Day 15 & 16 – Passions & Versailles

Hi there,

I cannot believe I’ve lived in Paris for 16 days.
I also cannot believe my request for a bank account only got approved yesterday (IT TOOK FIFTEEN DAMN DAYS). Moving onwards…

I wrote this last night but I genuinely have no recollection of taking out my phone to do so (I just saw it when I woke up this morning):
Every word I write from these fingertips, from the tip of the pen on the page, is saturated with TRUTH. Not an ounce of the inauthentic exists in my writing. If you’ve heard my words, I’ve meant my words.

Much like when Hemingway sits in a cafe and admires a woman from afar, I fell in love with a woman rather quickly and wrote this:

I think I am in love:
Her breathy thank yous
And the way she stares into your soul when she talks to you

And makes you feel completely alone with her
In a crowded cafe
And her pursed lips show
Interest and
Concern and
Sincerity and
And her ability to make your existence feel valid
In mere minutes of conversation
And the smoothness of her graceful neck
When she tucks her hair behind her ears
She’s beautiful and unique
And spectacular and a dream
And I want to grab her face
And press my lips gently against hers
And have our tongues
So I can savor that breathiness
In a new way:
I think I am in love.

Yesterday I went out for a bite and a drink with my neighbour Anise and it was the most natural and authentic and fun conversation I’ve had in a long time, with a woman I was just meeting for the first time. Truly like a connection I haven’t felt in ages.

Today: I went to Versailles. I have been to Versailles before; last time was either the first or second time I went to Paris (2010 or 2011), and considering how close it is to the city, I decided it was time to pay another visit.

Versailles, as a city, makes me think of Oakville. It’s Oakville and Paris is Toronto. Beautiful, a lot to offer tourists, quiet, cheaper to live but still immensely expensive, and a downtown where everyone knows everyone.

In regards to Chateau de Versailles, my sentiments remain the same: the apartments are nothing to swoon over unless you’re into that kind of thing, the Hall of Mirrors is historic (that’s where the Treaty of Versailles was signed which ended WWI), and the gardens are spectacular and worth the trip.

I’m obsessed with the movie ‘Midnight in Paris’, so I couldn’t help reciting the script in my head as I walked around the gardens…

I took a lot of photos. I did some writing (babbling):

Is loneliness a condition that stems from an inability to love time with yourself (meaning there is also disconnect in understanding and loving yourself) or does it come from an innate human condition to have human connection and affection?

I think I only felt lonely the first three days of arriving here. And nights are lonely for another reason: I’m used to a bed full of fur-babies.

I think when I come back to Canada, even if it’s just after the 3.5 months, I am going to be unrecognizable. I don’t mean physically (though I have noticed my eyes are getting greener – is that what happens when you’re endlessly happy and free?), I mean spiritually. I am transforming, elevating, discovering myself and my existence on this planet, becoming a better version of myself every single day.

I think I’ve discovered the secret of Feminine beauty in this city: it comes back to simplicity. It is effortless. And they carry themselves with the impression that they simply don’t have an ounce of concern for what you think and feel about them. I like to believe I’m the same in that sense, in regards to my own confidence. My confidence is not ego-driven but energy-driven. I don’t have time to invest energy in worrying about the opinions of others (on how I look physically). I only have time to invest in lifting myself and making myself feel – on the outside – like the woman I feel on the inside. 

I never walked back home. I didn’t want to walk in a city that left me so uninspired. I found walking tedious and exhausting and even to pick up something just down the street, I would opt for my car. Getting to my destination the quickest was my intention. I was rushing through life the way North Americans always do. I didn’t see what there was to savour… other than hours I spent in a bookstore, of course. There, I allowed myself to get lost, to be immersed into aisles and ideas and moments and silence.

But here, other than the occasional metro hop, walking is how I get around and so I wander. And I’m forced to take everything in: where exactly I am, what beauty surrounds me, how my legs feel from the endless movement, how my breath moves within my chest, what my secrets are hiding right before my eyes, what secrets I need to chip away at so that they may be revealed to me… 

If I eventually choose to grow old with someone, I want to be with someone who inspires me in the same way that Paris (and the surrounding area) does. I’m not asking for endless conversation or a pseudointellectual with the need to prove themselves through pointless banter and self-praise. But the mere presence of them, the energy they exude into the universe, is one that inspires others to know them. It’s an energy that encourages others to be a reflection of compassion and passion. I don’t think I could settle for anything less.

