Memories From my Front Stoop

The Green Space Across the Street from my House

In London, I lived at number 113,  Clapton Common.

I did not live in Clapham Common, which South of the River, and continually where NatWest sent my bank statements.  No, no, it was Clapton, compliments of Stamford Hill, a division of Hackney.  It was a winding stretch of road, cleaved in two by a big green space with benches and a murky pond where some particularly ugly swans liked to congregate, and I lived in the big red house comme synagogue wedged between the house with the smoke stack chimneys and what may or may not have been a mental hospital.

There are three steps leading to my front door.  At any given time, there may be a silver prius parked there, belonging to a Lithuanian boy named Vidas who provided our internet on the boarding house side of the synagogue, and a motorbike whose owner was always a mystery to me (but possibly belonged to Vidas’ brother, Edris).

There are four recycling bins on the left side of the drive, but only one garbage bin.  There is a stack of wood that will never be cleared away from the right side of the drive in the six months that I’m in residence.

Leave my house and walk for twenty minutes.  To the North, you’d find Finsbury Park and Manor House Station, to the South, you’d find a lovely little park called Springfield and the road to Hackney Proper, to the West, Stoke Newington and Islington a bit further on, and to the East there was Seven Sisters, which was where I caught the tube to work every morning.

My Neighbors

I miss my little synagogue.  I miss stepping out on Saturday morning and having to dodge a game of kick-the-can in serious progress by a group of pre-pubescent Hasidic boys, or stepping in that evening and being able to hear chanting and catch a glimpse of something secret and ancient going on behind the door that led to the religious side of my house.

Only two of the people in my life ever saw my little synagogue. No one else will ever get the grand tour, and though I’ll never forget the key codes to get in the two front doors, never forget what it’s like to scale the winding staircase, or exactly how it felt to be in my bedroom as the heat toasted up, or as I pushed open the little window above my bed, I’ll probably never see or set foot in my old dwelling again.

The best I can do is share with you a few memories of those three front steps that have been hanging around the corners of my mind here lately, while I’m desperately trying to wish myself back in time.

Lights in the Rain

It Was Raining When I Left Oxford Street

Early on after being hired by Digby Morgan, I got into the habit of walking back from the tube station instead of catching a bus.  It was about 30 minutes from Seven Sisters to my flat, but a nice walk after a full day sitting at a desk.  So be it if I occasionally had to dodge broken glass following either Arsenal or Tottenham games or if I was routinely harassed by the evangelist church group next to the tube station.

I bought a new coat with my first paycheck, a long overdue purchase as the temperature continued to plummet into the first winter of my life.  It’s gray, knee length, and pulls at the waist with a lovely A-line skirt.  It’s one of the best purchases I’ve ever made, and I loved the feeling of walking home in it, my black boots clack-clacking on the rain soaked pavement.

On this particular evening, it had been drizzling when I left work to dive into the tube and was still mildly coming down when I got to Seven Sisters.  However, just as I got too far away from the bus stop to turn back, it turned into a torrential downpour, sharp and rapid and out of character for the steady light shower that is London weather.

Luckily, I kept a little black umbrella in my bag at all times, and was prepared to meet the onslaught for the remainder of my walk.

It was Friday night, and come rain or shine, the neighborhood was trickling out of their homes toward temple, shower caps affixed over the men’s traditional black hats.

It was a series of high holy days and a temporary extension had been built onto the left side of the house to accommodate the extra worshipers.  The orange glow throbbing from it as I approached the house comforted me.  All I wanted to do was dash upstairs, change into some pj’s and make myself a big mug of hot chocolate, Friday night expectations be damned.

However, as I neared the driveway, out of the front door came barreling the rotund, Hasidic figure of my landlord, Asher.  He was swaddled in black, and had his shower cap firmly in place.  He stopped just short of colliding with me, looking breathless and red.

“Hey, Ash,” I yelled over the water slapping down around our feet, making to step around him.  “Nasty night.”

“Can you help me?” he shouted, looking frantic.  “I cannot do it.  I cannot.”

He looked so incredibly desperate, staring at me under my little umbrella while the rain drenched him through.

“What can I do?” I asked, not bothering to inquire further.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and marched away from me, down to the basement door at the righthand corner of the house, where I knew his office lay.

As ominous as this could’ve been, I followed anyway, shirking my umbrella and descending into the dank cement under rooms.  I couldn’t see a damn thing.

“The women will bring their children in strollers.  They cannot leave them outside in this.  But, no one can see in here,” he started.

This was a true statement.

“Can you turn the lights on?  I cannot, the sun has gone down.”

I felt so deflated with relief I almost laughed.  I assured him that I would and began to grope around for the switch.  He sounded pained, “… it’s to the left.  I can’t show you.”

I took off my gloves and continued to feel around the bare wall, praying I didn’t encounter a bug or anything similar until finally, the room was flooded with a wave of fluorescent illumination.

We stood there in relief for a few minutes, Asher breathing a huge sigh as his soaked side curls hung limply by his ears.  I assured him it was no problem and then slowly made my way back upstairs.  I was glad to have been of assistance, but as I mulled it over while sipping my hot chocolate, I wondered if I hadn’t committed some sort of religious cheat.

The storm didn’t last more than an hour.

White Capped Morning

Looking Left From my Front Door on a Frosty Morning

On Another Friday, about a month later, I was tying my coat around my waist with my usual early morning grog, telling myself that all I needed to do was get through the day.

James and I had been dating for about two weeks and we were planning a weekend getaway to Oxford directly following work.  I had a bag all packed and placed in the center of my bed, ready for a snatch and go after work.  I pulled a hat down over my ears, as the weather had gotten noticeably frigid of late, and dashed down the stairs, running late as usual.

