When it rains, it pours

Wednesday I woke up from a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize. By the time my arm reached the phone I had already missed it. I checked the voice mail and it was the mother of the student that I had been tutoring.
“Josh, I’m so thankful for the effort that you’ve put in with my daughter but she’s had a change of heart and would like to find another tutor.” The word that she used was “tutrice” So what she meant was that her daughter wanted a woman, not a man for a tutor.

Of course she has a learning disability so I completely understood that she needed to be as comfortable as possible. I remembered her telling me that her other tutor was like her sister and she missed her.

I felt like calling the mother back and leaving a message, “Dear Jane Doe, I will wear a wig and stuff my shirt full of socks. Thanks.”

I tossed the phone down and put the pillow over my head and sighed a very sad sigh. I wanted to go back to sleep, but I was too frustrated. Disappointed. I couldn’t manage to get settled enough. So on my day off, I got up early and walked to the shower.

I stood under the shower. A hot shower can do a person wonders. I stood under the showerhead letting the water hit my head.  Then out of nowhere the showerhead itself fell off the wall and hit me square on top of the head.

This morning was turning out to be a shit show. I should have known then to stay in bed all day. But alas, the story goes on.

I got dressed and walked to the bank because I needed to withdraw some cash. Walked up to my favorite Mrs. Stick Up Your Ass at the bank counter and asked for a receipt of my bank account. She huffed and puffed and handed me a receipt that sais 11 euro.  WHAT?!
“Please check again.”

Huff and Puff. “That is what it is, sir.”

PANIC. Could this day get any worse? What on earth happened to all my money? I racked my brain and I remembered that I rented a bike in the city and the machine said it would take a 150 euro deposit out of my account until the bike was returned. But I had returned the bike. I was positive. That was Saturday and this was Wednesday. Something must be very wrong.I walked back to my apartment with my heart beating and somehow sweating on this chilly day. I called my friend Robert who had lived here for 2 years and inquired about the bike.

“Oh yeah, “ he said, “they don’t put that back for up to a week, man.”

“What the hell?! A week?! I will never bike anywhere again.”

What was I going to do for food? I had 11 euro in Paris and since they even make you pay a breathing tax, I was barely going to make it an hour on 11 euro.

I remembered my sister had sent me a Western Union check that I hadn’t deposited. That would give me about 80 euro and keep me above water till the deposit came back in my account.
I walked to the post office that advertised a Western Union branch.
I had on my black leather jacket and my scarf, the only thing I had bought in France that wasn’t food or alcohol. I would love that 14 euro back and have a cold neck. Like usual, the line was long and minutes ticked by. I was second in line when I looked down at the paper and saw that I needed a piece of I.D.  I was determined to lie through my teeth about how my passport was in a safe at the school I was working and I was a poor little foreigner and give them the puppy dog eyes.
I was next in line and this woman with a little girl probably 5 years old came in front of me and flashed her handicap card at me.

(people in france have cards that prove them to be “old” “handicapped” “a veteran” “deaf” or “blind”….to be honest, the last one isn’t really fair. That person would have no idea what kind of card they were holding up. It could be a picture of an alien eating an Ice cream cone.)

The little girl with her had a tumor on her cheek. But she didn’t let that stop her from having the most beautiful smile. In my shitty day, I was not having to deal with a large mass on my face. And she had a smile for god’s sake.  They stepped in front of me and the little girl turned around and cupped her hand next to her mouth and whispered slowly,  “Excuse us.” It was the most adorable thing. I cupped my hand and whispered back “Don’t worry, “ and she smile and said with the most serious face “Okay, sir.”  She turned around and giggled.

The little girl affected me. She was so cute.

Finally I made it to the counter and the puppy dog charm worked and I handed them my money order and they said that they couldn’t take the order there. I needed to go into Paris proper to receive the money.  As humans do, I forgot the smile of the little girl  in about 5 minutes and I was again wearing a frown. I took the train into the city and went to western union after western union. I was being sent on a wild goose chase. “Go here, they will do it for you.” “Sorry, we don’t do that here.” “Nope, not here.” Finally a genius told me the main office for Western Union was in front of the Louvre. I briskly walked the location that had all the answers supposedly.