I want to look into eyes that give me the same rush of the heart that I get standing at the top step of the Chateau de Versailles, as I look out to the endless garden. I want to feel their breath along my neck, and feel the same as I do when Paris winds caress me there: complete freedom, and yet a sense of security and a feeling of home. I want their touch to feel as safe and as invigorating as each step in the Jardins du Luxembourg makes me feel.

But I also want to do the same for them. When they are with me, I want them to feel a greater sense of purpose in the universe. And I want my energy to endlessly fuel them, lift them, elevate their spirit. 

For if we are not constantly bettering one another, what is the point? 

I then wrote a passage about being a tattooed and tiny female in Paris. But it’s not something I want to share, here. It’s for me.

Thanks, as always, for reading. If you have a question about Versailles, please don’t hesitate to leave a comment!

Which photo is your favourite?



Day 13 & 14 – Ode to Artists

Hey there,

Day 13 was nothing worth posting about but day 14 has been W[A]NDERful. I had a day off and wandered Paris. It’s as good as you can imagine.

Wandering lead me to familiar places and to find some new discoveries. The great thing about this city is you can head towards the Seine and you’ll always manage to find your bearings again.

Beautiful things I did today:
– spent time with myself
– loved the city I call home
– shopped for the first time! got myself a fanny pack (90s 4ever) and a pair of striped trousers, both for very great prices considering we’re in Paris – the store was amazing (Citadium)
– pretended I was rich as I strolled down Saint Honore
– went to ‘Les Musees De La Ville De Paris’ and saw beautiful artwork; I have a new favourite artist along with Klimt, Dali, and Monet – Pissaro. My God.
– had a late lunch in St. Germain and thought about Hemingway
– wrote
– thought about life
– gave thanks to the universe
– got lost in Paris and smiled at not having a care in the world

Why do we delegitimize the life of artists who are not immediately successful with their craft? Why do we call them, “aspiring” artists? Why do we do this when we are a species that relies so heavily on looking to others for entertainment, inspiration, and clarification of our purpose?

So many painters we have in galleries today once faced the same ridicule and lack of recognition, but now we have endless copies of all their work, mass produced and featured in monthly calendars.

Artists (and purveyors of specific goods, as well), create out of a necessity because their soul contains an abundance of energy that needs to be expended in a way that feels like their life has purpose, that there is meaning in this human existence and it comes through seeing it with the eyes of a creative. But their work often gives meaning to others, is often the driving force that gives them an individual sense of purpose and a push to live their passions and follow their dreams. So not only do creatives create to bring solace to their spirit but they create (with intent or otherwise) products that give purpose to the lives of others.

What, then, in all the world, is more amazing than an artist? To live a life driven by your passion but also inspire others? This is so unintentionally selfless. This is a life lived with the fuel of love and compassion!

Living in a city that is literally life-giving for artists, where reasons to breathe and secrets to discover hide around each corner, has given me a sense of purpose as a creator that I’ve never felt before. It buries itself deep in my soul and I am now on an endless mission to find how to best let this saturate every aspect of my life, every pore of my body, every cell in my bloodstream, and, in turn, give sustenance to those who choose to drink up my journey.

I know that the universe will eventually reveal to me in the most simplistic way how to follow this and subsequentially live in abundance. So for now, I just wait, with the patience this city has constantly given me lessons in…

In other news, I’ve been invited to wine tomorrow night with the girl living in the apartment next door, and the story is a girl-power one, but I’ll save that for another day. A future book, perhaps.

Also, there is no part of inner-city Paris I detest more than being close to the Eiffel Tower. The scam artists, the ignorant tourists (I say ignornat because so many, in that particular location, stand in the middle where people are walking for photographs, sign the petitions of scammers, buy from illegal sellers at exuberant prices, and are completely unaware of safety), the crowdedness of it… it’s awful. It’s the least beautiful part of Paris.


Day 12 – My Own Terms

Hey there,

I don’t have immense excitement to share with you today. It was a day of errands and wandering, but that’s part of everyday life in Paris, and, having made a goal for myself to write every day, here we are.

Today begins school in Ontario, and I can’t say I miss the first-day excitement. Or the anxiety it gave me, the night before. But tomorrow begins my first session with one of my families, so I imagine I’ll have difficulty sleeping tonight for reasons similar to the first-day jitters. Considering it’s a ten-hour day, let’s hope I get enough rest for the bags under my eyes to be hidden with some concealer (at least).

