy, my roommate, has actually been to every single Disney in the world and while I nod and pretend that's cool not so deep down I'm asking myself, "WTF?"

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My new found RER American, Disney obsessed friend mentioned how her fiance lived in New Zealand and so I congratulated her on her soon to be marriage and we started talking about that. Apparently they had been pen pals and that was how they met. I asked how they were set up and she said that she had had a pen pal before, a girl, and that she had dropped off the face of the planet and so she went onto penpal.com or something like that and found another one. Apparently she was looking for a girl penpal but this guy, Shane, was what they recommended so she tried him on and apparently he fit.

Perhaps the best part was when I began digging into her wedding plans. While I may be a terrible girl at makeup and shopping I do share the apparently natural female affinity for weddings. Not to mention the fact that my kick ass sister runs one of the best wedding blogs in the world, snippetandink.com. So I'm a bit judgmental when it comes to weddings. Well, most things, but hey I can't help it that my mom raised me to have good taste! Some things are nature, some things are nurture, when it comes to the tree of style I like to think I got some pretty prime fruits. What I'm trying to say is, I was curious. And then she dropped the bomb. The "D" bomb.

She exclaimed with extreme excitement that she was going to get married at Disneyland! Oh joy! Elze gave a honeyed laugh and said, "How sweet!" I of course smiled and did the same. It was obvious this girl had a serious obsession with Disney so I guess why not get married there? Sure it was tacky as hell, sure every fiber of my being was judging and dissecting her, but the truth is that she will probably have more fun at her wedding than I ever will at mine because she actually knows what she wants and isn't afraid to go for it.

Then we started discussing the dress. I knew it. I knew what she was going to have. I just couldn't see how it wasn't going to happen. A die hard Disney fan like this? How could she not have a Disney Princess dress? And so as she was talking this was all I was thinking and then she said those magic words, "...well then the woman at the shop mentioned how they had a Disney line..." Of course they did! This was America after all. Well, this, was actually France but where she had gone for her dress was America and we believe in pleasing the customer so of course there were Disney Princess dresses for all those little princess girls who never fully grew up.

I looked at this girl with her greasy pony tail and slouchy sweatshirt as she talked about her white version of the dress that Belle wore in the famous ballroom scene of Beauty and the Beast, and I couldn't help but be a little jealous. Here she had found true love from almost a day's flight away. She had only actually spent time with him, real human/human interaction on three trips to New Zealand. And yet here she was about to be the happiest Disney princess in history as she had an intimate wedding of 24 at Disneyland in her copy of Belle's dress. This was a girl who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to take it. Not to mention she obviously had an incredible attitude.

People like that drive me crazy. Why can't I have that positive outlook? This girl was obviously somewhat of a geek in high school (not that that is any measure of a person, if anything the less popular you are the more you're likely to be a better human being and to actually succeed in life, but still the weirdos are kinda weirdos), and yet she still sought out personal human contact through the dorkiest form ever, an online penpal, and managed to make it work! This was faith. This was happiness. This was someone truly living life as it was meant to be lived. By actually being present! I had to take a page from this girl's book.

I am in Paris and while I may be gaining a pound a day I'm not all that bad of a catch. I'm obvioulsy hilarious for any of you who are paying attention. Plus I have this wonderful opportunity of being able to live here for a year, go to pastry school and work in a French patisserie. And yet all I do is bitch about it every day on a damn blog. I need to be more like a Disney princess. If I remember correctly all their lives sucked in the beginning and then turned to roses at the end because of persistence and good attitude. Sure my Prince Charming may not bring me a glass slipper and marry me on sight, but perhaps for me Prince Charming is more metaphorical than for my sweet American counterpart. Perhaps for me what Prince Charming will bring is a symbolic shoe of self worth, self discovery, and positivism that I'll wear with comfort, ease, and a good sense of humor.

So Prince... I'm ready and waiting. And if you happen to be super hot, all the better for me, right?

THE UNBEARABLE RUDENESS OF BEING FRENCH

I know I may be pessimistic but some things just seem to be true. And one of those things is the rumor that the French are sort of rude assholes. As I've said before they have a hypocritical sense of manners. They chide you for failing to say "bonjour," "bon nuit," or "oui, merci," and at the same time treat you like complete shit in most of your personal encounters. But maybe a lifetime of wine and cigarettes have hardened them. Who knows?

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It probably doesn't help that thus far all of my experiences with French people have been either at work or when they are supposed to be helping me with their customer service skills. Of course these skills don't exist, and at work they treat me like an idiot but that is present in most kitchen atmospheres. Still, I have had numerous times when I have uttered the words, "I fucking hate the fucking French!" because, lets face it, they make some things a lot harder than they need to be.

Take, for example, my poor friend Elze. Elze has a French bank account and is trying to transfer some money over to her new landlord. Her bank agent has been on vacation for three weeks and ignoring her calls for over five. She emailed. She called. She went into the bank branch here in Paris (because she opened her account in Lyon when we were living in Yssingeaux studying pastry), but apparently they only can help her at her original bank. When she called other people to help her with her problem they either didn't speak French or hung up on her. I even witnessed this with my own eyes. Two bank phone representatives just hung up on her mid-sentence. Because going to the bank and dealing with money issues is so much fun in our own countries, apparently the French like to spice things up a bit with some classy 'tude.

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Why they did this I don't really know. Maybe it was because they were tired of listening to english. Maybe they were tired of speaking english. Maybe they wanted to go out for a cigarette. Or perhaps they just liked the clicking sound the phone makes when you hang up on someone. Whatever the reasons may be I still don't exactly understand it. What is it in French DNA that makes it impossible to want to help someone? Especially when you're paid to do so?

Upon entering numerous French stores I have noticed that the clerks mentally roll their eyes at me. Is it because I'm American and they can spot it like I've spilled some red white and blue on my starred and spangled shirt, or is it because I'm a customer that may actually want them to help me or, heaven forbid, buy something and it will distract them from their day of doing nothing? Waiters often do the same thing. I understand you're busy but does that mean you have to be so upset about giving me a menu? Is it necessary to crash my glass down on the table just because I'm getting water and not wine? And I'm sorry I'm asking you what this word means but would you rather I don't and then send back the plate of kidneys you bring me? Oh, that's right, there's a no return policy in most French kitchens. How silly of me to forget.

When looking for an apartment in Paris you would think I was asking for something as rare and difficult to find as a liver on the black market. And you would think I was asking for this from a mother of fifteen who didn't have a phone or internet connection. I would call or email and if I was lucky I got a response a week later, by which time the apartment I wanted was rented to someone else. The only time I got anything done was when I wrote an extremely pissed off email and left an extremely pissed off message on the answering machine of a rental agency. Then I got the red carpet treatment. Well as red carpet as France can get. Let's call it orange carpet instead, just so we're clear.

