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The petals tickle my cheek as the breeze leans it closer toward me. The sounds of traffic dissipate behind me and I feel this flower and I are old buddies, taking in the sights of this cute mini-park.
The sun rises earlier than when I arrived a month ago, and the April showers might have rained themselves out already. Paris in springtime rainstorms is less stunning than it is on a day like today, but the clouds give the city a moody, historic kind of feel.
Still, I’ll take this sunshine over the storms on any day of the week. It’s a big old change from my part of Texas where we have three seasons: hot, hotter, and hurricane.
Okay, sniffing the roses is lovely and all, but work awaits. And as my mama always says, if you’re five minutes early then you’re ten minutes late.
“Excusez-moi!” a woman declares when I accidentally brush her arm. That’s what I get for keeping my eyes too far in the sky.
“Sorry, desolée,” I reply as she lets out an annoyed sigh while moving past.
Considering that French people kiss to say hello —including strangers, by the way—I wouldn’t have expected an unintentional touch to inspire such disdain. But I still have a lot to learn.
Just look at those ladies over there, chatting as though the coming workday is secondary to whatever grand discussion they are having in front of the Notre Dame church. They are the picture of French class, just like the gothic towers of the cathedral behind them. Long slim legs and dressed to kill even on a Saturday morning, one of them even rocking a French roll.
They talk quickly, engrossed in a serious topic, maybe politics or fashion. But the French language on their lips sounds like royalty and fine wine. I try to keep up with what they’re saying, but it’s beyond me. Even after a month, I’m still a fish out of Texan waters, landed firmly in the land of culture and refinement and croissants. This girl is going to be one hundred percent classy French lady by the time this year in France is up.
Speaking of croissants, I’m hungry. Fortunately, there is a bakery on every corner.
“Un croissant, s’il vous plait,” I say in my best-possible French accent, but I’m not kidding anyone. The twang in my voice announces that I’m American, but I choose to believe the Parisians notice the effort.
The baker winks and passes me a croissant in a dainty paper bag.
Accordion music rises up as I cross the second bridge of the River Seine, and now I know I’m living the dream. This is exactly how I always imagined it.
A croissant, an accordion, and the Eiffel Tower rising up into the morning sky. This is the life.
From here it’s just a left turn, an alley, and long stroll across the square to my job at Le Bouchon Noir, a three-star Michelin restaurant.
When I arrived a few weeks ago, I had enough savings to get me through a couple of months, but it turned out that I didn’t take into consideration that cost of living in Paris is a whole lot more than I thought, and my budget based on American dollars was way out of line.
I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to currency conversion.
On top of that, I had no idea how hard it was going to be to find an apartment. When my five friends and I arrived in Paris, we were greeted with an awkward catch-22. In order to rent an apartment, you need a bank account. In order to get a bank account, you need an address. And on top of it, you always need a guarantor. It’s like they complicate the whole thing on purpose so that foreigners can visit, but not stay forever.
It’s a miracle we were able to get this place at all, and it was only thanks to a well-timed plea to my friend’s boss who has a friend who works in real estate.
Sure, it’s a fifth-floor walkup. And I mean European fifth floor, not American fifth floor.
And sure, it hasn’t been redecorated since Napoleon was kicking around, but once you manage to get up all one hundred and thirty-three spindly stairs, the reward is an amazing view out a very small window.
The terrace of the restaurant where I spend every day except Monday comes into view across a broad pedestrianized square. I take my job at the Bouchon Noir very seriously. I have to—it’s a three-star Michelin restaurant that regularly hosts the rich and famous.
I had thought finding a job would be easy; I'm a hard worker. I smile in the face of adversity. I take on any problem no matter how big or small and any business would want to hire me. Even when my first ten applications were rejected—some of them quite rudely—I wasn’t going to let that get me down. Coming to Paris has been my dream for ten years. A bit of hardship was only going to make success sweeter.
But I needed a job.
I never would have considered applying at the Bouchon Noir. With its velvet curtains and brass doorknob, it felt like I would be batting way out of my league. Never mind that my French remains beginner level, despite those high school courses. But then I was walking past it after getting a flat out “non” from a baker, and a sign in the window of the fancy restaurant glowed brighter than the Lone Star.
In beautiful cursive writing it said: “Seeking hostess, English speaking.”
The Bouchon Noir needed an English hostess? That I could do! I strutted through the door, resumé in hand, with smiles and friendliness and good old southern hospitality. “Southern hospitality…” the woman said in a thick French accent. “You will be perfect.”
It was my first great success on French soil.
It turns out, however, this is not just any old hostess job. No, no. I have a very specific duty.
Make the staff nice.