It’s not that I didn’t love my job as an educator, that’s not the reason for me not missing the “First Day of School”, it’s that I’m living my dream here. And that makes me happy beyond compare.

This morning I woke up to my tiny apartment and thought to myself: this is perfection. This is me becoming intimately involved with my soul-quest and fulfilling what the universe has set aside for me. I am comfortable, I am happy, I am writing more, I am discovering more about myself, I’m discovering more about what brings me the most joy, I am taking life a little slower, this is good. This is great.

I did laundry today, which doesn’t sound immensely exciting, but there is an exciting aspect to it, I assure you: the only other person in the laundromat grew up in Burlington, Ontario and went to Notre Dame (which is the feeder school for the school I worked for)… what… are… the… chances. That’s how small this world is. There is a reason for every encounter and there is a reason for every meeting, and the conversation we shared was very fascinating, making my laundromat experience far less tedious and far more //hippiestrange//. I couldn’t think of a word to describe the encounter, so I made up my own.

After dropping off my clothing back home and having a quick bite to eat, wandering my favourite parts of Paris was in the cards. By the way, today is cool and a bit rainy, but Paris in the rain is just spectacular, so I didn’t mind a bit of drizzle. I wandered the 5th (Latin Quarter) and stopped in at Shakespeare and Co. to browse (always packed, though, and it’s so uncomfortable… I’ll be excited to go back when tourism season dies down). I picked up a book called ‘Never Any End to Paris’ by Enrique Vila-Matas (it’s a memoir of a writer who lived in Paris and the tagline of the book is: ‘Trying to be Ernest Hemingway is never easy…’ so I had to get it), and I got a Sci-Fi book called Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson which was recommended to me. Have any of my blog readers read either of those books?

I’m trying to consider what weekend trip to take next. I really would like to visit the Alps but I don’t think it’s in the cards as the next destination. I was debating whether I should take off again this weekend or wait until next… so many decisions to make.

In the process of researching for vacation destinations, I’ve also begun another course for my Masters program, I’m also taking this online TESOL certification (because registration was so cheap and I figured, why not?), I sent out e-mails to numerous fashion houses requesting permission to attend their Fashion Week Shows, and I am also looking at more work opportunities because the online tutoring job has hours that won’t work with my schedule. Needless to say, I’m busy.

But here’s the interesting thing… I didn’t like North America because I didn’t like the mindset of working, go home, go to sleep, wake up, work, go home, go to sleep, etc, but I’m doing all of this on my own terms, and with a schedule that leaves me open to exploration and personal time. It doesn’t feel like work, it doesn’t feel like a challenge, it doesn’t feel exhausting or stressful, because I’m enjoying it. It also helps that my course this term is on Story Telling, so the topic is of interest to me. But in general, I enjoy sitting in my Parisian apartment, looking out my window to see the typical blue rooftops, and taking my time.

I write better when I write by hand. When pen touches paper, my soul is the ink that bleeds. I write better when it’s not just my fingers moving across a keyboard, but when I sit, head in hand, arm poised, ready, aimed like a gun, and shooting, shooting, shooting with all I’ve got. With all the manpower I can muster. I write better when I am not typing. Everything feels more authentically me. When my wrist gets sore from the journey, it’s a reminder that I am alive, that I have just participated in a very living, exhausting act – much like when you run a marathon and your body rewards you for the healthy feat with immense exhaustion. Pain is the reward. The reward for better words, better thoughts, better ideas. I write better when the pen is out. And sometimes I am ashamed by the words I’ve typed, seeming manufactured for a specific audience, searching for a way to entertain instead of just letting my soul ooze into each letter. I write better when I don’t type. But I typed this, so maybe I’m wrong. 

I just want to be authentically me, truly me, made of stardust and sparkling for all to see. I want to step outside the box, I want to do what makes me happiest, I want to live comfortably but love each moment, not waste each moment, enjoy each moment, worship every moment. I want to find a way to make writing my living. I want to manifest it. I want others to read my work and say, “This changed my life.” I want to change lives in a positive way. I want to help others see their own Light, so that they can move others, as well.

As a teacher, I was told I changed lives. But now I want to inflict change in a new way. I want to reach new people. I want to be important to someone, but in their heart, not in some grandiose fashion. I don’t want fame. Fortune and abundance I would like so that I can write without worry. But I want to do this for me, but for others too… Ah, I’m babbling, goodnight… 


Day 8 to 11 – Rocamadour-Padirac & Everything After

Hey there,

I’m back from my mini weekend vacation to Rocamadour and the neighbouring town, Padirac, and Lord have mercy, I’m so glad that the universe brought me there! I would have never, ever known of such a place and when visiting the South of France, I don’t think it would have been a place I considered. But from the moment the taxi drove me around the corner and pointed to a cliff-side that literally had buildings carved into it, my breath was stolen and I knew this would be an experience full of wonder.