It was closed. It was 4:15 p.m. and it was closed. I put my head and hands on the glass and the glass squealed as my hands slowly slid off the glass.

My brain was numb with frustration.  I turned around and I was directly in front of the Louvre and Tuileries Gardens. A black and gray cloud had rolled in and the wind picked up and blew my scarf. I walked into the gates of the Garden to take in the view. This is the best view in the city if you are on eye level.  You are facing west and it’s a complete straight shot to the Champs Elysee and you can see the whole garden, the Eiffel tower to the left, place de concorde and Arc de Triomphe. It’s quite breathtaking. I started to walk west.
If you stood still and panned your eyes a complete 360 degrees you would see a rubber band of bright blue on the horizon. This would be just a passing storm cloud. It started to sprinkle and of course I had no umbrella. I started to laugh out loud with the irony of the dark cloud looming over my head. In the distance, i could see the wall of water rushing towards me so I decided to take shelter under a tree that hadn’t lost all of its leaves. I stood there leaning against the trunk, looking at the red and yellow victims of fall that I was shuffling with my feet. I people watched and took note of a couple with their arms wrapped in each other to make enough a room under their blue umbrella, a business man holding a newspaper over his head who must have been just as caught of guard. Within 10 minutes, the rain had stopped. I started walking towards Place de Concorde. I zig zagged and hopped over the fresh rain puddles and passed a fountain with a flock of seagulls bathing and squacking  along side ducks who were dipping there heads in the water and shaking off their feathers.
I made it to the Place de Concorde. I walked across the cobbled stone and stood at the pedestrian walk across from the Metro. I was headed back home. It was a busy intersection and I stood there thinking about how shitty my day was and I was just ready to jump in bed and do a proper pity party.
Then, a flash of light bounced off the cars passing by and I turned around and there it was –the sun.
It was majestic with its size and power and it turned from night to day. The city sparkled from it’s recent shower. I stood there and let the sun envelope me.  I could barely see anything because it was so bright. I saw the outline of the Eiffel Tower and the fountains and the Obelisque. And I smiled. It was so beautiful I snapped a photo.
A thought entered my head and my problems washed away next to my feet with the little river in the gutter down the sewer drain. …
“Oh yeah, I live in Paris.”

When it rains, it pours

Wednesday I woke up from a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize. By the time my arm reached the phone I had already missed it. I checked the voice mail and it was the mother of the student that I had been tutoring.
“Josh, I’m so thankful for the effort that you’ve put in with my daughter but she’s had a change of heart and would like to find another tutor.” The word that she used was “tutrice” So what she meant was that her daughter wanted a woman, not a man for a tutor.

Of course she has a learning disability so I completely understood that she needed to be as comfortable as possible. I remembered her telling me that her other tutor was like her sister and she missed her.

I felt like calling the mother back and leaving a message, “Dear Jane Doe, I will wear a wig and stuff my shirt full of socks. Thanks.”

I tossed the phone down and put the pillow over my head and sighed a very sad sigh. I wanted to go back to sleep, but I was too frustrated. Disappointed. I couldn’t manage to get settled enough. So on my day off, I got up early and walked to the shower.

I stood under the shower. A hot shower can do a person wonders. I stood under the showerhead letting the water hit my head.  Then out of nowhere the showerhead itself fell off the wall and hit me square on top of the head.

This morning was turning out to be a shit show. I should have known then to stay in bed all day. But alas, the story goes on.

I got dressed and walked to the bank because I needed to withdraw some cash. Walked up to my favorite Mrs. Stick Up Your Ass at the bank counter and asked for a receipt of my bank account. She huffed and puffed and handed me a receipt that sais 11 euro.  WHAT?!
“Please check again.”

Huff and Puff. “That is what it is, sir.”

PANIC. Could this day get any worse? What on earth happened to all my money? I racked my brain and I remembered that I rented a bike in the city and the machine said it would take a 150 euro deposit out of my account until the bike was returned. But I had returned the bike. I was positive. That was Saturday and this was Wednesday. Something must be very wrong.I walked back to my apartment with my heart beating and somehow sweating on this chilly day. I called my friend Robert who had lived here for 2 years and inquired about the bike.

