“Are you alright?” Estelle asked politely.
Léonie just stared at me in horror. She was just old enough to be embarrassed by such an immodest fall. And I was just young enough to want to die from such a terrible first-day fate. But I couldn’t let her know that.
“I’m fine,” I said, brushing dirt and a layer of my pride off the backside of my dress. “Really. I’m ready to go!” I said, keeping my voice bright.
I skulked my way to school, following just a few steps behind the dynamic Vladesco trio. With one hand, Estelle smoothed Léonie’s flyaway hairs from the base of her neck, and with the other, she held on to Constantin, who skipped along, looking lovingly up at her. I watched them walk ahead, a perfect family picture, while rubbing my sore bottom and wondering where—if ever—I could fit into the frame. When we finally arrived at school, I waved and flashed my “nanni-est” smile while Estelle kissed the kiddies good-bye. Then they disappeared through the school gates with all of the other children, eager and busy and buzzing with the promise a new day brings. Estelle turned to me. “Okay. Enjoy Paris!” she said, before turning on her heel and striding off down the street. I watched till she faded from view, becoming just another face in the Monday morning crowd shuffling along the dirty Paris sidewalks. That’s when I realized that I hadn’t paid attention to how we’d gotten there. I had no idea how to get home—or how I would find my way back to pick up the kids that afternoon.
I was completely alone. In Paris. It was a prospect that both frightened and thrilled me. I had eight luxurious hours before I had to pick the children up from school, and for a moment, I fantasized about spending all of them walking the streets of Paris. But alas, Estelle had work for me to do at the house, so I turned in the direction that I hoped would lead me home.
With so many winding streets and tall buildings in Paris, it’s easy for a newcomer to get confused, and I nearly walked straight past the peacock blue doors of the Vladesco house. After struggling with the door key no fewer than three times, I finally make it back inside.
The house felt different with just me in it, and I stood in the entryway for several moments, taking it all in. It even smelled different. I hadn’t noticed a smell before. Either that or the house was full of other people smells and food smells, and taking those in was occupation enough for a newcomer. Soft light shone through the kitchen skylights onto the polished hardwood floors, but it was cool inside. I could have fallen asleep.
Every room of the house was immaculate, save for the kitchen, where the Vladescos really lived. The kitchen smelled different from the rest of the house, a combination of day-old trash, morning milk, freshly ground espresso beans, and the piquant whiff of whatever cheeses lurked behind the closed refrigerator doors. I was actually impressed the cheeses were kept within the confines of the refrigerator. Three years ago when I’d visited, the cheeses were kept out on the counter, and I learned pasteurization was not nearly as popular in France as in America. But maybe cheese on the counter was a winter thing. Who could tell?
Above all the smells, the espresso called to me the most. Beckoned me. Lured me. Sang to me with its chocolaty, nutty undertones. The sweet aroma drew me to the counter, where the half-pound brown bag from Brulerie des Ternes sat tucked in the crevice between the breakfast cabinet and the gleaming espresso machine. I had the feeling that machine would become one of my closest friends this summer. There are two words in the American language that are highly overlooked. Words that are taken for granted, or lumped in with other tasks. But there in the mid-morning presence of a coffee connoisseur’s fantasy machine, I vowed from that moment forward to always savor deeply the true meaning of the phrase “coffee break.”
It was high time I indulged myself in a hot double shot of espresso, courtesy of the Vladescos’ espresso machine. The machine was beyond high-tech, with a price tag that easily exceeded 2000 dollars, no doubt. To the Vladescos, the heavenly liquid that poured out of the machine every morning was merely un café. But to me, it was nothing short of the strongest, purest, finest espresso I’d ever had in my life. I scanned through the digital menu, desperate to take the machine out for a test drive. The first step said something about size, so I pressed the double shot button. But somehow I got it wrong and instead of making coffee, I merely changed the language on the machine. It might have been Russian. I pressed the same button again and the language switched to Swahili. I continued button-pushing, hoping the thing didn’t malfunction and/or turn off, until—voilà! The machine rumbled to life, filling the room with the sound and heady scent of grinding beans. It beeped at me and spit a bit and then, out came my ink. I sighed and inhaled the rich aroma. Such satisfaction and I hadn’t even brought the cup to my lips.