However, I ground to a full stop on the top stair of the house, nearly taking a giant spill and killing myself.  Spread out before me in a translucent white haze, was the first snow I’d seen in my life.

The Green Across the Street, No Longer so Green

It welled up in me like a big, warm balloon, the impression of it.  It was barely a frost, but it was the first white morning of my life.  I stood paralyzed for a few minutes before deciding to drop  my things, tear up the stairs, and dig my camera out of my weekend bag.  I snapped a few blurry photos of the scene before finally heading out in a haze to work.

I’d hold it inside of me forever, the appearance of that feeble layer of winter clinging to the grass in the park and the roofs of the cars on the street.  I savored the smell of the bakery as I passed by, overwhelmed with the ambiance of the moment and underwhelmed with the fact that I was going to be late (again).

In the coming months, when I stood shoulder deep in the Alpine Snow in the mountains of France, I’d think that nothing had matched the thrill of that first sighting.

By the time I got to Oxford Street, all the snow had melted.

Don’t Burn the Hand that Feeds You

Looks Like Comfort Food - But Will Scar you For Life.

I sit typing today with my charred and shrivelled thumb angled strategically away from the keyboard – my left hand is in quite a state.  Obviously I’ve had a rough few weeks since being exiled back to Tampa. 

After frantic job hunting last week, I finally landed a temporary assignment for two weeks answering phones at a legal firm near the house.  Relieved that I had a little bit of temporary security, I fell asleep on Friday night thinking things may actually start looking up (I’d also had another temporary offer from the other agency I’ve registered with, and that seemed like a positive thing to me). 

However, to my horror, Sunday I woke up with a scratchy throat and a hell of a sneeze.  Right, I thought to myself, better nip this thing in the bud and make myself a hot pot of soup.  I went with a baggie of organic split pea mix I had in the cabinet because I wasn’t in the mood to make a big effort and left the thick green goo simmering on medium for about half an hour.

When it was finished, I crawled out of my room, already feeling like death warmed up, and reached for a ladle and a mug and in the process of pouring myself a warm cup of healing, I splashed scalding soup all over my left hand.  I dont’ remember much of what followed.  I know I dropped the mug into the pot of soup and lurched for the tap to put my hand under cold water, and that at some point I must’ve called for my mom in the next room to find her burn cream, but I was under the mistaken impression it was just one of those minor oopsies that happens when you cook.

Bored Out of My Everloving Mind - Can I help you? Please?

My vibrant red and blistered hand would beg to differ over the next day.  I ended up at the hospital, being covered in silvadine and wrapped up tight, given a bottle of vicodin for the pain and told to just wait it out.  There’s a lot of graphic and painful crap that’s followed, but for now, at lesast I can type, and I never did lose my voice, even though I spent the entire week coughing and sneezing and making a general scene of myself at the front desk of this law firm.

The job itself is so uneventful it’s almost comedic.  I was actually told to bring a book to keep myself entertained between the instances where the phone rings.  Actually, considering I spent the entire week doing crossword and japanese number puzzles, reading three novels, and baking cookies (yeah, that’s part of my job description – lawyers need cookies), $10/hr seems overly generous, and 9 hours a day seems like 90.

Luckily, about halfway through the week, the recruitment agency, which is handily located in the same building as this temp job, called me about a new (full time!) opportunity.  This one with a marketing firm nearby with an amazing website and an even more amazing job description.  I don’t want to get too into it because, I’ve already gotten my hopes up way too much to be healthy if I get rejected, but let’s just leave it at I interview on Tuesday.

The recruiter actually asked me if I could lose the hand bandage for the interview, so I took it off to show her the hand.  After staring at it in silence for a bit longer than what was strictly comfortable, she suggested I wewar ultra long sleeves.

I should also mention that during the process of writing this blog post, I set the house on fire again.  Boiling eggs for breakfast.  A nearby bag of twizzlers went up in flames.  Airing the house out now.  I guess I should avoid anything heat-related on weekends

The Interview Blues are Better in London

The Crypt at St. Pancras

There’s this vivid memory in the back of my mind that’s been playing over and over for the past few weeks – I’m sitting on stone steps inside the crypt at St. Pancras eating a Valentino sandwich from Pret a Manger while art nouveau light fixtures sizzle and glow behind me.  I’m completely despondent.  My life is in shambles. 

I’m wearing a high necked black muslin blouse, indigo dyed skinny jeans, and knee high black leather boots.  You’d never know that I was a month behind on rent, terrified of my only source of income, and had just had the worst job interview of my life.  The light fixtures in the background seemed sympathetic with their mosquito-zapper sounds and half hearted flickers.  The sandwich was going to forgo politeness and hold onto its perky flavor.

I’d gotten on the wrong bus when I left Oxford Circus, which is how I ended up in King’s Cross, and for some reason had decided to wander into a crypt.  The fact that the crypt was full of light instead of dead people was an unexpected surprise.  I wonder now where the hell the dead people were.  There was a stack of crumbled tombstones in a blocked off walkway in the catacombs. 

I’d gone in to interview at Digby Morgan with the highest of hopes, but the interview was way more intense than I’d bargained for, and my personality seemed to have fallen flat on its face with every single interviewer I’d met with (from a rota of four).  I had no idea what the hell I was going to do with myself or how I was meant to survive.  But, I was absolutely certain that I’d tanked that interview.

 

To top it off, the art fixtures were just awful.  I felt bad for the displaced dead people for the sake of something that wasn’t even good.  I finished my sandwich, collapsed onto a 436 (which is the right bus), and crawled back to my little room above a synagogue to fall asleep, knowing that Maggie’s was on the other end of consciousness, just revving up for new doses of danger and insanity.

 

Imagine how shocked I was when I woke up to the sound of my ancient, scotch-taped-together phone ringing.  Trying to ring … it sounded kind of like a Disney bluebird being held underwater by force.  It was Michelle.  She said she was impressed by my interview!  They wanted to have me back!  What the eff!