So maybe that's the trick. Maybe showing any kindness our courtesy marks you as an oustider, a weirdo, a weakling, or something else that should be mistrusted and treated with the same disgust and disrespect you would treat a cockroach running through your kitchen. But stomp your feet and throw in a few rude words of self entitlement and they change their tune. I'm going to have to keep this in mind when I deal with people while I'm here. If you want to get anything done or to be treated with any sort of respect you have to demand it like a child demanding ice cream for dinner, with complete and utter entitlement based on no form of reality what-so-ever.

I also need to remind myself that not having much of an opportunity to get to know any actual French people has skewed my opinion of them. I haven't made any French friends and maybe after I do I will relinquish my judgments. I observe them at their worst times. It'd be like observing the docile eating habits of Americans on Thanksgiving. But then again, Thanksgiving is one day. The French fail at customer service three hundred and sixty five days a year.

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RESTAURANT REVIEW: SASSOTONDO

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As a poor intern in the expensive city of Paris, most of my meals have consisted of cheap pizza, pasta with hot sauce, or something homemade if I'm feeling fancy. But since I am in a city that has some of the best food in the world and I am a person who not only loves food but loves it so much that they are willing to dedicate their whole lives to it, I figured that going out to dinner once a month was a good compromise between my wallet and my belly. 

The other night my regular crew of four (Elze, Christy, Mr. Johnson and myself) went to Sassotondo, an italian restaurant around the corner. On your way into the restaurant you pass a window through which you can see the kitchen and the staff and three boxes of freshly hand-made, steaming pasta. As with most things in Paris it is a tiny little building and we were taken into the back room to sit. But unlike most things in Paris this place was italian. Very italian. The host was italian, the bus boy was italian, the waiter was italian. And as if we already didn't feel like we had taken two steps out of france and two into an alternate italian reality, they all wanted us to speak english, not french. It was wonderful. 

We looked at the wine menu and ordered a white wine that jumped out at us. It jumped out at us because at 28€ it was the cheapest bottle on the menu. Some of the wines went up to over 90€. So much for looking out for my wallet. When the waiter poured the bottle of Pecorino into my glass (it's a dry white wine from the Abruzzo region, not just a cheese) I don't think I was expecting anything but wow was it good. It was so clean, crisp, and quenching. I don't know if I've ever wanted to drink a glass of wine as much before in my life. I felt like a little kid with a glass of chocolate milk and I really just wanted to down the whole thing. But since I pretend that I'm a lady sometimes, I resisted. Plus I didn't have a bendy straw with me. We all oohed and ahed over it and said that even if we were all on budgets we would have to order another bottle. There was four of us after all, and one would only give us a glass a piece. It just wasn't possible. 

After gazing at the menu and trying to figure out what a few things were because the menu was in french and italian and our vocabulary in both languages was very limited, we finally decided on what we should order. Elze and I were going to both get the veal since there was a two person limit. There was an asterisk next to it and at the bottom of the menu it said that for a substitution of white truffle it would cost 25€ instead of 23€. Sounded worth it to us! So we went with that while Christy and Mr. Johnson both ordered some pasta. 

The calamari came and it looked incredible. This wasn't your fried, previously frozen, strips you find at cheap bars or cafes, this was non-fried, non breaded whole chunks of squid on top of a bed of warm hummus (or something that looked and tasted like hummus) and drizzled with olive oil. It was absolutely marvelous. The calamari was so soft it almost melted in my mouth. It was fresh and light and the hummus, or whatever it was, complemented it nicely. 

We continued to drink our wine and when the waiter came with our main course we ordered bottle number two. The waiter put our veal in front of us before quickly returning with a white truffle in one hand and a microplane in the other. He vigorously shaved delicious morsel after delicious morsel of white truffle ontop of Elze's succulent veal and then did the same with mine. I was practically drooling in excitement. We dug into our meals and were all quite happy with what we had. We shared our veal with Mr. Johnson and Christy and they shared their pasta with us. Everything had the same fresh, light, clean taste as the calamari. 

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As we were on our last glasses of wine the waiter came and brought us the dessert menu. Christy and Elze went out into the atrium for a quick cigarette while Mr. Johnson and I looked things over. I decided on the semifreddo because it's something I absolutely love, but when the waiter recommended it to the girls and they and Mr. Johnson decided they were all going to have it, I figured I would try something else, something different and made a last minute decision to get the Zuppa Inglese. Oh, how silly I was. 


Why would I not listen to the waiter and get what he recommended? What did it matter that we were all getting the same thing, it sounded delicious. There was a creme anglaise on top of it. Why was I so stupid to say no to that? So when the waiter brought out three plates of tantalizingly yummy looking volcanoes of cafe semifreddo oozing with a creamy creme anglais I couldn't help but think I had made a bad decision. And then I knew I had made a bad decision when the waiter came out with a gigantic class dish of Zuppa Inglese and scooped me a serving. It was layers of cake and mousse and topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. The cake was dyed red. The mousse was reminiscent of Jell-O pudding. I was expecting something a bit more refined than this. And to make matters worse it was almost tasteless. I've had oreo pudding pies topped with Cool Whip that were more exciting than this. What the hell?! 


Luckily there was enough semifreddo to go around and I was able to enjoy some of the frozen coffee deliciousness while the last bites of my Zuppa Inglese sat neglected on the side. Perhaps I now would finally learn my lesson and go with my own instincts on dessert. 


The wine glasses were empty and we had flagged the waiter down and asked him for our bill. It came in a cute little herb jar and we pulled the check out to see the damage. And then it hit us. Being in France has caused more harm to my english than good to my french and so when I saw "Supplement" on the menu I read it as "Substitution." The 25€ was not instead of the 23€, it was on top of the 23€. Elze and I could have both ordered that night's menu for the price we each paid for our own dinners. The waiter hadn't been generous with the heaps of white truffle, he had been stingy. 25€ for a damn fungus?! I could buy another bottle of wine for that much! 


C'est la vie. The damage was done. We all whipped out our cards and paid for our meals. I think we were all happy for what we'd had and it wasn't too expensive if you didn't count on the truffle that my dumb-ass had ordered. I now know what my mother meant all those years when she said "use your brain." It meant that sometimes you have to stop and think and put the pieces together before making a decision. If I had thought about the sophisticated scene of the restaurant, the price of the wine and the price of the meal I would've figured out that an extra 2€ for something coveted as one of the best foods in the world couldn't be right. But like I said, the damage was done and I was overall happy with my meal. While this was by no means the best meal I have had in my life, the menu was inspired, the pasta was fresh, the veal was cooked perfectly and they had kept things simple. But next time I think I'll skip the truffles and go straight for a third bottle of that delicious wine. 