Firstly, you know I’m a big hippie and I’ve got my spiritual connections and a lot of you probably think it’s a bunch of hoopla, so in order to not weird you out, I’ve written a big chunk of the spiritual aspect on a separate page and will link it, later. But to add a little spirituality to this post: Ravens/Crows are my spirit guides and the day that I was meant to take the train to Rocamadour, I woke up to crows outside my window, I passed two Ravens hopping alongside me as I walked to the station, and, unrelated to my bird friends, I met a woman who said Rocamadour changed her spiritual life, and she couldn’t believe I said I was going because most people don’t even know what it is.

Anyway! Let’s break down the days:

Day One:

Technically it’s more like “night one” because my train arrived at 8:20pm. I’m grateful that the sun was just beginning to set and my first sights of Rocamadour was with the sun highlighting its beauty.

I was staying at “Lion D’or” which was an all-around amazing experience. Firstly, their administration desk for check-in is normally only open till 8pm. I contacted them and let them know that I would be arriving at the station after 8, and they were kind enough to inform me that only a single taxi runs in the entire town and that I needed to call to book ahead! My heroes! They then remained late for a very quick and easy check-in where they also said breakfast could be provided for an extra 8EUROS a day (and it was worth it – buffet of classic European breakfast with endless coffee) and told me I would be in their second building which was just outside of the medieval gate that begins the town.

Unfortunately, their free wireless internet doesn’t reach from the main building to the secondary building, but I never went to the desk to complain because the rest of my experience was too lovely. The young lady working there even gave me a “good morning” every time she saw me walking along the street. The rooms were small, but for the little time you spend in there, they were perfect: clean, newly renovated washrooms and floors, and it’s just such a convenient location and great price compared to other hotels in Rocamadour (my single room was 45EUROS a night).

After checking in, I quickly dropped off my extra bag and started to sprint through the town to get a feel for it before the sun set completely. Restaurants were bustling, streets felt safe, and I sprinted up all 216 steps to the Black Madonna to catch my first glimpse of this miracle-working woman. I arrived with very strange and perfect timing because just as I sat down, a group of priests dressed in very classic Orthodox robes walked in and began to sing for an evening liturgy. I followed along as best as I could with the little prayer booklets they gave me. It was magical and a beautiful way to end my first night! I actually returned the next night to try and catch another liturgy but it didn’t happen – I just got lucky.


Day Two:

Day two was an opportunity for me to wake up with this town. I got up extra early because I knew that this place can get rather “touristy” on weekends, and I’m so glad I did. I got to experience a practically empty Rocamadour.

Because this 10th-century town is built into a cliff, a lot of walking is required and the majority of it is up-hill (until you’re headed back down to your hotel, of course). This is another reason that I’m grateful I left early in the morning as it was still cool and the walk wasn’t as deadly as I anticipated.

When you’re walking through a small, ancient European town in the early hours of the morning when few are awake, every discovery you make and sight you see feels like it’s intimately yours. You feel like an explorer that has come across things that no one ever had the opportunity to see before; like the wonders you’re witnessing are for your eyes only. It’s beyond inspiring. Every corner had me gasping. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.

I walked all the way up the cliff into the main “downtown” core of Rocamadour because I knew there was a grotto that I wanted to check out. I passed by but noticed it didn’t open till 10h30 and I still had an hour and a half to go. So, I just began to explore. And that’s when I discovered that the chateau (castle) that I noticed at the peak of Rocamadour was right in front of me! And there was no one there! Absolutely thrilling to stand on the very edge of a 10th-century castle, looking down at a city below, hearing just the sound of church bells and morning birds, all by one’s lonesome. It was like a dream.

By the time I walked back, I was able to visit the grotto in Rocamadour. Unfortunately, no pictures are allowed as they said it wears away at the 20,000-year-old paintings that are on the wall. The grotto was very small but magical, nonetheless. The guide was enthusiastic to explain in French (it’s a good thing I understand a bit) but not so enthusiastic to translate for the English-speaking German tourist present (“I will only translate the main points, I don’t have time to tell you everything,”) and she got quite annoyed with me when I tried to whisper a little explanation to help the tourist out in understanding. Ah, the French. You have to laugh.