“Oh yeah, “ he said, “they don’t put that back for up to a week, man.”

“What the hell?! A week?! I will never bike anywhere again.”

What was I going to do for food? I had 11 euro in Paris and since they even make you pay a breathing tax, I was barely going to make it an hour on 11 euro.

I remembered my sister had sent me a Western Union check that I hadn’t deposited. That would give me about 80 euro and keep me above water till the deposit came back in my account.
I walked to the post office that advertised a Western Union branch.
I had on my black leather jacket and my scarf, the only thing I had bought in France that wasn’t food or alcohol. I would love that 14 euro back and have a cold neck. Like usual, the line was long and minutes ticked by. I was second in line when I looked down at the paper and saw that I needed a piece of I.D.  I was determined to lie through my teeth about how my passport was in a safe at the school I was working and I was a poor little foreigner and give them the puppy dog eyes.
I was next in line and this woman with a little girl probably 5 years old came in front of me and flashed her handicap card at me.

(people in france have cards that prove them to be “old” “handicapped” “a veteran” “deaf” or “blind”….to be honest, the last one isn’t really fair. That person would have no idea what kind of card they were holding up. It could be a picture of an alien eating an Ice cream cone.)

The little girl with her had a tumor on her cheek. But she didn’t let that stop her from having the most beautiful. In my shitty day, I was not having to deal with a large mass on my face. And she had a smile for god’s sake.  They stepped in front of me and the little girl turned around and cupped her hand next to her mouth and whispered slowly,  “Excuse us.” It was the most adorable thing. I cupped my hand and whispered back “Don’t worry, “ and she smile and said with the most serious face “Okay, sir.”  She turned around and giggled.

The little girl affected me. She was so cute.

Finally I made it to the counter and the puppy dog charm worked and I handed them my money order and they said that they couldn’t take the order there. I needed to go into Paris proper to receive the money.  As humans do, I forgot the smile of the little girl  in about 5 minutes and I was again wearing a frown. I took the train into the city and went to western union after western union. I was being sent on a wild goose chase. “Go here, they will do it for you.” “Sorry, we don’t do that here.” “Nope, not here.” Finally a genius told me the main office for Western Union, in front of the Louvre. I briskly walked the location that had all the answers supposedly.

It was closed. It was 4:15 p.m. and it was closed. I put my head and hands on the glass and the glass squealed as my hands slowly slid off the glass.

My brain was numb with frustration.  I turned around and I was directly in front of the Louvre and Tuileries Gardens. A black and gray cloud had rolled in and the wind picked up and blew my scarf. I walked into the gates of the Garden to take in the view. This is the best view in the city if you are on eye level.  You are facing west and it’s a complete straight shot to the Champs Elysee and you can see the whole garden, the Eiffel tower to the left, place de concorde and Arc de Triomphe. It’s quite breathtaking. I started to walk west.
If you stood still and panned your eyes a complete 360 degrees you would see a rubber band of bright blue on the horizon. This would be just a passing storm cloud. It started to sprinkle and of course I had no umbrella. I started to laugh out loud with the irony of the dark cloud looming over my head. In the distance, i could see the wall of water rushing towards me so I decided to take shelter under a tree that hadn’t lost all of its leaves. I stood there leaning against the trunk, looking at the red and yellow victims of fall that I was shuffling with my feet. I people watched and took note of a couple with their arms wrapped in each other to make enough a room under their blue umbrella, a business man holding a newspaper over his head who must have been just as caught of guard. Within 10 minutes, the rain had stopped. I started walking towards Place de Concorde. I zig zagged and hopped over the fresh rain puddles and passed a fountain with a flock of seagulls bathing and squacking  along side ducks who were dipping there heads in the water and shaking off their feathers.
I made it to the Place de Concorde. I walked across the cobbled stone and stood at the pedestrian walk across from the Metro. I was headed back home. It was a busy intersection and I stood there thinking about how shitty my day was and I was just ready to jump in bed and do a proper pity party.
Then, a flash of light bounced off the cars passing by and I turned around and there it was –the sun.
It was majestic with its size and power and it turned from night to day. The city sparkled from it’s recent shower. I stood there and let the sun envelope me.  I could barely see anything because it was so bright. I saw the outline of the Eiffel Tower and the fountains and the Obelisque. And I smiled. It was so beautiful I snapped a photo.
A thought entered my head and my problems washed away next to my feet with the little river in the gutter down the sewer drain. …
“Oh yeah, I live in Paris.”