THE FALL

I awoke this morning quite tired. Perhaps because I had actually gotten a good solid sleep made it more difficult to get out of bed. And I think that wearing a sleeping mask these last few days has been making it harder to wake up as well, not to mention that it leaves me with a good case of mask face and puffy wake up eyes that makes me look like I'm twelve.

Last night as I was walking home from the metro I caught a faint whiff of autumn on the breeze and it made my heart leap. The leaves are just barely changing but I could smell the aroma of fall in the air and it was beautiful. I'm a bit sad that I won't be able to go all out and decorate my house, carve pumpkins, and contribute to cavities in the youth of America because France doesn't really get all that into Halloween. But still, it gave me a brief feeling of nostalgia that was so faint all I really felt was calm and happy.

I came home and the only thing I wanted to do was go take a bath and go to bed early. I put some 2 € pizza in the oven and put my chef coat and apron in the wash. After eating more than half of my pizza for three, I decided to draw a bath. Recently I've been taking cooler baths than usual. Normally I like my skin to be beet red by the time I emerge from the flaming waters of a good shower or bath but recently it's been so darn hot that I just can't stand it. Plus it's like a little personal pool when I get into a cool bath. But just as I was about to step into the water I noticed a few bits of dust, some other unidentifiable things and a full on hair ball floating around in the water. Not exactly the red carpet treatment I was anticipating would be welcoming me into my relaxing tub. So I drained the water and gave the bath a good scrub and  as I was about to start the tap again my phone rang.

Elze and Sandra were downstairs. Sandra is the wife of our fellow pastry school classmate, Martin. Sandra quickly became one of us girls and is definitely one of my favorite people in the world. She's fun and warm while still being quick witted and judgmental giving me someone to tear other people apart with. Not to mention the fact that her husband, Martin, is incredible and they were like our very own Brangelina power couple except down to earth and not a pair of self absorbed assholes. Sandra and Martin had a car and so while I was at work yesterday, she and Elze went to Ikea to look for a mattress for me. And while they were at it they also picked up a little "wardrobe" for me to hang my clothes in. Finally, I was going to have a real room.

There I was getting ready to relax in my bath when suddenly two saints were at my door with a generous gift for me and even I am not such an ass that I would tell them, "Oh can you just smoke and wait while I take a half hour bath? I know you've been doing all of this for me but I really need this. Thanks so much for the favor by the way." I may have some sense of entitlement but certainly not that much.  So down the seven flights of stairs I went and then back up the seven flights with my rolled up mattress and build-it-yourself wardrobe in the elevator with Elze on the ride chaperoning them.

We dragged the new editions into the apartment and Elze instantly wanted to unpack and build the wardrobe. I was not so excited. From college times I have been through numerous allen-wrench-target-furniture-building occasions and they always take longer than you think and really aren't that exciting. I tried to get Elze to cool down but she wasn't going to have it. She wanted to build it and she wanted to do it now! I wanted to take a bath, I wanted to drink some wine, I wanted to go to bed early. But you know what they say about the best laid plans right? Well I can't remember but I believe they say something about how they turn to shit.

It isn't that I didn't want Elze to enjoy herself. What do I care if she spends five hours assembling my wardrobe? That's five hours I don't have to spend assembling my own things. She wanted to do me a favor and she really really wanted to do it. But I knew it wouldn't stop there. The living room wasn't arranged to fit a wardrobe and I knew once we started moving furniture around it was all over. I could visualize my bath soaking going down the drain. I could see my bedtime ticking closer and closer to two am. But Elze was just so excited and secretly I was too. I was finally going to have a bedroom.

So I gave Elze the green light. Of course we needed a screw driver but since the woman I'm renting the apartment from left a whole crapload of stuff around the house I figured there had to be a tool box. I even could remember seeing one. Once I gathered my thoughts and realized where it was I went to the bathroom to fetch it. It was on a high shelf in the water closet and so I stood on the toilet to get to it. As I was inching it down towards me, angling it downwards into my hands something quite unfortunate happened. Apparently there was also a large open plastic box full of screws sitting on top of it and this box slid down the toolbox with whippet-like speed, smacked me dead in the forehead and then crashed onto the ground giving birth to a litter of 200 screws, nails and other unknown pokey items on the floor. Elze burst out laughing from the other room and I did too. I may have been convinced I had a concussion but it was still hilarious. Elze walked into the bathroom to see me standing on the toilet, surrounded by a swarm of screws with a pained look on my face and she started laughing even harder. Nothing like the aftermath of physical comedy to bring a person to tears.

It took ten minutes for me to pick up the screws and then, of course, I was off helping Elze. Sure this was something she wanted to do but I was there and so I would obviously be a part of it. Together we assembled my wardrobe and Elze was so damn proud of herself that I then realized that she had never done this before. I had built an array of things. I used a skill saw at the age of twelve to cut T & G planks for our cabin in Montana. That's what happens when your mom doesn't have any boys and when your female cousin (who really feels like a sister) is a wood shop teacher. You learn how to use a nail gun before you hit puberty. But Elze was not as lucky. And so she beamed with pride at this wobbly wardrobe and I just thought of what a pain the in the ass it was going to be to rearrange my bedroom to fit it somewhere. It was now ten o'clock.

By midnight we were done. We'd moved a couch into the kitchen. We'd moved the kitchen cabinets around completely. We'd moved the furniture in my bedroom, the old living room, a few times. We'd set up my new mattress, rearranged the cushions it was sitting on top of and the backing behind them. I'd moved all the books from one shelf to another, my clothes from one shelf to another to make my own little closet. The bookshelves in my apartment are homemade and horrible and so the metal details are sharp and had managed to take a piece out of me. I now had two bandaids tightly wrapped around my hand and finger from where chunks had been taken out. But we were done. I had a bedroom. It was beautiful. It was an actual room! I had a place to hang my things, a place to rest my folded clothes, a place to lay my head. It was incredible. It was homey. It was comfortable.

Sure by the time I finished bathing and what not it meant that I didn't go to bed until two o'clock in the morning but at least when I did go to bed it was on an actual mattress. And I still got a good six hours of sleep. But if I had known the day I was looking forward to I may have wanted at least an hour more than what I got because today is the first day that I officially got in trouble for something that actually mattered. But of course it wasn't my fault.

