Three months in, recently returned from a week home to the States for Christmas, and the verdict is more or less settled: being an au-pair is wretched drudgery of work for monstrous three foot tall bosses. The constant refrain: This is not why I came to Paris. It’s how I came to Paris.
And I am happy as an oyster in Paris. Happy as a worm in a book. a kid in a candy shop. a kid in a candy shop that also sells madeleines and éclairs and crêpes au caramel au beurre salé. (In case you missed it: not so much a simile, there, as my sweet-toothed reality…)
The days here race by and make me feel like each new curiosity and friend and experience is building a greater, more imposing structure of life in this city – and yet it is a precarious life, my own personal jenga tower: The further I stretch myself into this place, the more invested I get and the more devastating the fall will be if that tower crumbles.
Each block in my Jenga tower has a message, a memory —
thousands of steps on thousands of cobblestones, movies and film scripts and words upon mots upon pages
upon benches upon Shakespeare’s shelves, upon screens and
eavesdropped from train neighbors and jotted in journals and sav(or)ed for later
or puzzled and spun into a digital game of verbal footsie
Papa Hem and
Frida Kahlo. Delicate macarons, and crispy traditions, and
tart tartes aux citron; hard cheese and soft cheese and wine and cheese
and laughs and cheese, game nights and dancing, faux pas and vrais pas, meet-ups, coffee cups,
and the perfect turkey
endless goutées and compotes and sept familles and
hair-greying bath times and markers and princesses and birds and crises, and the beautiful desirously
madness of everything Life burning at the same time.
So, keeping in consideration the fact that I uprooted my life and made more than a few resolutions less than six months ago, most of my resolutions for 2014 have been to maintain certain positive changes that are already in the works. One of those, though, had been to write and I’d been failing on that front, so I’m recommitting myself for a second go, a second go in which I’m afraid I may not make much sense because I imagine I will be playing with formats and content and topics and words and deadlines. But hey, my goals for writing were personal, so though the tower is open to the public, feel free to (come and) go as you please.