Wednesday I woke up from a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize. By the time my arm reached the phone I had already missed it. I checked the voice mail and it was the mother of the student that I had been tutoring.
“Josh, I’m so thankful for the effort that you’ve put in with my daughter but she’s had a change of heart and would like to find another tutor.” The word that she used was “tutrice” So what she meant was that her daughter wanted a woman, not a man for a tutor.

Of course she has a learning disability so I completely understood that she needed to be as comfortable as possible. I remembered her telling me that her other tutor was like her sister and she missed her.

I felt like calling the mother back and leaving a message, “Dear Jane Doe, I will wear a wig and stuff my shirt full of socks. Thanks.”

I tossed the phone down and put the pillow over my head and sighed a very sad sigh. I wanted to go back to sleep, but I was too frustrated. Disappointed. I couldn’t manage to get settled enough. So on my day off, I got up early and walked to the shower.

I stood under the shower. A hot shower can do a person wonders. I stood under the showerhead letting the water hit my head.  Then out of nowhere the showerhead itself fell off the wall and hit me square on top of the head.

This morning was turning out to be a shit show. I should have known then to stay in bed all day. But alas, the story goes on.

I got dressed and walked to the bank because I needed to withdraw some cash. Walked up to my favorite Mrs. Stick Up Your Ass at the bank counter and asked for a receipt of my bank account. She huffed and puffed and handed me a receipt that sais 11 euro.  WHAT?!
“Please check again.”

Huff and Puff. “That is what it is, sir.”

PANIC. Could this day get any worse? What on earth happened to all my money? I racked my brain and I remembered that I rented a bike in the city and the machine said it would take a 150 euro deposit out of my account until the bike was returned. But I had returned the bike. I was positive. That was Saturday and this was Wednesday. Something must be very wrong.I walked back to my apartment with my heart beating and somehow sweating on this chilly day. I called my friend Robert who had lived here for 2 years and inquired about the bike.

“Oh yeah, “ he said, “they don’t put that back for up to a week, man.”

“What the hell?! A week?! I will never bike anywhere again.”

What was I going to do for food? I had 11 euro in Paris and since they even make you pay a breathing tax, I was barely going to make it an hour on 11 euro.

I remembered my sister had sent me a Western Union check that I hadn’t deposited. That would give me about 80 euro and keep me above water till the deposit came back in my account.
I walked to the post office that advertised a Western Union branch.
I had on my black leather jacket and my scarf, the only thing I had bought in France that wasn’t food or alcohol. I would love that 14 euro back and have a cold neck. Like usual, the line was long and minutes ticked by. I was second in line when I looked down at the paper and saw that I needed a piece of I.D.  I was determined to lie through my teeth about how my passport was in a safe at the school I was working and I was a poor little foreigner and give them the puppy dog eyes.
I was next in line and this woman with a little girl probably 5 years old came in front of me and flashed her handicap card at me.

(people in france have cards that prove them to be “old” “handicapped” “a veteran” “deaf” or “blind”….to be honest, the last one isn’t really fair. That person would have no idea what kind of card they were holding up. It could be a picture of an alien eating an Ice cream cone.)

The little girl with her had a tumor on her cheek. But she didn’t let that stop her from having the most beautiful. In my shitty day, I was not having to deal with a large mass on my face. And she had a smile for god’s sake.  They stepped in front of me and the little girl turned around and cupped her hand next to her mouth and whispered slowly,  “Excuse us.” It was the most adorable thing. I cupped my hand and whispered back “Don’t worry, “ and she smile and said with the most serious face “Okay, sir.”  She turned around and giggled.

The little girl affected me. She was so cute.