 

Obviously the story goes that I got the job.  The second interview presented me being very serious and not trying to make any jokes at all, desperate to be offered the position, then being dragged back into the main office to meet people I was going to immediately forget and told to show up on Monday, bright and early.

 

Imagine that.  I wouldn’t have to be deported for bankruptcy afterall!  And even better, my new job would be all about how to write a good resume, how to do well in an interview, and how to find the good jobs.  Little did I know AIG would collapse in the next three days, and Lehman Brothers would follow it before I started my shiny new job just in time to meet the influx of the recently unemployed.

 

So, here I am, in Tampa, crashing with my family because my savings went into that lovely lung infection I caught in Holland.  I’m struggling to find work, even though I almost got a kick ass job doing training media for Citigroup at $40k.  Lost out to a guy because he speaks Portuguese and the main client is Brazil.  Guess I can’t beat myself up about that too much.

 

My main motivation is to make enough money to get the hell back out of here, preferably back to London and interning at some amazing news network or magazine.  Being realistic is no fun.

 

The Building I worked in

But maybe I’m not desperate enough.  Maybe the need for work isn’t so urgent that I might starve or be homeless without it, and therefore, I cannot get it.   I’m not sure, but my desperation is slowly climbing due to just the stagnant nature of my day to day life, harassing recruiters (especially now that I know exactly how their game is played), and applying to jobs like mad.

 

There are always a few leads that seem promising, but I’m starting to lose my gusto, especially since, unlike with London, I have no motivation to really live my life here in Florida. 

 

Anyway, I should comfort myself with a look back at my first day at work in London.  I should remember punching in the password to get the door to open at Roxburghe House and taking the tiny, mirror panelled elevator up to the fifth floor, saying hi to Jenna at reception and being taken back to my new desk. 

 

I should remember how things fall into the places where they’re supposed to if you try hard enough.  But all I can remember tonight is how much I want to be back in my little room in London, going to sleep early because I have to head to Oxford Street in the morning.

Bel Torino

View from the Mole

I’ve been to Turin many, many times before yesterday, but I can safely say that yesterday was the first time I’ve ever visited.

On Friday afternoon, I got a text from Angelina asking me if I wanted to make the trip to our nearest neighboring city at the weekend.  We decided to meet up at Briançon’s famed McDonald’s for a quick bite and some ramshackle planning.  We agreed to meet the following morning at 7:15am and head up to Oulx to catch the train.  We had a tentative list of destinations to hit in Torino, weather and distance depending.

The forecast predicted this entire weekend to be a cold, wet blast of thunderstorms, so when I woke up yesterday morning to the rumble of the oncoming gale in the distance, I decided on a black wool dress with long sleeves, tights, and my rubber ballet flats, which are great in the rain since they’re waterproof.  I tossed a hat, a scarf, and an umbrella into my bag for good measure, as the morning sky was already shining an ominous black-gray, and quickly threw together two nutella-filled crepes, grabbed two green apples, and two tiny bottles of water.

Coffee on the Po

I set out to meet Angelina in the parking lot of the same McDonald’s, which is a short walk from her host family’s house, attempting to consume as much of my half of the breakfast fare as possible while overcoming my early-morning grog.

The drive up to Oulx was chatty and surprisingly dry (thank all that’s holy), as we wound through the roads I’ll have covered three days in a row by this time tomorrow, since I have to pick up Lucie from her weekend in Milan at 8:30 tonight.  The train journey was similarly lovely as we wound through the Italian borderlands into Torino, a sprawling view of fog and rain clouds clinging the mountain scape outside of our little window.  We chatted amiably throughout the journey about our host families, politics, and our plans upon returning home at the end of the summer.

We rolled into Porta Nuova at just before ten o’clock, and were shocked to see that instead of threatening rain clouds, a pale blue sky was shining through the streaks of clouds.  As we hurried through the marble and stone station out into the morning air, I suggested that we detour to the right before hitting any of our planned venues to see the Savoys’ Valentino Park on the River Po that we’d both thought would be a pointless endeavor in the rain.

Beautiful Valentino Park

On the way, we stopped at a small café to buy some morning java, since I’d been complaining pretty non-stop about how tired I still felt.  Clearly inequipped for to-go orders, the man behind the counter poured our creamy cappuccinos into doubled up plastic cups, then covered the top in aluminum foil.  Rather industrious of him, if I do say so, and all for only 1€ each.

We held tight to the cappuccinos as we navigated our way into the sprawling green park, and searched for the perfect place to savor them.  We almost immediately found a lovely stone terrace that stretched out over the Po, and deigned it worthy of our morning coffee and the first photos of the day.

The park, as we wandered through, seemed to be strategically revealing its charms to us in progressively more impressive discoveries, perhaps appropriate for the gardens surrounding a 13th century palace owned by one of the most formidable families in history.

After encountering the moldering stone seats on the cusp of the river, the fruit trees, the Asian-styled bridges and rock gardens, the perfectly manicured flowerbeds, and after spotting two men in period costume who were apparently attending a wedding on the grounds – we saw the castle.  Or rather, what we thought was the castle.

Overwhelmed in the Medieval Village

A quick inspection of the grounds surrounding it showed us that we had not stumbled onto a crumbling building, but what seemed to be a preserved medieval village at the foot of the castle’s hill.  We wandered through the cobbled steps, the quickly escalating temperature causing us to roll up our sleeves as we went and taking in the elaborately painted walls and ceilings, the restored fountains and doorframes, cellars, and artifacts.

Angelina took particularly to a bronze pomegranite tree in the center of a fountain with gentle flows of water spouting from its lower branches.  It was all rather fairy tale.