But this was no time for a simple repast—this coffee break had to be accompanied by some serious nanny planning. Across the kitchen, on the steel island countertop, set discreetly to the side of family paper stacks and the telephone, there lay a book. I’d avoided it until now, but it was time. I took a swig of espresso for courage.
Estelle called it the diary; I called it the nanny book. It was a small, canvas-bound book that lived in the top drawer of the island in the Vladesco kitchen. But make no mistake; the hidden nature of the nanny book did not undermine its vital role in a nanny’s life. Every day, Estelle wrote within it the household schedules, chores, menus, and errands. My job meant following these notes to the letter.
It was somewhat reassuring that in a house so unapologetically modern, and with two parents who were fully reliant on whichever Palm Pilot or Blackberry was the most up to date, the family’s affairs were still penned by hand on the dated pages of a little canvas diary. The nanny book was a reflection of the way Estelle expected her household to be run—efficiently, elegantly, and without incident.
Nestled discreetly next to the nanny book’s place in the drawer was the house purse. Should there be an errand like running to the market for several meals’ worth of produce, the amount needed to purchase such produce would be in the house purse. The house purse was separated into two sides—one for coins and one for bills. The coins were for buying the daily baguettes. The side containing the bills was full or empty, depending on the errands listed in the nanny book for that day. I sipped my darling cocktail again and read what was expected from me the first day on the job.
Un rétro—buy for breakfast. I had no idea what a rétro was, but realized with dread that un rétro would have supplied the base we were missing for the miel et confiture at this morning’s breakfast table. How was I to know what un rétro was—and moreover, how was I to know where to buy one?!
“Drink elixir,” my brain told me, and I considered filling a second cup. Unlike lattes, which require a certain amount of lingering over, espresso was quick. And the best part was, comparatively speaking, this stuff was sans Starbucks price tag and virtually calorie-free.
Empowered, I read on.
Constantin needs glasses fixed. Take to l’Opticien. 14, rue Benjamin Franklin.
Buy 1 kilo cherries, 2 courgettes, 1 aubergine, 3 tomates (10E).
Pick up kids from school at 16h30.
Supper:
Quiche
Salade (use tomato bought at market)
Yoghurt or Fruit
Estelle was completely fluent in French and English, and browsing through past nanny book entries, I noted that I’d be reading both languages. If I’d had an extensive French vocabulary, or at least a basic knowledge of French produce, this wouldn’t have been a problem. But I didn’t, so it was a problem. I made a mental note to explore the fascinating world of French produce where the elusive courgettes and aubergines lived—whatever they were—along with the more familiar cherries and tomates.
And what of l’opticien? Not only did I not know that Constantin wore glasses, but I also had no idea how to find my way to rue Benjamin Franklin. To make matters worse, my French was a little rusty (read: nonexistent). Cassé—c’est le mot for “broke,” non?
&nbs
p; And the cooking of the quiche? Well, that just wasn’t a task I dared consider before nine o’clock in the morning.
As the espresso took effect, I began to feel better. My morning stair-tumble seemed a million miles away, I felt thinner already as a result of my new all-caffeine diet, and despite a little dust on the backside, my dress was still très chic. It was time to say bonjour to Paris. I pranced out the door with nanny book and necessary euros clutched in hand, confident that le métro would not be as scary as it seemed.
Estelle had informed me that I needed to buy “un carnet,” which would buy me ten tickets on le métro. To reach rue Benjamin Franklin and l’opticien, I had to take the line to La Place Trocadéro, near the Eiffel Tower. I had seen the tip of the Eiffel Tower peeking out from a distance while walking near the Champs, so I knew it wasn’t far. However, I couldn’t find a direct métro route that would take me to it. After careful scrutiny of the map, I found ligne C with a stop at Champ de Mars, which looked like an alternative route to the Eiffel Tower. Surely I could walk from there to La Place Trocadéro. Well, surely I could walk to Russia from there, too, but why do things the easy way? And with that, I chose ligne C.