Finally I made it to the counter and the puppy dog charm worked and I handed them my money order and they said that they couldn’t take the order there. I needed to go into Paris proper to receive the money.  As humans do, I forgot the smile of the little girl  in about 5 minutes and I was again wearing a frown. I took the train into the city and went to western union after western union. I was being sent on a wild goose chase. “Go here, they will do it for you.” “Sorry, we don’t do that here.” “Nope, not here.” Finally a genius told me the main office for Western Union, in front of the Louvre. I briskly walked the location that had all the answers supposedly.

It was closed. It was 4:15 p.m. and it was closed. I put my head and hands on the glass and the glass squealed as my hands slowly slid off the glass.

My brain was numb with frustration.  I turned around and I was directly in front of the Louvre and Tuileries Gardens. A black and gray cloud had rolled in and the wind picked up and blew my scarf. I walked into the gates of the Garden to take in the view. This is the best view in the city if you are on eye level.  You are facing west and it’s a complete straight shot to the Champs Elysee and you can see the whole garden, the Eiffel tower to the left, place de concorde and Arc de Triomphe. It’s quite breathtaking. I started to walk west.
If you stood still and panned your eyes a complete 360 degrees you would see a rubber band of bright blue on the horizon. This would be just a passing storm cloud. It started to sprinkle and of course I had no umbrella. I started to laugh out loud with the irony of the dark cloud looming over my head. In the distance, i could see the wall of water rushing towards me so I decided to take shelter under a tree that hadn’t lost all of its leaves. I stood there leaning against the trunk, looking at the red and yellow victims of fall that I was shuffling with my feet. I people watched and took note of a couple with their arms wrapped in each other to make enough a room under their blue umbrella, a business man holding a newspaper over his head who must have been just as caught of guard. Within 10 minutes, the rain had stopped. I started walking towards Place de Concorde. I zig zagged and hopped over the fresh rain puddles and passed a fountain with a flock of seagulls bathing and squacking  along side ducks who were dipping there heads in the water and shaking off their feathers.
I made it to the Place de Concorde. I walked across the cobbled stone and stood at the pedestrian walk across from the Metro. I was headed back home. It was a busy intersection and I stood there thinking about how shitty my day was and I was just ready to jump in bed and do a proper pity party.
Then, a flash of light bounced off the cars passing by and I turned around and there it was –the sun.
It was majestic with its size and power and it turned from night to day. The city sparkled from it’s recent shower. I stood there and let the sun envelope me.  I could barely see anything because it was so bright. I saw the outline of the Eiffel Tower and the fountains and the Obelisque. And I smiled. It was so beautiful I snapped a photo.
A thought entered my head and my problems washed away next to my feet with the little river in the gutter down the sewer drain. …
“Oh yeah, I live in Paris.”

From Dusk To Dawn

I finally “officially” wrapped up celebrating my birthday. To be honest, people look for a way everyday to celebrate themselves and I’m above that. It’s just that a birthday gives you a valid excuse to be narcissistic. Moreover, I want to celebrate it before I get old and stupid like most people and try not to make it a big deal.

I put a facebook announcement up and e-mailed all my colleagues in my program who I had met only twice before at a district meeting. But we needed an excuse to get drunk together. My birthday was the closest so that’s how the cards fell. I was a little nervous about hosting a party since I technically don’t have an apartment to myself so I tried to solve that question by inviting everyone who lives there so they wouldn’t get jealous and complain to the landlady.  Honestly, I was more fearful of the two sons of the Landlady who live in the apartment. They are not social at all and just run to their rooms after they work at the restaurant. I would kill myself if I worked in the same place that I slept. Cabin fever has turned them into “old man jeenkins. “

It was 7:30 and it was just Emma and I sipping on some wine and eating the French version of BBQ lays.  I was honestly wondering if anyone was going to show up. I was envisioning just the two of us with all this wine. I couldn’t decide if I in fact didn’t want anyone to show up J

Then I got a call that  3 of the guys were here. Then 15 mins later it was another 2 girls, then 5 mins later I got a call  from this girl I had met named Elen just the week before. “Um, hey josh. We are outside. There are like 12 of us.” Well damn, the dam has broken.