We attempted to head up to the castle at the top of the hill, next, but were stopped by an accordion playing gypsy man who was telling us, in broken French, that the building is closed.  He then went on an equally incomprehensible rant in bad French that we took to be a list of all the other great buildings in great cities in the world that would be open to the public.  I’m still not sure if he was telling the truth, but we both decided not to bother trying to climb the hill again, since it clearly seemed to upset him.

I pretty much spent the entire time he was attempting to communicate with us staring at an aged photo glued to the inside of his accordion of a young woman in a hijab, smirking at the camera.

As we made our way back to the park entrance, I insisted on ducking behind a glade in the river overhang so I could take off my tights.  The sun had gotten unbelievably strong over the past hour, and I told Angelina that maybe before we stopped off to eat the lunch she’d packed for us, I should buy a cheap skirt or dress to avoid melting in the remainder of the day.

She seemed relieved by the suggestion and said she’d also like to buy a short-sleeved shirt and maybe some flip flops, since we were so ill-equipped for the turn the weather was taking.  We walked back to the train station and then north, through the expanse of Torino’s impressive plaza outlay toward Via Roma where Angelina said the cheap shops would be.

Angelina Scouring the Map in the Streets of Torino

Unfortunately, pickings were slim, and we ended up in this awful little shop.  I ended up buying a blue dress that isn’t bad, all in all, but was falling apart even before I got it out of the shop (and I mean that quite literally, the strap broke when I changed into it after purchasing and Angelina had to tie it in a knot).  I’m still wondering if I should’ve bought the orange dress instead, which was the same design, but way shorter and with sturdier straps.  I guess I wanted to be able to sit down for the rest of the day without being horrifically self conscious.  I might try to repair it today if I get a chance.

In My New Dress, Taking a Break in Front of Torino's Roman Gate

My shoes suddenly were less than perfect, since the rubber tends to rub against bare heels, but I couldn’t afford the expense of buying flip flops too after having just shelled out 15€ on a dress that was already coming to pieces.  At least they matched, and I can’t even describe the immense amount of relief it was to change into a light, summery dress in that heat from the black wool.

We set up our picnic on the side of the Palazzo Madama, which was one of our top choices of things to see in town anyway, and luckily happened to be right across the street from where we’d bought our new clothes.  Angelina had prepared a giant salad of rice, corn, tomatoes, and tuna which was absolutely perfect considering how famished we were feeling (and how long ago that nutella crepe seemed).  She also brought along fresh apricots and plums.

We leaned against the cold stone of the Palazzo while we ate and watched children run through the water spouts coming out of the stones in the plaza, people walking their dogs through a lovely afternoon, and couples collapsing onto the wooden benches in the sun to take a break from weekend shopping.  I decided that it was necessary to tell someone how I was feeling, and took a moment to text James, letting him know that the forecast had lied … it was a beautiful day in Torino.

A Corner Window in the Palazzo Madama

Upon packing up the remains of our lunch, we paid the 6€ fare to get into the Palazzo and began to wander through the rooms of the house, checking out artifacts along the way.  To be completely frank, the displays in the museum weren’t that great.  In fact, as Angelina pointed out later, it was almost like someone just wanted to confirm that kitsch has existed throughout all time.

But the rooms … the rooms were magnificent.  Madama is interesting from the oustide, as it was once an antiquity of a castle, but now hosts a flashy 17th century facade … that only covers the front.  So it literally has a glorious white marble palace in front and a brick fortress in the back.  But, the centuries of history behind it have produced rooms to stop the heart, even if the art and … numerous ceramic grandma figurines inside aren’t doing much for you.

Above us in the Window-Room

We decided that the National Cinema Museum would be our next stop.  I honestly didn’t have high hopes for this one, but it’s located inside the Mole Antoniella, which is the highest point in Torino, and offers a spectacular panorama of the city.

It was a bit of a trek to get there, since we got turned around multiple times (trying to hit the Cathedral of San Lorenzo on the way, but it was closed when we got there).  We even stopped at one point and Angelina bought a coconut yogurt drink thing to refresh herself before continuing on.  I took the more economic (cheap) route and refilled my tiny water bottle about four times in a constant-stream drinking fountain on one of the side streets.  (This might sound unhygienic to my American friends, but it’s incredibly common out here, and there are dozens of those fountains in and around my own village that I’ve used many times without danger of illness or death.)

Chaplin's Hat!

Without enacting a play-by-play, I have to say that I was grossly incorrect about the cinema museum, and that it was easily the coolest part of the day.  From the “archeology of cinema” exhibit at the front (including a huge, interactive camera obscura), to every hands-on, comedically administered feature throughout, I was incredibly impressed, and enjoyed every minute of it.

But, by the time we’d finished our tour and were in line waiting for the lift to the top of the Mole, we’d decided maybe it was time to wrap up the day.  Our feet were aching, and though the Egyptian museum seemed amazing and definitely worth a visit, we were both on the brink of collapse after around seven hours exploring the city on foot.

The elevator is made of a thick crystal that allows the riders to get a view of the dome as they slide up it.  Honestly, I found this entirely terrifying and it made the journey feel less stable, somehow, but it was a sight to behold.

The panorama of Torino was nice.  Kind of underwhelming as I do think that it’s much more beautiful at ground level, and because nothing lives up to the view I got of Oxford last December when James and I stumbled onto an ancient bell tower that allowed us access right up to the top.

A transplanted Spaghetti Western Saloon set in the museum

We took a few photos and then shuffled back down, both ready to just book it back to the station and find out what time the next train to Oulx was, and then get dinner as quickly as possible.

The walk probably took us half an hour, but it felt like a four day trek.  We were both whimpering with the pain in our feet and the total bodily exhaustion we felt as we tripped over Italian streets and parks and shopping centers, attempting to get back to Porta Nuova in one piece.