One of the first things I had to do today was measure out the ingredients for Baba au Rhum. Baba au Rhum is a little cake that you soak in rum. It's pretty self explanatory. So Gaetan explained what I needed to do and I did it. I had to take the elevator downstairs to the bakery section of the job, my first exploration down there, to get some yeast. While in the elevator I actually said out loud, "well this is the creepiest thing I've ever seen" because there are absolutely no lights in it and so you're shut in this tiny box while slowly creeping downwards. Halfway there it wobbles a bit and then eventually you reach your destination. If I was claustrophobic I would've been freaking out. Instead I felt like leaning back against the elevator wall and falling asleep. I managed not to do either and returned with a new package of fresh yeast. I was ready to make some baba.

I measured out the ingredients, I cracked the eggs as quickly as possible. I took the energy and positive attitude from the previous day and applied them to my work from today. Today I was going to be awesome. Today I was going to show them that even though I didn't speak french I could still be a model employee. But then the mixer needed to be used my someone else...

So the task of baba was moved to another employee. While waiting for the mixer I was given another task and so the two boys, Mike and the creepy guy, Nico, were given the job of finishing the baba for me. I was a little sad but no reason to cry over spilt rum. So instead I helped arrange other things, I put some rosemary into some tarts, I arranged some raspberries, I did some other mindless shit. And then I was sent upstairs. I was able to ascend towards the heavens of Irina and the savory kitchen where english and calm were mainstays.

Irina had me make savory tarts of all sorts. Duck, veal, escargot tarts.  I got to see what went into everything and it made me want to buy all of it. Bechamel? Yes please! Artichoke sauce? Oui! Mushroom spread on top of baby cow? Is this heaven? It was wonderful. It was illuminating. It was...short lived. Soon I finished cutting onions in the awesome cool new and efficient way that Irina showed me and had to go back downstairs to the french chaos and confusion.

I brought the positive attitude of Irina and the upstairs ecstasy with me but it was quickly crushed by a terrifying experience. People were crowding the tiny workspace that I entered upon and on the end of the thin walkway flanked by two work spaces was the trashcan and Lady Boss hovering over it. She was quickly discharging a number of french words and the string was so tight that I couldn't differentiate between them. It just sounded like a bunch of mumbo jumbo to me. But then I noticed that everyone else in the kitchen was staring at me including Lady Boss with these wide open, flabbergasted eyes, and then she started snapping her fingers in my direction.

I walked quickly towards her without even knowing what I was doing. I was in a trance of confusion. Once I reached her she violently pulled a Baba cake from the trash and started bellowing her shriek of anger at me once again. She was speaking so quickly that I couldn't determine any of the words. Was she even speaking french any more? Could anyone understand her? All I could deduce was that she was mad. She was mad about the Baba and somehow she had decided that it was my fault. But that was it. I had no means to decipher her chiding monologue. I had no means to relate my own feelings of confusion nor my own side of the story to her. All I could do was stand there like an idiot and respond to her, "Do you understand?" with a "Pardon, repeat please." With that she shouted some more and then did some digging. She asked Gaetan what had happened. I heard my name mentioned and I assumed it was because I had measured out the ingredients. I heard Mike's name mentioned and I assumed it was because he had mixed the damn thing. And then I heard Nico's name mentioned and I assumed it was because he had aided Mike in the piping of the Baba cakes. Lady Boss exited the kitchen. I was left clueless.

Nothing came of the yelling. From all I could tell they still used the Baba cakes that I had taken part in. I was convinced that somehow Mike had over mixed them and caused them to be horrible little pieces of shit and that I was somehow unlawfully blamed for his mistake. But alas, the truth was uncovered. Alberique asked me where I got the flour. I pointed in the direction of the only flour bag in the kitchen. He thanked me for the information and then reported back to the boss. Apparently this was not the right flour for baba. Baba required flour gruau. This was regular normal flour.

Now while I have used flour gruau and since I have even worked in a bread bakery, I understand the importance in the use of different flours. Specific flours have very different properties and the use of one versus another can drastically change the final product. But then again, up until now I had always worked in a kitchen where things were not only labeled but also where one was shown where all the key ingredients were that may possibly be needed. Neither of these things occur in my current patisserie. And even more importantly no one explained to me what my mistake was or that I shouldn't do it again.

Apparently the flour I needed was special. All recipes just say "farine" on them, which simply means flour. Not a type, not a gluten content, just plain ol' flour. I could use rice flour if I were taking them at their word but I don't think they would see the humour in that since I am learning more and more that the french have absolutely no sense of humour when it comes to themselves. And so when the recipe said, "farine gruau" and after searching everywhere there was only one bag of flour to be found, I assumed that this was the flour they were referring to; perhaps this was what "farine" meant in this kitchen and this was some exact anomaly.

I should've known better. I should've know to ask for help. But being who I am I have enough problems asking for help when I can actual speak the necessary words. When it requires forethought and a creative manipulation of a minimal amount of nouns, adjectives and verbs, I really like to avoid it at all cost. And of course this shortcutting ending up biting me in the ass. But I also felt that it was also all Gaetan's fault.  Since he had put me to the task I was under his responsibility and I must say that he failed greatly. Whenever someone is new in the kitchen you have to treat them like a child. You have to show them exactly what they need to do and one of these things would be explaining where the flour is. Of course the Lady Boss had lots to say on this matter. From what I could gather she blamed Gaetan not not only for the reasons I just stated but also because I am an idiot who doesn't speak french and doesn't even know the difference between normal flour and gruau. Honestly, I think she actually said those words or some french version of them.

"Fuck you," I thought to myself. I know the difference, but I also know that when I've just come in the kitchen and when I have been here three weeks and am still just beginning to be allowed to do real damn jobs things are bound to go wrong. Not to mention the fact that your kitchen isn't organized and nothing is labeled properly. And your staff doesn't know how to properly train an intern. How is this my fault? So I used the wrong flour, so what? It's not because I'm an idiot but because somewhere along the line of you opening a pastry shop and becoming a complete bitch the basic practices of preparing a trainee, new employee, or intern for a job, got lost.

Still, no matter how tough the words were in my head I couldn't help but beat myself up about it. I should've known. I should've asked. And to top it off I couldn't help but let her words cascade over me. Sure I didn't know what they meant exactly but I could understand the basic tones of them. And to top it off the entire staff was standing there assembling macarons while watching my spirit be demolished by our virago of a woman. It was humiliating and it took a piece of my positive outlook with it.