Soon, I was swimming in a sea of beer and wine and barely keeping my head above water.

“Okay everyone upstairs to the top floor!” I had to get out of the shark infested waters. The two sons were only 15 feet away from me and I was not letting them rain on my parade.

We all climbed the stairs to drunk heaven. I looked around and there were 25 of us in the top floor where the common room and kitchen was located.

Wine flowed like a drunken jesus wedding. 

It must have been an hour later when I was talking to Dalal who was taking in all the slurred English and nodding and smiling to my friends. She said, “Josh, the land lady is here. She’s right behind you.”

I turned around and in her black dress and pearl necklace she was staring at me half smiling with her eyebrows raised. I interpreted this as a mother’s look of “seriously, son?” I stuttered through my French. “It my birthday and I’m having a little party before I go out.” I emphasized little as best as I could.
“We can here you in the restaurant.”

“Okay, we’re outta here!!!”

I packed up the party and yelled “To the trains people! We’re taking this to the streets of the Paris.”

I don’t think the landlady appreciated the cheers of “hell yeahs” and “hoorays.” 

We took the train into the city and honestly I have no idea how we got to Lil Café in Marais. I knew that ‘s where I wanted to go because Alex and Arnauld, the two that took Kelsey and I to that bar so late a couple of weeks ago, were working and I knew they’d give us good service.

We sat on the patio and I walked around as I usually do, flapping my social butterfly wings. I was feeling extra colorful that night anyway. “Oh, you want to buy me a drink for my birthday? Whyy you shouldn’t have J”

We decided to move our party to a place where we could dance if we got bit buy the jitter bug. We picked up a Brazilian couple that got wrapped up in the arms of Anglophone generosity, or drunken generosity. It was all the same..

It was 1:30 a.m.We walked by this bar with maybe one or two people inside. We didn’t need a crowd. We were the crowd. A bar tender in the states would have salivated at 25 people waiting outside eye balling the bar. But here in france, they stair at you like a modern art piece, the minimalist kind where it’s only a white canvas. They probably didn’t want to work.

But we needed a place and we chose this one. Couldn’t tell you the name.

Hazy memory. That’s what I hear happens when you get older. Yeah…that’s why.

Colors.
Music.
“Happy Birthday.”
Hug.
Drink.
Silly dance.
Drink.
Birthday shots.
Drink?
Drink?
Music.

Zombie walk to train.

6 a.m.

I laid my head against the headrest. Closed my eyes. I smelled like cigarettes.
Okay, enough birthday celebration. 

another year older, another year wiser.

I got home from work and collapsed into my bed. I took off my shoes, awkwardly flopped around like a fish till I managed to get my jacket off. It was 5:30 p.m. The day was cloudy and my room was almost cold. I slid into the covers. Jeans still on and loosened my tie. I didn’t have the energy to unknot it. There had been a strike that morning and it took me what usually takes 35 minutes to get to work into almost 2 hours. I had missed my first class of students and I had had a stressful morning to say the least.
Most of the unions were striking and that included the train workers and teachers.

Why had I tried so hard to be at work today when no one else had given a shit?

Oh yeah, that’s what Americans do, they work. If you “strike” in the states you get fired. Here, they strike and chatter about it like it’s just another item on the To Do list.
“Yeah, I have to go the Boulangerie and pick up a baguette to nibble on while I walk over to the Bank . I can’t forget to pick up some cheese and then I have to make sure I strike.”

I had given one of my colleagues a hard time about the French stereotype of striking and of course she acted like I told her to euthanize her poodle.

She told me that you have the legal right to strike but the state cuts that day off of your pay.  Fair enough I thought. It was like an unpaid day of vacation.
Then, we led into the area of salary for teachers in France.

In the name of our dear friend from Beauty and the Beast, Lumiere, “Sacre-Blur!”

You think we have it bad in the States? Which, I agree we do when it comes to teacher’s pay and rights. They pay the head teachers over here like we pay a shitty assistant football coach who substitute teaches every blue moon.

Literally, I did the math and a teacher starts off with a salary of $12,000 in France. I cannot even begin to tell you how impossible that is to live on here.