Though we’d been intending to find train times, then have a relaxing dinner while we waited, we decided upon (finally!) reaching the station, to take the train that was arriving in 15 minutes and just buy a quick combo meal from a restaurant on the platform called Mr. Panino.

The Museum had specialized viewing for each genre. Velvet bed for Romance, Animal Print thrones for Horror, and Toilet Seats (of course) for Comedy

I think this was the right choice.  We collapsed into the seats on the familiar double-decker Trenitalia service and dug into our food with such gusto that I think we were unaware of anything else until it was completely gone.  From that point it was just silent collapse waiting for Oulx to appear outside of the train window.

It was raining on the drive back down the mountain.  Not heavily, but enough to completely fog up the windows on my car.  This was made extra inconvenient by some famous marathon race going on down the mountain and in the middle of the already narrow road right into Briançon.  I didn’t hit anyone, but there were some near misses.

As I bumped and putted over the pot holes, following dropping Angelina back off at her door, I could feel the resolve of staying conscious slowly leaving my body.  I got to the house, intending to eat a big bowl of spinach or tomatoes or something to replenish, but after a few minutes conversation with the family, I knew I couldn’t stay awake any longer, and decided to call it quits.

I’m still sore this morning, and I’m eyeing the blue dress from Torino wondering if I should begin the repair process.  There are kids singing Hannah Montana loudly above me and I kinda want everyone to just vanish so I can laze around today and eat a bunch of their food … but that probably won’t happen.

It’s not raining today.  It’s beautiful outside.  But, as much as I appreciate it, I think I just need a nap before making that trip up to Oulx one more time this weekend.

The Alps at Dawn

My phone went off at 4:30am this morning, rousing me from only recently-accomplished slumber.  After a few minutes of confused deliberation I groaned and sank under the duvet, remembering that it was Friday, and that meant I’d agreed to meet Lucie at 5 in Chantemerle and give her a lift up the mountain to the train station in Oulx, about 45 minutes to an hour away.

This really shouldn’t have struck me with surprise, considering I’d only left Lucie’s house about seven hours prior after a day of full-on (and completely unexpected) activity.  Yesterday, under the impression that I’d be able to sleep in, since both girls were off staying with their grandmother at the family’s Chalet in the mountains, I’d closed my shutters and wrapped myself up prepared for the lie-in I’ve wanted for a month.

As you, dear reader, have probably guessed, this did not go down as planned, and at 8:00am, the doorbell rang.  Long story short, a water rafting expedition was apparently taking off at 9:30 with home base in my kitchen, and soon the house was swarmed with children by the dozen.  I didn’t sit down for the rest of the day.

Not to say it was all bad.  After two completely uneventful free days, spending an afternoon eating Italian gelato in an outdoor café with Lucie, Nell (Lucie’s ward), and Noémie, while Bill Withers’ “Ain’t No Sunshine” drifted lazily over the cloudless afternoon, and then heading to the pool for a long stretch out on the cement risers while the girls splashed around below, or prepping dinner in the crisp evening air on the patio outside of Lucie’s place, with its incredible mountain panorama, sipping rosé and dipping crusty bread into a fresh vegetable soup puree … the day absolutely had its charms, and it was a great one.  It was just unexpected, as I said before.

Anyway, back to this morning, where I was stumbling around in my room, turning on lights and attempting to reinstate my lucidity.  There was a giant black spider looming over my bathroom doorframe.  That really wasn’t okay, but I wasn’t in a place to do much about it.  The bugs in this house since I got back … ugh, that’s another story entirely.  Let’s suffice to say I spent about two hours on Wednesday night throwing shoes at a cricket that was hiding in the curtain for the sliding glass door because it woudln’t shut the hell up, and I’m incapable of killing it for real.

I expected the cat to handle it, but she’s just a disappointment.

I attempted to pull on a pair of leggings to protect myself from the chill in the air that comes with summer nights in the Alps, I grabbed my passport and keys and tried to feel my way out of the house without knocking anything over or waking Lou.

The Twisty, Mountain Road to Montgenevré

Rubbing my eyes while putting down the road down to Chantemerle, I flipped on my brights in the pitch dark of the abandoned village, which at this hour in the winter, would’ve been dotted with drunken hitchhikers trudging through snow and the holiday bulbs casting red and green illumination onto the strip, trying to secure passage back to their hotels or various host homes.  It’s really shocking how much more sedate the summer is.

I pulled into a parking lot that used to be the base for a ski pub at the top of the hill, where I’d once slid on black ice trying to back out of a parking spot in the wee hours.  Lucie arrived henceforth, dropped her stuff in the backseat, and thanking me excessively, collapsed in the passenger seat and began to peel a shared breakfast banana as I put the car back into gear and headed back toward Briançon, on the path to Montgenevré, and eventually Oulx.

Modified Tunnel in Cesana

This is the same drive that caused me to puke in Olivier’s car, but in the opposite direction.  Up and up the winding mountain roads toward the Italian border, stuck in second gear so the car won’t stall out on the steep inclines, and due to Lucie’s car sickness tendency, we were both grateful that it was too dark to see over the measly barricades keeping cars from toppling into the valley, hundreds and hundreds of meters below.

Through tunnels ranging from red and black, well-lit paths up to the next level of the mountain, to makeshift passages through medieval ruins that have been expanded to allow cars through.

We made good time, and as we waited on the train platform, Lucie nervously tapping her foot at the anticipation of meeting up with her paramour in Milan this afternoon, the sky started to slowly brighten, sending sparkly reflections off of the understated sequins stitched into her flowery shoes.

I hugged her and wished her luck (and demanded lots of texts and gossip) as the train rolled in.  But, this time, as I walked through the underground pass back to where my car was parked, as I’ve done so many other times in the wee hours of the morning, I realized this was the first alpine sunrise I’d see properly.