I tried to assemble chocolate macarons after "the incident" as well as I could but I could tell that my nerves had taken a beating. I was slow as hell and any time I tried to speed things up I made a mess of myself. Numerous times I dropped a macaron on top of the tray. My hands were shaking as if I had been struck with an early onset case of Parkinsons. Things were not looking good. Alberique told me to hurry up and I responded as coyly and soullessly as I felt. It was looking like the day was going to end in a horrible way. But then my mind got the better of me.

Why should I let this harpy ruin my day? They were still using the Baba. I hadn't messed anything up so terribly that they couldn't be used to sell. She had completely overreacted and just because she was a psychotic mess didn't mean she had to bring the psychotic mess out in me. So while I spent a few moments holding back the tears and fantasizing about never coming back, I gave my self a mental slap in the face and reminded myself that things were looking up, I was living in the moment now and the terrible scolding had come and gone. I'd survived. Why not go on with my day? And so I pulled myself together as much as I could and while my fingers still quivered in terror at what had just happened I continued to work my mind into a place of peace.

By the end of the day everyone had gone and once again it was me, Alberique and the girl from Pennsylvania in the bakery. Alberique gave me the wonderful job of boxing Calissons and I did my best to do it at lightning speed so that I could not only get out of there on time but also so that I could impress him with how fast I could be. I stacked those bastards like a jenga pro and as I did I hummed Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros' Home to myself and felt as if I was in a yoga for the hands moment. Namaste. Peace. Moment. It was there again. I was humming and thinking about the Calisson. I was experiencing the movement from the tray to the box and damn was I awesome at it. And putting the stickers on? I was a wizard.

I had come through the day unscathed. Sure I'd been horribly yelled at by Lady Boss for an actual legitemate reason but I was feeling fine. I walked home to relax and boy was I keeping it together! And then I encountered a problem. You see, since I am secretly living with two other people in an apartment just for one, there are only two sets of keys, not three. So a lot of the time I just take the mail key and then my roommate will slip her keys into the mailbox on her way out and presto! I have a key. When I left this morning I wrote a little note saying that this genius exchange should occur. When I put my key in the mailbox slot and opened it however, there was nothing in there. Luckily I was right behind someone else and so was able to follow him into the building. Maybe Elze was home and would let me in. Surely they hadn't ignored my note.

I climbed up the seven flights of stairs as usual and reached our door. I was hot and sweaty and knew that this probably wasn't going to turn out well for me. Why should it? Nothing ever seemed to, obviously the Paris gods had it out for me. So I went to open the door and it wouldn't budge. Locked. Then I knocked on there door and there was no answer. Empty. So I sat down and leaned my back against the corner wall next to my apartment door and called Elze. She could just whisk home and let me in. I told her my predicament. I asked what the hell had happened. How had Christy not left a key for me? Elze didn't know and she was oh so sorry and would be coming home now except that it would take a while because she was half an hour outside of Paris! That meant at least an hour and a half wait. I rested my head back against the corner wall and started to cry.

I'm not exactly sure why I was crying. It wasn't because of the apartment fiasco because all I had to do was wait for a bit and it'd turn out. I think what it was mostly about was that it was the end of the week and I was tired, I had been yelled at only a few hours ago and felt like crying and now I actually was. Just the day before I had been feeling so good about the job and now this had happened and I felt a little stunned. So I closed my eyes and cried and it felt good for a few minutes but then I decided to get over it and get up. This was something new for me. Usually I enjoy a good cry and like to savor it for as long as possible but today I wasn't going to have it. I was going to go to a restaurant around the corner and get a glass of wine while I waited for Elze to come home. So I picked myself up, walked back down the seven flights, and went around the corner for a cool glass of white wine. It tasted delicious, this new sense of empowerment. Things aren't always going to be rosey and marshmellowy and sometimes I'm going to want to cry. Getting publicly reamed out can do that to a person. And crying about it isn't a bad thing, crying is normal, getting angry is normal. But soaking in those feelings doesn't do any good so why not experience them and then move on to something else. I'm still practicing this method of living so I'm sure I'll slip here and there but still, it's nice to be getting there.

Two hours and Elze met me on the park bench outside our apartment. We came in and went upstairs and when we opened the door I looked for my note. How could Christy screw me like this? And then I saw it. Elze had made a grocery list and guess what paper she'd used? My note. She had folded the important message of "don't lock me out" inside and written her grocery list outside. The culprit had been flushed out and she was embarrassed by her accident. We had a good chuckle.

PEACE IN PARIS

Last night Elze, Christy, Mr. Johnson and I were all in the kitchen drinking wine and looking at pictures of gigantic spiders online when Elze called us all to the window she was smoking out of.

"Come on you guys! Look! Look! Loooook!"

Like a kid seeing Santa flying through the air she had a high squeak of happiness in her voice and was practically bouncing up and down in excitement. We all peeked our heads outside and looked. And there it was. The Eiffel Tower was sparkling! For whatever reason the people in charge had the lights on the tower flickering and it looked like it was sparkling. It was incredible. "This is Paris. I'm living in Paris." I forget that sometimes. 

Perhaps it was the glittering Eiffel Tower dancing through my head or perhaps it wasn't, but for whatever reason today I managed to find peace within myself. I didn't even realize this had happened until I was stepping onto the metro on my way home from work. I caught myself smiling and wondered why this was happening. Why was I smiling? And I realized that it wasn't because I was done with a day of work and got to go home, but because I was actually happy with the day of work and not worried about the next one. I may even hazard to say that I was looking forward to the next one. How could this be? 

I didn't bother to analyze it too much at the time because it seemed too good of a moment not to enjoy. And I realized that that was it. I was living in the moment. Instead of worrying about what may happen tomorrow, how horrible it could possibly be, how much of an idiot I could or did look like, I was just there reveling in my fulfillment. 

Living in the moment is something I've never been all that good at and so accomplishing it is something that needs to be analyzed and torn apart and dissected so that I can do it again sometime in the future. I am sure that what was the largest contributor to this state of mind was that my actual mind was exhausted. Sure physical exhaustion is something I am suffering from as well, but I've dealt with that before, but couple that with this new level of mental enervation and the power of now was with me! 

