The Fill Of Paris.

“I feel like I have had my fill of Paris.”

This was a statement made by my friend who had been visiting for two weeks. He lives in Berlin now, but is an American. Going on my sixth month in Paris, I feel the same way, but also that I am in a sort of prison. That might sound like I need to change my outlook, but before we get too into judging me, let’s examine. Every time I go anywhere here, I am faced with clogged streets and aimless gawkers, who my friend refers to as “the walking wounded”. They oscillate between confused anxiety to surprised recognition of landmarks that are everywhere in this city. It seems reasonable to stop their family in the middle of an already small sidewalk to snap a photo, because... hey, they’re on vacation. Most tourists seem uncomfortable and surprised that this experience doesn’t complete them as much as they thought it would. That could be projection, but it reminds me of when I first got here. I was like “wow, I am in Paris,” and I was soon like “oh, this kind of sucks a lot.” Moving to a new place takes about a year to adjust, regardless where you are, but I could tell after a couple months that I didn’t want to be here anymore than the time I had bought my ticket for. Turns out I had bit off more than I could chew with the idea of being here 11 months and changed my ticket to leave at six months. I wish I could leave now.

All of Paris is on vacation, because somehow the entire country has August off for vacation. A lot of store fronts are closed and the only people here seem to be Italian, which is fine, except it reminds me that I never visited Italy and I wanted to. I don’t know, it’s not that bad, but it isn’t that great, either. I am looking at a very privileged issue right now and I know that. So, I make the best of my time here. Mainly, I do this by listening to podcasts and music while I daydream about living with my boyfriend in the States. So much for presence.

I work for a bit of a crazy family here and I feel a lot tension around my last days in Paris. I hope that they don’t stiff me money, and not because they’re evil, but they are as mentally organized as a washing machine operating a full load. Some of the suggestions they have made border on free labor, like “hey, wanna work three days for us and we wont pay you, but you’ll be with us on the coast- it’ll be so much fun”. I have close friends with children I consider nieces, who would never ask something like that of me. The other thing is, I feel really tense telling them “I wouldn’t feel comfortable working and not getting paid.” Like, it’s not okay to point out the obvious in this house of broken mirrors and promises. I am just counting down the days, trusting that everything will be alright. However, it couldn’t come fast enough.

My birthday is coming fast... I will be thirty years old. I will get on a train and travel down to the family’s 9 bedroom beach house, negotiating a fair wage, which wont seem fair to them, because they would never pay their Philippine nanny who’s been with them 5 years anything close to that. The mom actually told me that, so I guess I did learn something here, not really French, but white guilt sunk in pretty damn well. I miss the socially conscious families in America that I worked for, who appreciate me, compensated me and communicated well. It was clean, honest work and they would never pay me more than their other Mexican nanny, however it was more than enough to survive on and live comfortably.

I wont miss seeing constant fashion shoots either. There is a parade of beautiful people in this city- in the world, more than there has been in history. I know I am going to sound fat when I say this, but most of them are boring and vapid. NO, ALL OF THEM. The women with their long legs and smooth skin... lacquered nails, self-control, poise. Well, they’ll never be stand up comedians. The men with their coiffed hair, collared shirts and sense of entitlement... well, they’ll never date this stand up comedian. Not that I am much of one right now anyway... I am like a walk around comedian, with no jokes and no stage. I also have no couture or place to stretch in my closet of a room, but I do have a boyfriend 5,200 miles away who I can’t wait to bicker with in grocery stores over the price of organics and sleep on the floor with after we’ve made up. He makes me laugh and that is a lot more than I can say for Paris. However, it’s been something here... I learned a little French and a lot of white guilt. C’est la vie- oui? oui.