Somehow, all the other times had been fogged or snowy, often the conditions at such a high altitude in the winter when I’d made this trip previously.

As I started chugging back toward Briançon in my little volkswagon, I realized that I probably wouldn’t get a proper sunrise, due to the fact that the sky would brighten well before the sun was able to crest over the mountains.  But, I was wrong.

It was incredibly hard to focus on the road over the next hour, as before my eyes the mountains in front of me (opposite the rising sun) began to shift and change color, adapting the prism of the morning sky.  Pink and green and powder blue mountains shimmering on the skyline as I drove home, tempting me to ogle and drive right over a barricade.

If there had been a place to pull over and take it in, I would have.  How often do you get to see a sunrise without the danger of looking into the sun, anyway?  I did mentally kick myself (yet again) for not having my camera handy, since it’s still in FL.

I’ll have to make a point to witness it again from a good vantage point with a high quality camera.  Not this weekend, since the storms have already started, and are expected to continue through until the middle of next week.  I’m watching one right now while I type this.

I might go to Torino tomorrow and take in the indoor bits of the city, since it’ll be raining outside.  I’ll probably have to leave early again, but somehow I doubt I’ll get to see what I did today over tomorrow’s wet and cloudy dawn.

7 Rumors You May Have Heard About France

 

Not actually visible from every point in France

Rumor #1.)  French Women Don’t Get Fat

Yes, I’m sorry, but it’s true.  I am hereby validating the title of the Bestselling Diet Book.  French women are svelte and happily showing off their topless bikini-bodies by the piscine muncipale well into their golden years.

The real falsehood here is the assumption that this is due to eating lots of healthy food and frequent exercise.  That’s just not true.

The reality of it is this:  French Women are Magic.

Maybe it’s genetics, or perhaps some secret tonic passed down from French mother to French daughter throughout the millennia, but somehow, miraculously, they keep it off on a steady diet of bread, cheese, wine, chocolate, raw beef, and cigarettes and a mystery exercise regime seen by none, as all the gyms are empty and there are no super-chic joggers on the highway paths in the after-work hours.

After all, that time is reserved for wine in the café and maybe a little goûter.

Rumor #2.) Cheese, Wine, Chocolate, and Baguettes are Daily Fare

Yep, as evidenced above.  And it’s delicious.  

Rumor #3.) Berets are a Common Fashion Accessory

This is not something I have witnessed myself, so it leads me to believe that it probably isn’t true.  Sure, there are lots of people walking around town carrying baguettes and/or smoking, but the beret has either been outgrown, or simply never was.

Rumor #4.) The French Are Prone to the Phrase “Ooh, la, la”

I know this one sounds ridiculous, but it actually is true, and has many variations.  From a very butch tennis instructor telling my six year old she can’t wear Vans to practice, to the six year old in question finding a bug offensive and coquettishly side-stepping it with a breathy, “ooh! lá!”  

I hope she enjoys her cellulite-less future.

Rumor #5.) All the Women are Sexpots and All the Men are Debonair

No.  No, no, no.  I suspect this was at one time true.  But it destroyed itself.  

The following is my theory:

The women, once sexually liberated and fancy-free began to struggle to attract the attention of all the playboys in the ball-game.  They thus became slightly pouty and hard-to-get, which immediately roused the interest of the French men, who were used to easy play.

As a result, the modern gender roles are displayed by men who think the slightest encouragement means an invitation for mattress aerobics and women you never see, because they’re all so damn hard to get.  

It’s hard to make friends here.

Rumor #6.) Porn is Readily Accessible on Cable Television

Ehhh … depends on your definition of porn.  There are certainly lots of boobies, but no hardcore stuff.

Rumor #7.) Everyone’s Cheating on His/Her Spouse

Yeah … it seems to be pretty much accepted here that everyone cheats.  That could be more to do with the fact that I live in a small village than with the fact that I live in France, but I do suspect it’s a cultural thing.

After all, Sarkozy’s romantic adventures hardly make the news here.  And everyone thinks Berlusconi, in neighboring Italia, is just kind of amusing.  

And besides, everyone here is so thin!

 

… any questions?

C’est la vie d’une jeune fille au pair

Les filles de l'été: (From the Left): Frederike's Friend, Frederike, Marie, Lucie, Angelina, Me, Ala

Well, as is evidenced by my lack of posts over the past week, things have been a little nuts.  The summer is definitely here, and oh my, is it different.

I’m awaken every morning by the violent sun stream pounding in from my bedside window and the open door of my bathroom, showering in light from the other direction.  We live in a valley on L’Adret side of the mountain (south side), so there’s lots of sun here all day long, and it’s particularly brilliant in the mornings.

This sunlight is then accompanied by the frantic pitter-patter of feet as my host family rouses and starts their morning routine – which is Lou getting ready for work, and the girls turning on loud, French-dubbed cartoons right outside of my bedroom door, then plopping down naked on the couch and waiting for breakfast to magically appear in front of them, as kids do.

Lucie and I taking a break on a hike up to the citadel ruins last weekend

I usually wait until 9, when Lou leaves for work, to finally drag myself out of bed officially.  I’m either desperately attempting another few minutes of shut eye before that, or messing around on the computer.

There are tennis lessons for the kids in the morning which is both a blessing and an obligation to get up and wrangle them immediately upon rousing.  There’s around 45 minutes of breakfast, picking out clothes, hair brushing, teeth brushing, finding hats and water bottles and tennis raquets, etc. etc.  that kind of sets the mood for the rest of the day.

This is all good though, because it’s immediately followed by the only two hours I get per day of being blissfully alone to shower, study French, cook myself breakfast, or whatever.  Last Friday I spent a lovely tennis-time  browsing shops in Briançon with Lucie, and then the two of us joined Angelina for gouter (kind of like tea/snack time) at my favorite spot in the winter for hot chocolate – Il Cappuccino.  I had an Orangina and bought a dress with money I’m supposed to be saving.