I’d expected to board a dirty, fluorescent-lit, run-down train, and was pleasantly surprised when a rather new two-level train with SNCF written on the side pulled into the station. I thought I remembered the SNCF from my first trip to Paris. Hadn’t I taken it to Nice? Hmmm. I boarded anyway, glancing at my watch. Six hours to spare before picking up the kids again. Surely if I was on the wrong train, I could get off before Nice and turn around, right? Right. I stared out the window at my reflection, hardly able to believe my new world. Just two weeks ago on a Monday morning, I would have been bustling through the Houston Chronicle offices, with sales goals and deadlines and reports piling up on my desk. And for a brief moment, I missed it. I didn’t know where I was; I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know what was to come. It was scary, but it had to be better than wasting away in my cubicle, dreaming of another life.
When the train pulled into the next stop there was no sign indicating where we were. I waited for the overhead announcement to clarify the stop. No announcement. A few people around me gathered their things and disembarked. I wanted to ask them, “How in the world do you know where you’re going?!” But before I could summon either the courage or the correct vocabulary, the train resumed motion. If only I’d bought a métro map—but that would have called me out as a tourist, and the last thing I wanted to be mistaken for was a tourist.
I went back to staring out the window, perfecting my blasé, unaffected, and très French look, when I noticed a true Parisian intensely studying the full route of ligne C posted above the train doors. Every last stop was marked, and I counted the stops to Champ de Mars, only four stops away. I was pleased that I’d found the right train, but slightly disappointed that Nice would have to wait.
The stop at Champ de Mars was bordered to the left by La Seine. I wound my way through the gardens, sprinklers, and sidewalks toward Trocadéro, using the tip of the Eiffel Tower as my guide. It was a picture-perfect summer morning in Paris. The sun was bright in the sky, and the buttery aroma of fresh croissants hung in the air, beckoning me. But I was determined to find rue Benjamin Franklin and accomplish my first official nanny task before indulging myself.
I followed the delicious smell until I reached the base of the Eiffel Tower. I walked beneath it, side-stepping the tourists and chuckling softly at my good fortune. I’d escaped the gloom of Monday morning paperwork, phone calls, and meetings, and replaced it with jaunting through the gardens of Paris. By the time I found Rue Benjamin Franklin, it was 11 o’clock, it was hot, I was starving, and I couldn’t wait to sit down in the air conditioned doctor’s office. I wandered down the street, searching for the right building. What a strange coincidence that the optician’s office was on rue Benjamin Franklin. As I scanned the building numbers, I wondered if they specialized in bifocals.
I was scouring the little numbered plaques above the doors when it dawned on me that all of the buildings on the street looked closed or abandoned. In fact, every building and office on the street sported pull-down gates and blackened windows . . . including number fourteen. I stood in front of l’opticien’s dark window for a long time, eyeing a pair of square-framed Chanels and imaging how they would go with my current ensemble, and wondering what to do next. Then I noticed a sign posted on the door: L’Opticien Fermé. Ouvrier a 14h Lundi.
Great. I didn’t have time to wait for three hours until it opened or I’d be late picking the children up from school. And I had yet to buy the produce for dinner. So l’opticien would have to wait. And thus I learned my first lesson in Parisian business hours: Mondays are about as good as a weekend for running errands, and weekends are a complete bust. Establishments such as doctor’s offices typically don’t open for full business hours until Tuesday.
