I have managed to get the internet in my little logement. My friend Harriet gave me the log in details of Free WiFi which I think is a bit dodge but there is only so long a girl can go with nothing but French radio and a Paris guide book for fun. I have been here since Sunday night, almost a week now, and all I have been doing in the evening is dancing to French radio. There are two radio stations I like: one which plays hip-hop and r'n'b and even though they speak in French which, after more than two months here I am no closer to understanding, occasionally the DJs say 'westsiiiide' and 'gangsta'; and the other station I like is called Cherie FM and they play smooth classics which are excellent for interpretive dancing. I wish someone could have seen my emotional dance interpretation of 'She's Like The Wind'. I feel like a fifteen year old again, leaping around my room pretending to do ballet to hip hop songs, imagining that I am in 'Save the Last Dance' and that at any moment Malakai is going to slam his hand next to my head and call me a bitch...
The job is going well, by which I mean they have LOTS of nice food and, wait for it, I asked for a cup of tea on my first day and they brought out a WOODEN CHEST filled with different sachets of fruit, herbal and black tea. It was a Sign. There have been lots of Signs and as one who is very supersitious I have made a note:
1. Tea Chest
2. My room number is 7 (my lucky number. I know everyone says their lucky number is 7 but mine really is, e.g. the date of my 18th birthday was 07/07/07 and I am normally the 7th person in the register wherever I go.)
3. There is a mug in my room with a cat on it
So as you can see, Fate was pretty keen on me taking this job. The only chip in the teacup is that I am no longer living on the Left Bank, which makes the title of this blog WRONG. But you can't have everything in life. At least I will never again have to sleep in that dirty, damp house and eat jelly couscous.
Speaking of which, last night I went to get my stuff back. Well, first of all I went on Thursday night, but I got there and they said they were having a dinner party and I couldn't go in. A likely story for people who think 'dinner' is a plate of grated carrot, but I didn't want to burst in there and cause a scene so I said I would come back on Friday. And come back I did. I rang the dad of the family because I had forgotten the code to the building and he came down in the lift and did a bit of lurking about in the dark before opening the door and grabbing the keys off me.
I said 'No, I need my stuff first' and he said 'Yeah I know, but there is a problem with the keys'. His stupidity fails to amaze me. I scooted in the doors behind him to make sure he didn't lock me out sans belongings and saw, lying on the floor, my bag and a bin bag. They had packed up my stuff! I made a show of rooting through it although I had no idea what I was looking for, having forgotten whatmost of my wardrobe looks like after going two weeks with just a sequined top, my boots, three pairs of knickers and a black jersey dress from H&M. I finally stood up as if to say 'Everything seems to be in order.' He then presented me with a cheque for 72 euros, instead of the 160 I was owed but by this point I just wanted to get away from Family Thrift and back to my new place with my new family who eat steak and chips for lunch.
Luckily Lauren was with me to help me carry my stuff and we went back to mine and had a one euro something bottle of wine to celebrate. The weird thing is, when Lauren was au pairing here three years ago, one of her friends lived in my apartment block on the same floor, so really you could say there are Coincidences and Signs flying about all over the place!
After the cheap rose and many pringles, we went out to Place de Clichy to this nice bar where they served mulled wine. On the way back to my gaff we saw some youths being forced to kneel down in the metro station by the police. It was pretty obvious that the police had seen some black people and decided to give them a bit of a poke. The police in Paris are not your mates, they glare you and make you feel as if you are in Halo.
But anyway, forget anything else I ever said about Paris, because this week I am calling it a clean slate. Fuck polenta! Fuck getting two metros across Paris! Fuck not having a wee in the middle of the night! Say Hello to weeknight jaunts and millions of brews and Cherie FM!