Working in an environment where I am constantly trying to understand people requires my complete consciousness and so I don't have time to think about other things. When someone is talking to me in english I can half-listen, half-listen to myself thinking, and still figure out what the hell they're talking about. My brain doesn't have to work extra hard to figure out what the words are that they're saying. It's on cruise control and doing it all on its own. But when someone is speaking to me in french I actually have to listen fully and then focus my thinking on the words coming out of their mouth. Is that a word I know? Is that one word or two? I know that word but I can't remember what it means. You're pointing upstairs but do you want me to get something from up there or bring something down from up there? Or perhaps you're telling me to go shove it?  Sometimes I swear I can hear the cogs moving around inside my head. And then eventually one fits into place and I pick up on a word I know. Then another. Then another. And then like a detective I have to put the puzzle together with three words, contextual clues, and sign language to realize that Alberique wants me to go upstairs and get the veggies for the vegetable tart after I finish helping Perrine. But at least my detective skills seem to be sharpening. Or perhaps I'm so exhausted it just seems that way.

It doesn't hurt that I get a break from all the chaotic french atmosphere for a decent amount of time every day. Apparently I have become Irina's main assistant. Irina works upstairs and does things for the savory side of the house. While peeling veal sweetbread membranes and cutting up snails isn't exactly my idea of intense pastry education, she is an absolute delight to work with. She's romanian and very tall and thin and looks a bit like Silvia from the Muzzy children's foreign language videotapes that were advertised when I was a kid. Except she's a lot better looking than Silvia, her ears don't stick out nearly as much and her hair is much more luxurious, plus she's not an animal cartoon.

Irina is very calm and sweet in everything she does. She seems to have charmed her way into the hearts of all the other employees and it isn't hard to see why. She's very positive about everything and she's an extremely hard and adept worker. She is constantly helping me to be faster and more efficient. A lot of the things she tells me I already know, like keeping things organized and doing all of one step first before going onto the next, but I feel so frantic and out of sorts that I get all discombobulated and forget the proper way to act in a kitchen. But she kindly reminds me what to do and takes a few seconds to show me that the way I'm doing things is crazy and that doing a, b, and c will be much better.

She also speaks english and that helps a lot. It's much easier for her to tell me what to do and for me to follow it. It seems obvious but when downstairs is in french and upstairs is in english it's incredible to see the drastic difference that a few little words can make. Plus she always thanks me about fifty times for helping her out, like it's some huge inconvenience and that I would rather be downstairs peeling apples in french than upstairs cutting vegetables in english.

Today she told me that Alberique was keeping an eye on me. I responded with, "Uh oh," and she told me that no, it was a good thing. Really? I was skeptical. Was this an observation of hers or had they been talking about me? If so, did this mean that he had been saying good or bad things about me? Had he been telling her that I may be an illiterate slacker now but that he saw a diamond in the rough? Or perhaps he felt that I was just a slacker and needed constant supervision to make sure I didn't get too caught up in my own thoughts. All of these things were possibilities but I didn't dare ask her because I knew being focused on slicing eggplants was much more important than Alberique's opinion of me.

But then at the end of the day Alberique and I had a little moment. I'm not sure if he saw it that way but I certainly did. Since the rest of the crew had gone and it was just me, Alberique, and the girl from Pennsylvania, things were calm in the kitchen. Alberique has been sick and so I think that's helped tame him a bit. It's like when my roommate bought a sweet innocent puppy in college and then found out that he had kennel cough and once it had cleared up he was a tyrant. Part of me hopes Alberique will never heal. Today as he was showing me how to make a coffee biscuit (that's right, I actually got to mix something that would later be baked!) he was clear and willing to repeat things a few times. I may not of known what spoon meant (though I actually do know what cuillère means I was just stunned by the french of it) but he still was very patient and calm and told me that it's what you eat with that isn't a fork. He even mimed eating. He did this for pretty much everything and for once I wasn't afraid to ask him to repeat himself or that I didn't quite undertand. It was actual communication, not just commands and me failing to follow them.

Perhaps the best part was when he made a mistake. It may be little of me to feel this way but I always appreciate when the higher-ups fuck something up. It makes me realize that they're human and it forces them to admit it in front of me. So when Alberique told me to measure out 907 grams of batter for six trays instead of 607 grams, it was a nice bonding experience when he figured out that he'd messed up. He laughed, I laughed inside and smiled outside. It was great. And then he sent me home. He sent me home exactly at five.

All in all it was a great day. I got to speak english with Irina and only feel like an idiot in the way I usually do while first starting a job. And then I got to work with Alberique when he was subdued by his illness. I got to make some actual food. I got to watch Alberique mess up and then laugh at himself. It was almost as if he was human and not french! And then on top of all that he made sure to send me home on time? What had I done right?

Working with Irina definitely changed my tune a bit about my patisserie. Sure my bosses may be curmudgeons but Irina pointed out that unlike many other successful and popular bakeries, they actually come in everyday and work. And while I may be submerged in a molten bath of french dialect, Irina mentioned that it's the best way to learn a language and that any day now I will be understanding it without even knowing it. It may not be perfect and I may not come home knowing how to make perfect macaron or the best croissants in the world but at least I will be able to speak enough french to impress my american peers. My knife skills will be better. My kitchen efficiency will be better. And apparently my power of now, chi essence, and living in the moment have just somehow fallen upon me. I guess that living in the moment isn't something you can plan. It just happens.

LETTER HOME #1: WELCOME TO PARIS

During my five month stay in Yssingeaux I began to write long emails home to a large list of friends and family, letting them know how things were going while abroad. Most of this consisted of stories about the town, the school, and a few interesting weekend vacations. So to get an idea of how much fun can be had while stuck in a tiny town, an interesting education situation, or in five seater car with six girls from six different countries, I've decided to share these letters with you and hope you enjoy them!

Hello All!

Well my friend Chrissy left this morning and I'm quite sad that she's gone. As beautiful as it is here it's much more fun with a friend, especially one as exuberant as Chrissy! We had quite the visit together. Perhaps the best part about travelling with Chrissy, as well as the most unexpected, is that we both have the same view on touring the city. Fly by the seat of your pants. Our first day here we started from our hotel and just aimlessly wandered the beautiful old streets of Paris, coming across a beautiful garden from the middle ages and some quaint churches and homes. We went left or right based solely on what looked interesting ahead, and found ourselves in front of the Louvre in no time! From there we managed to stumble upon the Champs Elysees which subsequently lead us to the Arc de Triomphe and Eiffel tower! We turned out to be quite the tour guides.

We went to the Musee d'Orsay and just happened to get there the first day of the Manet exhibit, so I was thrilled to be lucky enough to see Olympia, whom I love! I'm sure I could learn a thing or two from her attitude, especially when it comes to dealing with the french! From the Musee d'Orsay we ambled about and happened upon a cute little store where we did some shopping, only to learn upon exiting that we were right next to Laduree! I can see why these are famous! The best macaron I have ever had, nothing before or since has been able to compare. Like the perfect baguette, they have a nice crisp crust but the insides melt in your mouth. Every other macaron we tried was just too gummy. 