I reasoned that since l’opticien was crossed off of my list for the day, I had time for a long-overdue and well-deserved visit to the nearest patisserie for a rest, a snack, and a glass of water. Though most of the shops were closed, I happened upon an inviting storefront on a side street with the words “Salon du Thé” stenciled in an arch across the shop window. I walked in and smiled weakly at the hosetess. “Pour une, s’il-vous-plaît ,” I said, beyond caring if my request to get a table for one came out correctly. She seated me and brought me a glass of water before I could even deliver my carefully rehearsed “un carafe d’eau.” I love this place—and Paris is lucky that the afternoon turned out in my favor. I perused the menu, caring little what I ate as long as I ate something. The most appetizing entrée was the tartes aux tomates avec salade, which I ordered promptly and ate with no regard to etiquette.
Rested and refreshed from my afternoon snack, I hit the streets once again, this time in search of a market. However, there was not a fruit stand, butcher, or baker to be found behind their glass counters. Evidently markets, like most retail shops, are not open on Mondays. After searching fruitlessly for nearly forty-five minutes, I gave up and headed toward home, my education on courgettes and aubergines, like l’opticien, postponed. I was stricken with guilt and worry—soon I’d have to pick up the children from school, and I’d accomplished none of the tasks from the nanny book. I wondered what Estelle would say when she found out. But how could she blame me for the lackadaisical state of Parisian affairs?
But what of dinner? Without the goods from the market, I couldn’t very well concoct a salad or quiche for the children. Actually, with my limited cooking ability, it was doubtful I could successfully concoct these items, even with the necessary ingredients, especially when I thought of attempting to operate the state-of-the-art celcius gas oven owned by les Vladesco. Once back at the house, I scoured the Vladesco freezer, in which I found all manner of yummy-looking frozen dinners. There was a ratatouille that seemed healthy enough, plus pretty little frozen pizzas topped with rounds of goat cheese and tomato. I decided that for my first night on the job, I would introduce the children to the fascinating world of frozen food gourmet, and write it off as cultural education about a typical American household. I’d have them Americanzed in no time!
By the time I returned to the school gate at 4:15 (pardon—at seize heure et quinze) it felt like eons had passed since I had stood there waving good-bye to them that morning. I was exhausted, and I hoped their day had been easier than mine. But as my sweaty little chickadees came rushing through the gates, full of energy, I realized that I’d have to perk up—and fast. Apparently my day had only just begun.
I spotted Léonie first, pushing her way through the swarms of children. Her ponytails were frizzier than ever, poking out from beneath a New York Yankees baseball cap. She ran straight to me with a huge smile, grinning up at me from beneath the shade of her cap. I patted her head and smoothed her ponytails, just as I’d seen her mother do that morning. Then she shyly presented me with a picture she’d drawn. It was hand-colored
in a variety of markers, and she’d written in very good English, “Thanks for Keeping Us!” and signed it “Léonie the Star.” In a day filled with so many mishaps, her sweet gesture meant the world to me, and I thanked her and pulled her in for a hug.
Next came Constantin, bobbing along amid a dizzying array of six- and seven-year-olds. When he spotted me, he broke from the crowd and ran to greet me with his wide little-boy smile, and immediately began yapping about what goûter, or snack, he would “take” when he got home.
“I can go to the park after goûter,” he said proudly.
Constantin was the only one of the Vladesco children to not have had extensive exposure to the English language. His two older sisters were born in London while Estelle and Alex were still building their finance careers. But Constantin was not born until after the family returned to Paris, and thus was the only member of the family who was not completely bilingual.
In French, the verb prendre, “to take,” is used as commonly as “I’d like” in American. And though Contsantin did his best to make parallel translations from French to English, his words often came out sounding more like commands than statements. So, instead of saying, “I’d like to go to the park after my snack,” the petite monsieur would say, “I can go to the park after my snack.” These announcements, combined with his proud-as-a-peacock attitude, made me feel more often than not like he was the boss and I was merely the servant, and I had to train myself to respond as if he had asked a question.
“We’ll see, Constantin,” I said as he yanked on my arm, running as fast as he could toward home, at least three strides ahead of me the entire way. As I struggled to keep up with him, I couldn’t help but laugh. His head bobbed, his limbs failed, and I wondered if he would topple over from the weight of the trunk-size bookbag strapped tightly to his back.
Au Paris Page 4