I met Lucie two days into my first week back on the job.  She watches after Nell, a lovely little girl around Noémie’s age who used to be looked after by my friend Zuzana, and we were meeting them to take the kids to the pool after tennis last Monday.  She’s from Prague and (as I hoped), speaks excellent English and is all-around just a fun person to spend an afternoon with.

Angelina, Lucie, and I in the Old Town on Sunday.

The other au pairs I’ve met since my last, despondant night out are Marie (from Norway), and Ala (from Poland) who are pictured above and both speak very good English.  Oddly, Ala looks remarkably like one of my ex housemates.  For those of you who’ve known me since university, I’m absolutely certain that you all remember Kim.

We’ve had one group night out so far, which was kind of a bust, but an entertaining memory all the same.  We met up at Frederike’s apartment (she’s the only one of us who has her own space) and had a few glasses of wine to start the evening off, only to realize soon after that I was the only one with a car who wasn’t already well past tippling, and that two of our number didn’t actually intend to stay out all night.

Summer days in Briançon

Long story short, we were not thrilled, and after a quick drink at Eden Bar in Briançon, Lucie and I split off from the rest of the group to go have a drink at La Grôtte, drop off Marie and Ala (who wanted to go home), and wait for someone to sober up so the rest of them could meet us in Villeneuve.

La Grôtte was horribly dead, complete with empty room and a bad cover band playing that was clearly comprised of three generations of the same family (elderly man on bass, pre-teen on drums), being cheered on by the bartenders only.  Lucie and I stayed for one drink then decided to get the hell out of there before it got any more uncomfortable.

We ended up meeting the other girls at Escapade.  Escapade is a remnant from the 90’s rave scene, and has now been transformed into a would be night club that just happens to also have lasers, deer heads on the wall, and a giant screen for psychedelic imagery.  It used to be our final stop on nights out, because it stayed open two hours later than Saloon, but going for the whole night was quite the experience.

There was this woman, who actually looked remarkably like exercise guru Teresa Tapp.   She was clearly on some sort of stimulant drug and very early on in the evening walked calmly out onto the dance floor and then began to gyrate with so much intensity that she immediately cleared the area.

She continued this for at least four hours, ending up all over the club.  You’d lose sight of her for a moment only to realize she was swinging from table top to table top, or dancing on a pole next to the DJ stand, or walking like an Egyptian out of the bathroom area.

She even approached us at one point, demanding, “Dansez!  Dansez-vous!”

We briefly complied before slinking back to our booth, stifling laughter.

The evening, apart from cracked out Orange Shirt was otherwise uneventful.  I was home around 3, and had the presence of mind to close my shutters before going to sleep so I’d be able to sleep in.  The following morning, I woke up with a raging headache, so I went for a walk on the beautiful river path below our garden to clear my mind, and spent the rest of the day studying French.

The family was in Bardoneccia with Lou’s brother and sister-in-law mountain biking over the Italian Alps, so I had the place to myself.

The following day is what’s mostly pictured above.  Lucie, Angelina, and I met in Briançon and decided to climb the citadel ruins, much like I did with Catha in the winter.  We spent the whole day walking up and down the Old Town, browsing shops, taking the tour of the ruins, and sitting in a café next to the moat, drinking coke and chattering carelessly about our various plans for the future.

All in all, I’d say, compared to the awful first week back wherein I was alone, sick, and mopey, the last week has been a fantastic recovery period.

James is visiting me on Saturday, and so far this week has gone well too.  Forecast looks good for having a phenomenal six weeks in my memory bank when I board my flight out of the life of an au pair on August 20th, and leave this summer behind.

Video from the San Juan Fiesta

Dancing with the band at the head of the fiesta. You can see the Mondidas in their red and white costumes dancing with the partygoers.

You can actually catch a glimpse of me there toward the end in a green tee shirt and a white headband.

more about “Video from the San Juan Fiesta“, posted with vodpod

London Nostalgia – The Era at Maggie’s

Sometimes I’m struck hard with missing London.  Not the city itself necessarily, though it is, for me, one of the rare pure loves I think we get in our lives, but of the time that’s gone now.  The six months I spent there that I’ll never get to replicate or return to.

This doesn’t mean I’m not enjoying myself where I am presently.  I’ve had a really great week so far, filled with days lounging by giant pool in the French Alpine Summer with a new friend, sipping champagne at a hotel opening at dusk whilst chattering about Cary Grant movies with new acquaintances, and attempting to find an active night life in this little series of villages that has transformed entirely with the arrival of warm weather.

But nothing compares to my months in London.

During those lazy autumn weeks, with a little job that was going nowhere and not paying very well besides, I was rather enjoying life despite the difficulties.

I worked three or four nights a week in Stoke Newington, and had taken easily to the job since there wasn’t much to it at all.  Every night offered some sort of unpleasant drama, but there were also so many good things that came from that experience, whether it was discussing Eastern European film with a Bulgarian barmaid named Lydia (who spent her days as a professional clown) over Greek take out in the wee hours, or joking around with the bands and slam poets and artisans of any variety who took over the bar in the basement any given weekend, there were real moments of enjoyment amidst that job.

Gina and Me in Hampstead Heath on a Wednesday

Sure, running across the street wearing a tank top in the early winter wind, late at night, to purchase lemons and redbull from the vendor on the corner wasn’t ideal, nor was lugging up buckets of ice, pouring the same drinks for the same people over and over, and dealing with Maggie’s eternal belligerence, but nothing is all bad, and I’ve never regretted having that job.