The grotto requires a bit of imagination, as the shapes they see with the paint are… curious, to say the least. But it’s still cool to think that man was here that long ago and wanted to leave messages to those who came afterward.

Following the grotto visit, I walked back down to Rocamadour and had a delicious and reasonably priced lunch (for a tourist destination!) at a restaurant in the middle of the town: 18EUROS for 1 half-pint of beer, a ginormous plate of Tagliatelle in a mushroom cream sauce, with warm goat cheese on bread, and then a coffee. And while eating, I wrote! Here’s what I wrote:

“Maybe I have been here before – walked these ancient streets. I wonder about this cobblestone beneath my feet. Has it been felt before? Could I have lived here? Could I live here, now? Could this small and sacred town be the home of my endless inspiration and my growth as a writer?
A wasp bumps into my carafe de l’eau and I feel the same confusion – searching in a reflection of reality, to far away places for what feels most right, most like home. Waiting for a miracle that reveals my soul-purpose.
I don’t know that it’s Ontario. I don’t know that it’s teaching. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know – but I don’t feel that it is…
Has my gut ever lead me astray before? No. It has been my greatest guide. Wiser than my mind, than my heart. Both having me be a slave to emotion… and yet, is not inspiration driven by emotion?
I am so confused.
People come to the Black Madonna seeking answers, miracles. I come to her with the same:
With whom?
With whom – I’m open, truly open, to just me. I am becoming immensely comfortable on my own. I love myself. I love the peace I bring myself. I will not settle for anyone who tries to shake up my relationship with myself. I am happy alone. And intimacy with just anyone – revealing all precious sides of myself to another – does scare me. But that is a topic for another day…
For now, I sit here at this table outside Le Bistrot Bar in Rocamadour, I look out and I see what I believe life is about:

After a delicious lunch and some inspired writing, I decided to take a (long-ass) walk back up the cliff in the (god-damn) heat to the MONKEY FOREST! Yes, there is a Monkey Forest in Rocamadour. It’s an open-air space where you can feed monkeys popcorn and observe them – as my brother said, “Ah yes, popcorn, the food they’d eat in Africa”… hahahaha!

I’m freaked out by monkeys, to be honest with you. I don’t like that their feet are like hands. Something about that weirds me right out. I don’t usually find them cute, but I wanted something unique to do, so I headed in.

I’m totally glad I did! It was too, too funny feeding these little gentle-grabbing popcorn fiends. You can’t touch them, but it doesn’t matter, because their little hands in your hands make it all worthwhile. It was a wonderful, weird new experience to add to the list of my life!

I finished the day with a siesta, a sunset walk to a perfect writing spot (I wrote a lot but it gets really freaking hippie so I’ll link it here, instead – I warn you, if you don’t have an open mind, don’t even bother reading; it will just be a waste of your time), heading back to the Black Madonna, discovering my life purpose, and heading off to bed.

My soul-purpose is to write. To write in a way that inspires others to make changes in their lives. To write about truth and to write about Light. So that others may be inspired to follow their dreams, that direction always being towards the light. I must be a guide, a beacon of Truth, a coach of Light and Love.



Day Three:

On the third day of my mini spiritual vacation, I decided to take a trip to the Gouffre de Padirac which basically means “the Devil’s Pit”. It’s said that a Saint (I forget who) was dared by the devil to jump in (after he stomped his hooves and broke the ground) and you can see “hoof prints” on the walls of the pit.

Please note that if you’re planning to visit this, you can’t walk there – you’ll need a car or you’ll have to book a trip with the only taxi in the town, which I mentioned before! It’s about a half hour drive, and I recommend going in the morning when it’s far less busy (and you can take your time without line ups of people behind you, pushing you to move on) and to buy your tickets online, ahead of time, to skip the lines entirely (there are also machines to buy tickets at, just outside the actual hole in the ground).

Discovered in 1889 by Mr. Martel and his cousin, this pit stops at 70 meters deep, before you continue down a path 33meters further below where you hit this pristine blue river that apparently goes on for 20 kilometers! It quickly became a “tourist destination”, initially by candlelight before electricity was installed in 1910, at which point it became even more of an attraction to people.

The experience is amazing. I’ve never done anything quite like it. It begins as a walking (or lift) tour, and then turns into a boat tour (no pictures allowed on the boat :() for one kilometer, and then you’re back into a deeper, laked area before walking around taking the boat back. The whole experience comes with an audioguide that is automatically triggered by points in the walk, and the guide is available in multiple languages (but the boat ride is just in French by the person rowing).