Perhaps my favorite thing so far, however, was not in Paris but Versailles. The palace is, of course, amazing but a bit to gaudy for my taste (not that I would refuse the crown because of that, more so because of all the beheading business) but the best part of the palace is by far the gardens and Marie Antoinette's Hamlet. The gardens are so vast and beautiful that you can't help but be relaxed and at peace, and the Grand Canal has little row boats you can rent and is lined with French couples making out (which apparently is standard issue here in France). Marie Antoinette's Hamlet was, however, the most incredible thing I have ever seen and both Chrissy and I were ready to hand over our passports and move into one of the charming little cottages. I had no idea that she had built herself an entire TOWN! I thought she had one, maybe two little cottages. Every one had adorable thatched roofs and surrounded a manmade little pond which was bustling with geese and ducks and, of course, swans. All along the top of the roofs were tulips just getting ready to bloom, and each house was surrounded by a quaint fence whose gates were haloed by a twig archway. It made me very excited to go to the countryside to study, and I am very happy that I will be in the calm serene town of Yssingeaux instead of the loud and busy Paris. Much more my style. 

What has been another pleasant surprise is that since I have a student visa and am under 26 years of age (if only for another month) I am able to do everything for free! Versailles, the Louvre, and the Musee d'Orsay have all been free, which makes me feel a little bit better about having to fly from Denver to LA for a weekend just to get my visa. 

I leave on Saturday for the Lyon airport, where I will be meeting up with my group and taking a bus to Yssingeaux. Monday is orientation and then classes begin on Tuesday. I will try and send photos as soon as I can, especially of my little town where I'll be staying, and once I get there I should also be able to let you know what my exact address will be. 

Miss you all!

Love, 

Lora 

You can see that I was enchanted by Paris and expecting my tiny town of Yssingeaux to be as quaint and lovely as Marie Antoinette's Hamlet. Well I'm sure that's why they say, "live and learn." 

AND ON THE TWELFTH DAY THE LORD SAID, "Let there be Americans," AND IT WAS GOOD.

artobserved.com

On my way out the door yesterday as I was saying my "a demain!"'s, my boss informed me that I would be coming in at neuf heure from now on. Neuf, neuf, neuf...nine! Nine o'clock. Though to most people who had been waking up before eight a.m. this would be good news, for me I couldn't help but take it personally. What would I be doing now? Was I being demoted? Was I not putting the raspberries on the tart straight enough, because I could fix that! Perhaps it was the glazed look in my eyes when I was putting the fig slices on the tart. It was just for a minute, Chef, I promise! But I forced a smile and said ok and went on my way home.

The early part of the day, the part of the day that I would no longer be a part of, was sort of my favorite. Well, let me rephrase that, the end of the day when I get to go home is my favorite, but in the morning I actually sort of have a grasp on what I should be doing. Finishing. I should be finishing tarts for the case. Of course this is when I'm most likely to get yelled at, when things are the most tense, and when I just can't seem to move fast enough. But at least I knew what went after a, and then what went after b, and perhaps I would even have an idea of what I could do after c. But now I was concerned. It was like starting all over again.

So last night at midnight I was sitting in the bath and watching a Quantum Leap on my laptop, cause lets face it, Quantum Leap is just that kind of show, when I suddenly got a panic attack wondering what the hell I was doing up so late dicking around (no offense, Scott Bakula). Then I had an epiphany. I don't have to get up at 6:55am. I can stay in bed until...8:25! Ok, now this punishment wasn't looking too bad. Sure I had to hide in my bathtub to watch my late night show because Elze was passed out in my, "our," bed, but I've never minded having a hot man in the tub with me, even if it is Scott and he's leaped into the body of a woman in year 1961. All I needed was a glass of wine to make this situation complete, but alas, that was all the way in the kitchen.

After finishing "What Price Gloria?" I toweled off and crawled into bed, setting my alarm for the new, exciting, and later 8:15am. I awoke the next day prematurely because apparently while so few french actually seem to work the street crews like to get a nice early start. But the clanging sound of pipes didn't stop me from pressing snooze and pretending like I was getting a quality seven minutes extra of sleep. I took my sweet time getting ready, thinking that I had gotten up early enough to warrant this, but then I peeked at the clock, did some math in my head, and realized I had to get my ass into gear. I threw on my jacket, and slipped out the door.

While sitting on the metro I'd realized that all that slow tooth brushing, some light eye brow tweezing, and acne inspection really weren't necessary and that perhaps remembering my breakfast banana would've been a bit more pertinent. My stomach grumbled and I wondered how many raspberries I could sneak while hiding in the walk-in.

I walked in and the day began as I expected it. I stood there wondering what I was going to. I was told to peel two boxes of apples. This was followed by the duty of cutting up eggplants. Meanwhile, I watched as the new guy, who only started the day before, was mixing things with a big ol' smile on his face. I hated him. Not to mention the fact that I was also pretty sure he was hitting on me because he kept speaking to me in english and when it comes to the french that's a sign of something mysterious. Plus he had light light light brown eyes which creeped me out. And moles. What is it with creepy french guys and moles?

So I was cutting up my eggplants and started feeling that sad feeling welling up inside my chest and knew that if I let go I could easily start crying. It seemed my lot in life, or at least the next six months, was to peel, zest, and cut. I was upset on what I was missing out. I wanted to learn. If only I'd felt this way in college I would've actually gone to class and studied. Isn't that always how it is, looking back, what I would've done. What do they say about hindsight? Twenty-twenty? I don't really understand what Barbara Walters has to do with it but still I'm sure there's a lesson to be learned here somewhere... So I focused on not crying and tried to see the bright side of the situation. There isn't much brightness in eggplants, though I did notice that their tops looked like they were made of paper mache and that made me think of the lunch box tree in the movie Return To Oz, and then I started thinking of how weird Fairuza Balk looked as an adult and so on and so on.

Eventually, Alberique came and saved me from my tornado of thoughts and asked me to help him with quichettes (which as you geniuses have guessed are mini quiches). He cut out some mini circles and I put them in the molds. It was quite some teamwork. And then he said that once I was done with that I could go and have lunch. Lunch already? This whole later shift thing wasn't turning out to be that bad. Sure I was on the verge of tears only moments early but as a stereotypical woman I am unpredictable and have severe mood swings. So in seconds I went from being depressed and convinced that I could never survive six months of eggplants to being thrilled to be filling molds with quiche crusts. And lunch? I'm always down for eating!