Some nights, after many hours spent around a smoky table in the basement, sharing pita and stories from our various walks of life after-hours, I’d walk home (the five pounds Maggie had given me for a taxi secured safely in my pocket) with a smile on my face, and a bounce in my step, taking in the early dawn sweeping over Hackney and appreciating the sensation of having experienced something that maybe qualifies as once-in-a-lifetime.

During the days, I got to lazily explore North London.  Gina was equally unemployed and scraping by with a web writing job she had back in the states.  I can’t say either of us were trying desperately hard to find honest, grown-up, full time work as long as we could spend afternoons trying different bistros in Angel or taking trips to local parks or booking tickets to plays at Shakespeare’s Globe.

It was perfect and simple, but all the same, the dangerous atmosphere at Maggie’s was starting to get to me, especially after an incident in which her ex-husband came into the pub and back handed her into a wall of glass liquor bottles.  Not only that, but my funds were running dangerously low, and my monthly rent payment was coming up fast.

I was spending halfhearted afternoons at the BUNAC office, sending my CV any and everywhere to no avail, and scouring the office job postings on the wall.  My panic was increasing with every passing day, especially as Maggie was no longer able to give me little nightly bonuses due to the fact that she’d gotten drunk and fallen down a flight of concrete steps in my second week on the job, thus breaking her collarbone and three ribs.

She’d left the pub in the command of her friend Paul, which was fine most nights, but the money wasn’t coming in quite as well as it should’ve been.

One day, I got lucky.  As I was sitting at the table in the BUNAC office, taking note of all the recruitment agencies on the wall, one of the receptionists went up to the “Today’s Jobs” board to put up a new ad.

I flew over there immediately and took stock of the position.  £9/hr (not great, but better than most of the jobs on that wall) to work as an administrator for an HR company in the West End.  Call Michelle.

So I did.  I called Michelle and left her a message, then immediately forwarded along my CV, then trudged home, hoping that I hadn’t had yet another fruitless afternoon in Farringdon.

Michelle called me the same afternoon, and I scheduled in an interview in two days.  Ecstatic at the prospect of interviewing for an actual job, I called Gina, and we agreed to meet up in Angel and see a movie to celebrate, since she too had received an invitation to a job interview in Central London.

We saw The Duchess and had a customary Wagamama dinner.  Funny how in retrospect, we celebrated a possible end to our poverty by spending money we desperately needed to keep in reserve.

Back in the Saddle

I went to sleep last night making sure, one last time, that the house was sparkling clean.  For the record, that is now a shattered illusion of yestertime.

The night out with Angelina and the new au pairs was rather disappointing.  First of all, all of our old haunts are either closed (Saloon), charging cover fees (Escapade), or containing five unattractive French guys sitting in a corner, itching to cast their baleful, depressed glares in the direction of any female who enters (La Grôtte, and everywhere else).

And secondly, none of the new girls speak fluent English.  Angelina’s English is okay, but it’s clear that it doesn’t come incredibly naturally to her.  Frederike, the girl who has replaced Lisa, speaks only a spattering of very basic English (she’s German), and Anya, the Polish girl, speaks none at all.  I fear a very boring summer on the horizon when it comes to nights out under these circumstances.

Anyway, after a jack and coke (6€) and a coke chaser (2€ … 2 euro for a coke?!), a brief albiet depressing conversation with Poro, the British bartender at La Grôtte, and a lot of awkward silence, we gave up and decided to head home with tentative plans to try again Monday.

I hope to God that Sabine’s new au pair (replacing Zuzana), a girl called Lucy, is as native to English as her name.

From the Left: Noémie, Gemma, and Flora (not mine unless her mother is under extreme stress)

Anyway, the family burst in the door around 9:30 this morning, which snapped me awake immediately.  I took a few deep breaths, not feeling quite as well rested as I should’ve been before pulling on a pair of stretchy shorts and venturing out into the kitchen for hugs and excitement.

The family brought me back a lovely beaded necklace from Corsica with a large wooden charm wound around the middle.  It’ll look great with my strapless white dress, if I find occasion to wear it.

The day unfolded in a genuinely lovely fashion.  Lou installed the water system out in the garden to get the lawn back into healthy form now that the snow is gone, and the girls, ecstatic at the prospect of spending an afternoon running through the sprinklers, sprinted upstairs to change into their bathing suits.

This nearly ended in tears as Gemma realized that the cat had taken the opportunity of having the house to herself to crawl into Gemma’s wardrobe and take a nice pee all over her clothes.

Gemma yelled this announcement down, sounding quite upset, and Lou responded with an exasperated, “What, again?!”

This was quickly followed by Noémie jovially adding, “Ooh!  She did a poo too!”

Eat it Or I'll Cut Your Toys

Luckily, Gemma’s swimsuit from Corsica was drying outside and she was able to slip into that while the soiled clothes were quickly shunted into a basket and taken into the basement.

This led to an afternoon of delighted squeals as the girls darted in and out of the water stream and played on a very wet trampoline.  We had a small lunch of baked fish and creamed spinach on the picnic table outside in the midst of all of this, but it was a fairly simple afternoon.

Lou went out this evening and I had dinner duties.  This is always a bit daunting since the girls are quite picky and unless it’s pasta or rice, don’t tend to eat much of what I make (hopefully the French cookbook Lou has just bought for me will help, since I think it’s American delicacies like Drop Biscuits or baked chicken with breading that they don’t like.)

This evening was a similar flop, but only because my supplies in the house are INCREDIBLY limited until Lou goes shopping tomorrow morning.

In other news, I have a garden party to attend on Wednesday evening (as an escort to the girls’ as it’s for Lou’s workplace, but maybe I’ll meet some people who speak friggin’ English … yeah, I know I’m in France.), and two sets of my friends got married yesterday, and another engaged.

I woke up in a really impulsive mood and cleaned yesterday.  Clearly something was in the air.