It was a high-energy (vibrations from the crystals, people!), magical experience like nothing I’ve done before. The Gouffre de Padirac is also recognized as an UNESCO world heritage site. Going to the center of the earth was a spectacular way to end my mini vacation.

Then, it was back to the train station for a 5.5hour ride back to Paris (6 hours after a short stopover at one station). I’m glad to be back at the apartment, back home – which is hilarious to say!

My intentions for the day are to stay put. I need a lazy day, and I have 95 days left to explore my city, anyway. I have a bunch of work I want to get done on my computer, and I’d like to clean up/organize my apartment today. Tomorrow will likely be my first experience doing laundry in the city and other than a milk-run earlier this morning, I think I’m going to stay put. But it truly is a beautiful, sunny day in Paris, just so you know! Maybe a Shakespeare and Co visit is in the cards… I dunno. I’ll play it all by ear.

Before I complete my blog post with the photos from the Gouffre, I found that I wrote this in my notebook on one of the first days here, but I never actually wrote it in any of my blogs. So here’s something from my journal:

There is an overwhelming wave of utter disbelief and surrealism when a dream years in the making manifests itself into completion. And you are walking streets no longer as a tourist, but as one who is another blood cell swimming through the veins of the city.
When all your idols spoke of this life and your eyes would water at the thought of making that your reality as well, and then in what feels like a blink of an eye, you are living that life…
And then the moments of self-doubt and isolation follow, because when God speaks, the devil wants you to doubt His beauty and triumph.
But I’ll overcome that as well. And I am endlessly grateful.
People credit hard work to this happening, but I credit God, the universe, everything greater than myself including my own willpower.
The universe presented me with the opportunity and I listened and leapt before I had a chance to test the waters.
Thank the heavens that I did.
I am swimming in bliss.”




Day 7 – A Week in Paris

Hey there,

It’s been a week in Paris already! Can you believe it? I certainly can’t. It feels like both forever that I’ve been living here (Paris has always felt like home) and just yesterday that I arrived (I still have nerves, excitement, and the like).
Am I regretting it? No way.
Am I lonely yet? Naw.
Am I bored? Nope, not at all.
Am I over the city? Not in the least.
Am I ready for more? Hell yes! Bring it on.

My week-nniversary was nothing too exciting and was as laid back as day one in the city. I did a few grocery runs which included finding another, larger HEMA and being amazed by the prices you don’t see elsewhere in Paris. I came back, made myself lunch, relaxed in the apartment who’s view of clay rooftops and Parisian chimneys never fails to make me smile. Then I wandered down Champs Elysees before meeting the second family I’ll be working with.

The new family I was matched with are so wonderful, their kids so eager to learn, and the mother was simply the kindest person I’ve yet to meet in Paris! Oh, and their apartment was SPECTACULAR! Like everything you’d imagine when you think of living in this city. It was inspiring just to be in that space, so I can’t imagine how proud and inspired they feel living in it. They will be a pleasure to work with.

One thing that’s rather unfortunate is that I feel a bit mislead by the company that hired me. They presented themselves as an after-school English education program where educators are paired with children and teach them lessons, work with them, and the like. I’m getting a greater impression that this is more like a nanny role than a teacher role. And I’m not one to ever believe that a “job is below me” because that’s so pretentious, but I got my degrees to be a qualified educator.

Alas, this is just another stepping stone in my Parisian journey and I will take it with a grain of salt. I am excited to bring more of a “teacher aspect” to this role and I am sure I will take away from this experience.

I was asked by this family why I don’t teach in a private school setting as they have a high demand for English educators, but I mentioned to her that interviews are done entirely in French, which is really not good for me who speaks at the mere conversational level.

Anyway, in other news, I got my first ticket for a Paris Fashion Week public event! I’m going to see Jean Paul Gautier’s Freakshow! Once more information is released for Fashion week, I’m going to begin contacting organizers and mentioning that I am a blogger living in Paris who wishes to write about Fashion Week for my personal blog as well as for who just released my first official (paid) piece the other day! 

Tomorrow is my company training in the morning (on a boat on the Seine, no less!) and then I’m headed to the train station to catch a train for my first weekend trip to Rocamadour!

Alright – time for me to pack for tomorrow and get some sleep. Thanks, as always, for reading. Sorry for another short blog post!