So after I had my free staff meal I returned downstairs and Alberique had a task for me. I had to go to the grocery store and buy two cartons of cherry tomatoes. A quest! I could do this. It felt like playing hooky. It may have just been for ten minutes but it felt like a lot longer than that, and the freedom of knowing that I was off, own my own, accomplishing something without the judging eyes of my french coworkers, gave me a sense of freedom and confidence that I just don't feel inside the kitchen.

I came back with the tomatoes, feeling like a hero carrying the holy grail, and Alberique and I finished the quichettes together. Even when Mike tried to help me lay out the rest of the quiche shells Alberique shooed him away and told him that I could do it by myself. For once I was going to finish something I had started! This was a monumental moment for me. Of course it was something simple, no mixing or folding, or cooking, or tempering, but still these damn quichettes were mine!

While preparing the quichettes for cooking, part of my job was to top them with tomatoes, olives and a new fruit, kiwai. I'd never seen these before and I would've assumed they were little green grapes that were just a special emerald shade of green if I didn't see that the name on the carton was, "Kiwai." They were tiny kiwis. They didn't have the brown fur on the outside but otherwise they were pretty much exactly the same. The insides looked the same, they were the same green color, had the same black seeds, and even tasted the same. Discovering something knew and intriguing like this is always a memorable occasion and so while the day may have started with feelings of whimpers wrestling around in my stomach, this new fruit I'd uncovered could make up for all of it. I thought I knew about all the fruits I would ever know by this age. But something like this? A miniature kiwi? It was both adorable and incredible! Like a travel sized deodorant I couldn't help but admire it.

fruitsage.com

Three o'clock rolled around and the early crew, the crew I used to be a part of before I was demoted to eggplantier, had cleaned and gone. I was sent upstairs to help Irina, the romanian girl who spoke perfect english and was super friendly, clean up. I'll scrub and mop and plunge my hand into a fiery pit of hot sink water for anyone who asks me kindly in my native tongue to do so. Just being able to ask simple questions without feeling like an idiot was relieving enough. I actually felt like I knew what I was doing. It was incredible.

And then something even more jaw dropping happened. Alberique sent me downstairs to work with Cecilia. Cecilia is my fellow american worker. I was skeptical of her at first because I could tell from her accent that she was american and yet she never came up to me and said, "Hey, I can tell you're american because you're bumbling around the kitchen and the french language like a complete fool. I, too, am from the glorious United States and don't you think it'd be just lovely if we spoke our national dialect together? I know I think english is awesome, don't you?" But no, instead she ignored me like the rest. Since then we've talked and I've discovered that she's from Pennsylvania and that she looks to be a very sweet girl. What her original reasons were for not exposing herself as a fellow pat I can only guess. Perhaps she felt that doing so would betray her alliances with our french colleges. Who knows? All I know is that getting a chance to work with yet another english speaking person, another american, was something that was a relief; it felt like...home.

Four o'clock ticked past and Alberique came downstairs to say his goodbyes. Now it was only me and the girl from Pennsylvania left in the shop. This was a miracle. We gossiped in english talking about how horrible the bosses were, how they were terrifying people who must be incredibly unhappy because every word they spit out of their mouths was soaked with such distaste, such disrespect, that they couldn't possibly be enjoying their lives. And just as we were discussing this, Alexis (a guy whose name is pronounced, Alexie) came from the front with a hurricane glass and asked for more banana marshmellows. The lady boss had happened to emerge from the front at the same time as well. As with any command in french I stood there like a deer in the headlights as I tried to process the words that were falling upon me. You see in french the words are a lot more dense and so it takes a bit longer to absorb them, or at least that's the case for me. So by the time I figured out what the hell Alexis was saying he had come and gone and all I had given him in response was a look on my face reminiscent of someone who had just been lobotomized. Apparently lady boss did not appreciate this. She started hissing french words and it took me a few blinks to realize that she was hissing at me. She was essentially barrating me for not being polite to Alexis and ended with "you say, 'Oui, Alexis, Merci!'"

I felt like a little kid who had just said a horrible word in front of my parents' boss. A really really bad one. Like some Parisian harpie she swept closer and closer with every word, her eyes distorting as she spoke, her nose becoming pointier with each syllable. I'm sure I've had times where I've been treated with the same amount of disrespect but I sure as hell don't remember them. But I didn't get upset. Mostly I just chuckled somewhere deep inside about how terrifying this woman was. Here she was trying to teach me a lesson in respect while treating me like a wart on her rear.

This is something that I've noticed about the french. They have very strict rules about etiquette and yet they act with no personal grace at all. If you do not say "Bon jour" to a french person before saying anything else it is considered extremely rude and they will often correct you on this by scolding you, even yelling at you. Yet, if you go into a store in france the clerks treat you like a leper. In our kitchen, they go around and shake everyone's hand everyday, making a point of greeting every member of the staff, and yet when someone sneezes they act like nothing happened. Has no one in this country seen Seinfeld? A bless you, or french version there of, is necessary.

But I was working with Cecila, the american, and everything was roses. I had specific tasks I had to do, all simple and drone-like of course, and then I was free to go. Cecilia was great company and I certainly enjoyed the coworker gossip and getting-to-know-you's that I was so used to from kitchens back home.


Five rolled around and I was ready to go but there was one little problem. Lady boss was up front helping customers and anyone else who could give me the go-ahead to go ahead and leave were gone. So I had to peer through the little grated window into the front of the house at the line at the cash register and hope that it would soon dissipate. Why did our food have to be so darn good? Five turned to five fifteen and so I helped tidy up a bit more while scurrying back to the little window every few minutes to check out the situation. More customers?! Five thirty and I was starting to get the taste of mutiny in my mouth. Five minutes, I told myself, five minutes and I'm just leaving, I don't care what lady boss thinks, she can fire me if she wants to, it would be a godsend. Five forty and finally the shop was empty, I quickly got my carpe diem on and asked her if it was ok to go. She sweetly referred to me as "ma cherie" which made me suspicious, and asked Cecilia if this is "c'est bon." And with that I'm free. Not too bad, not too bad at all.

It may not be my ideal bakery but after working in a pretty amazing place back home I can't help but be a little spoiled. Yet I can see opportunity here, I can see hope. I know I'll get a lot more out of this than I will appreciate in the moment because I've been a bit too lazy to work on my meditation and learn how to actually enjoy the moment. So for now I just have to go with knowing that it is a great time without actually experiencing it. And while there are times when I have to swallow down that horrible feeling of tears in the back of my throat, there are also times when I don't look at a knife and think of ramming it through my chest and so all can't be lost, there is still a light ahead, still something to be had, and thank the lord that there is an american in my kitchen.