I made sure I understood my colleague and sat across from her in the teachers work room with my mouth open, letting out a boisterous laugh.  I could not believe it.
“You need a second job!” I half jokingly said. And she agreed.

However, the p.p.’s as they are called here (prof principale) have many more hours than I do.  And they have no idea how self fulfilling their titles actually. Everytime I hear “p.p.” I can’t help but thinking how they are getting pissed on here by the government.  

Luckily, I have the ability to have a second job. I honestly could not survive Paris without one.

I am giving private tutoring to a 15 year old girl and it is giving me an extra 500 or so euro a month. Phew…I can finally breathe.


***
I was browsing, detoxing from the workday on my computer when I got a knock on my door.

I answered the door and it was Michele.  Michele lives on the top floor and has the kindest spirit. He is in his mid to late 40s and has the biggest smile I have ever seen. Which is pretty ironic since he only has three teeth. I’m not joking. He is balding some one the very top of his head. I have only ever seen him wear French soccer jerseys. Very tight jerseys that hug him like a prodigal lover’s return. He apparently just recently divorced since his wife left him and he is transitioning into the single life and decided to move into this apartment.  I imagine he wishes for that prodigal lover’s return.

He said “JOSH” with the thickest French accent.  Kind of like “JOE-SHHH” “Me and Dr. Woolid,”  a middle eastern doctor who lives on the same floor as Michele,  “have bought you a dinner for your birthday. In an hour I will come back to get you.”

And with that he pulled a comic book he had bought me from behind his back and said “Happy Birthday” in English and turned around.

I started to smile as big as Michele and said “MERCI michele!!!” 

I closed the door and sat on my bed overwhelmed by his kindness. I barely knew this man and he was making such an effort for me.
Within the hour, Michele returned to get me and I climbed the two flights of stairs to the top floor. As I got to the top of the stairs, I smelled something delicious. I walked over to the table and he had invited everyone in the apartment to take part of the festivities. 11 others were around the table and one chair was open for me. The table was full of mussels and fries ( moules et frites is a very popular French meal), salmon and crab for Dalal who is Muslim, cheese and bread, Fanta, and coke.

Emma from England, Judith from Scotland, Woolid from Syria, Dalal from Morocco, Stefan and his friend from Guadalupe, Miao from China, William and Michele from France, Mme Baraut from Algeria, and Gabee from Senegal.

I had a birthday dinner at the United Nations.

We ate and talked and laughed and as soon as everyone got all they could eat of the Moules et Frites, Michele scurried over to the kitchen and ran back with two black forest cakes. I forgot tell you that he works at a Pastry Shop.  He set down the two cakes and then brought over a bottle of champagne. Everyone got poured a glass and we stood up and toasted for my birthday. Our glasses all clinked and I couldn’t help but feel like the luckiest guy in the world. I flew on a plane thousands of miles to a new continent and honestly dreaded feeling alone on my birthday and here I was with 11 new friends who had thrown me a party.

It was a pure joy that flowed throughout the room. We all come from different countries and cultures and languages.  We all have different stories how we ended up renting a room above a restaurant where Claude Monet ate—a student, an intern at an engineering firm, a newly divorced man, a chef, a doctor, an English teacher, or a mother wanting to move closer to her son.

We all celebrated a birthday like a family.

I have a family here.

A bunch of Misfits, yes. But I don’t know of another definition for a “family” :)

Lesson 1. Believe in yourself.

I woke up at 7:00 a.m. My phone alarm was going off and my first thought was "Who the hell is calling me so late?"
Oh yeah, it was reality.
Too bad you can't put that on snooze. I walked over to my sink with tired eyes and a fuzzy head.

This was my first day as a teacher. I walked to the train with an apple for breakfast and giggled out loud when i realized i went to college to go back to high school.

I'm not sure if i'm going to be a teacher. But i do know that i love education. AND LANGUAGE. I honestly want to inspire my students about english how i was inspired about French.

I sat on the bench on the train platform waiting for my train to arrive. I was wearing a light brown and white striped dress shirt with a brown tie with blue dots that my sister had given me. I was hoping i was dressed appropriately.

I took the train 15 minutes. 4 stops. My school is north of Paris and i sat with my head resting on the window that had been scratched with graffiti. "Reve" it said which means "dream." I lifted my eyes just to see that we follow the Seine. Trees and houses were blurs of green and bricks but the river remained constant. I followed the river and within 10 mins the reflection of the sun was creeping up on the reflection of the water and as the sun reached high enough just peaking over the horizon, it hit the river and sent a great flash into my eyes. I grimaced. But let my head rest on the window and be warmed by the sun.

My train made its final stop in Les Mureaux. I walked down stairs and followed the arrows with the picture of the bus. I stood next to a group of African woman dressed in every color of the rainbow. Les Mureaux actually has the reputation of being very poor. When french people ask me where i work. They give me that "I'm sorry, be careful" look. But i'm not sorry, i'm glad that i am in Les Mureaux. I don't want to see rich, white, snobby kids who won't appreciate what i'm giving.

Les Mureaux is a city that started booming in the late 60s when France had a booming economy. Factories moved into the city and thousands of North Africans were immigrated to the city to answer the much needed work force. But that was 50 years ago, and the city is not booming like it once was. Thousands of North and West Africans are left to suffer the consequences from a struggling world economy.

Finally, the bus to Lycee Francois Villion arrived and about 30 kids were piling on. They don't have school busses here but this indeed would be the equivalent. No teacher ever rode the school bus with me growing up and if they did then they would certainly be a loser. I looked around the bus and it was the majority light brown, north african kids mixed west african kids, black as coal. A couple of indian kids. and maybe 4 caucasian kids.

We piled off the bus and I looked at the kids waiting outside for the school doors to open.
There it was.
All of high school just rushed back and i honestly felt like the new kid at school. Everyone was in there little click, laughing, talking. My god, these are children.

I walked through the halls with a thousand stares. Its as easy as Sesame Street; "Which one of these is not like the other." I hummed the tune inside my head as I made my way into the teachers lounge. I met some teachers and they were very warm and welcoming. I did not know how they would see me since i'm not even 23 yet but they gave me respect.

I felt like every guy was taller than me. But i had a beard. I win.

I saw those awful pimples that come and attack the middle of your cheek. Those red, ornery type that only exist during puberty. It pained me to look at them. Only because i knew exactly how they felt.
During high school, it's hard to see the end. It's hard to see past the brick walls of the classroom.

I walked into my first class. The students stood up. I was like "Oh wow..umm....what are they doing? ..umm..." Then i realized they were standing up for me. They were showing respect. "I could get used to this" i thought to myself. We would have never done that in the states. I can imagine that American teachers would love to get in the morning. It surely put a pep in my step.
I started the class with an introduction game.

I explained to them the game "2 Truths and 1 Lie" I gave them and example and i told them that they should make 3 sentences about yourself and try to hide the lie as best as you could. "This is the only time  you should lie to me" I smiled and hoped they understood the joke. The jury is still out.

I asked them to state there name, age, and tell me your sentences. I would guess the lie.

I went around the room getting an idea of peoples english skills. Some were very limited and some could speak much better. I finally got to this girl who was sitting on the right side of the class. "My name is Lamia. I am 16 years old."
She was a slightly heavier girl. Not unhealthy, but bigger compared to french standards. She had shor black hair. she sported black rimmed glasses. She had a beautiful complexion but she hid it behind bangs that she had sweeping across her face. She was wearing a black shirt and spoke with her chin resting on her hand.
"My sentences are 1. I play guitar. 2. Japan is favorite country. and 3. I do not believe in my self."

Well, i smiled and laughed and said, "Surely the 3rd sentence is your lie :) You do in fact believe in yourself."

A short "No" deflated my smile. "I do not play the guitar," she said as she sat back in her chair.

My heart literally started to hurt. I could have walked outside of the class and cried.

I awkwardly straightened up my back and didn't know what to say. "Well, we will change that wont we."

It does not matter what language you speak. This was loud and clear and broke my heart.

The class bell rang and they got up and the herd of students left and i watched Lamia walk out of the classroom.

I sat in my chair pulled down by the gravity of it all.

I'm back in high school.