Life Updates

Two days ago, I made rice.

Which I know really doesn’t sound like much, but after four months of limited kitchen access, boiling a pot of water and dumping in a container of whole-wheat grains felt unbelievably rewarding.

Spring semester ended almost three weeks ago—an end that brought with it a mix of feelings. The friends I had shared the last four months with were leaving. And I, staying.

I struggled with a wave of emotions—of worry that I’d feel alone this summer. Of worry that I wouldn’t like my internship, nor the time restrictions of the workday. And I worried that maybe I should have given it better thought before extending the four months abroad into the six months away.


I remember leaving the interview for my internship, three months ago. The company was in search of an intern to manage their UK site— someone who spoke English and could communicate in French. They had liked my skills in social media, thanks to last summer’s internship at a social media marketing firm, and had found my international background fitting.

They said they'd let me know by that Friday.

Which they did, that Friday evening.

In life, there’s a plan to everything you do—a greater reason behind every choice you make. I knew I had wanted to say in Paris this summer long before I left to study abroad. I believe there's a reason that it worked out-- a reason that everything fell into place. 

And so a week into work, a week into this new, summer life in Paris, and I’m grateful I chose to stay. I’m grateful for the months spent applying for jobs, for the weeks spent in search of new housing. I’m grateful for the past four months—for the basis they provided in allowing me this opportunity. I could never have worked and lived in a non- English speaking environment without four months of complete French immersion. And I would never have felt comfortable staying in Paris alone without the familiarity of the city and my comfort in my surroundings.

It always works out as it should. Life does, in its own weird way.

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It took an embarrassing amount of time to find the print screen key on the French keyboard at work.

Reasons:

- The French don’t believe in the simplicity of a Print Screen button.

- Command + Shift + 4 is for a Mac. The office uses PCs. I’m not even going to comment.

- The letters are ordered differently on a French keyboard. For example, the A and the Q switch places and the parentheses shift a few buttons to the right. The German intern helped alter my computer settings to switch the keyboard to an American functioning. It works fine, as long as I keep my focus on the screen and not the keyboard, while typing. 


I work just down the street from where I used to take my French Grammar class-- about a ten- minute walk away from where I used to live.The Montparnasse Cemetery faces the road opposite the office—it's the same cemetery I used to cross through each morning on my way to Grammar. It had taken me a week to muster the courage to walk through; I’ve never liked cemeteries, never liked the all to real reminder of death a cemetery connotes. But there’s something to cemeteries in Paris—of the lushness of the greens, of the pedestrians strolling around, of the peace within the interior of the grounds.

I used to live on the other side of the cemetery; And so, for me, the cemetery is my own physical passage of growth—of the four months that have taken me to these two. Of the different entrance I’m tackling Paris with, yet of the same base I'm using to build this new angle— this new experience.

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I work for TV- Replay, an online, TV catch- up guide for France, the UK and Germany. My role requires I manage the UK site, having spent my first week updating the site’s editorial content: revamping images and links, translating basic text from French to English, regrouping shows and researching program ratings. It’s been a while since someone’s worked on the site, leaving me quite a bit to get through.

I work with seven other men—really, not too bad of a situation. Two of the seven also intern—one works on the German site, the other French.

We share the office with two architectural firms—they take the central floor of the small space, leaving TV- Replay with the room just off from the office entrance.

Six of us sit in the main area, our desks forming a square formation and a fake palm tree serving as the central island. There’s a small window in the middle of the ceiling and a blown up magazine cover of Scarlett Johansson that hangs on the end of the wall I face. The company’s two owners work in the adjoining room directly behind where I sit. 

It’s cozy for an office and a good size and layout for an effective working environment. The men have been nothing less than warm and welcoming, truly providing a smooth transition to my first week.

I work in English, yet converse mainly in French. Only the man I work next to me speaks fluent English. He's been the one that trained me and it's peace of mind to know that, with him, I can revert to English when I need to explain or clarify something more specific. 

It’s fascinating working and living in a completely French-speaking environment. It's strange that I can go days without a full English conversation. It leaves me exhausted, come the end of the day. And I use every last piece of energy to continue the French once back in my new homestay.

Which for the record, is incredible. It’s been almost a week and already, it’s made up for the last fourth months of living with former Madame.

I moved in last Sunday, having returned from just under two weeks of stay with family and friends in London and Israel. New Madame hadn’t yet returned from her weekend trip to la campagne (French for countryside—Parisians all seem to have a home in the countryside that they visit during the summer weekends).


The new apartment is in the 6^th arrondissement (although a street over from the 7^th)— a posh neighborhood about a 10-minute walk form St. Michel (the Notre Dame area) and 25 minutes from the Louvre. The area is an expensive one, with designer stores lining each side of the road. The buildings are a worn, beige coloring, all bearing the traditional, ornate iron rod balconies. It screams old, traditional Paris, and I love it. 

There’s a large window, on the right wall of my room, that looks out on the shops and apartments in front. I love my iron balcony and the white shutters folded onto the sides. I open the window in the morning to allow the fresh air in and again in the evening, once home, to hear the sounds of life below.

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Madame’s two grown sons, in addition to the other homestay boy, greeted me, upon my arrival. Her older son, a 31- year- old man with  a form of a psychological disability that he often refers to in conversation, kept me company for the three hours that I unpacked. He spends his afternoons in the apartment and his mother, once home, helps care for him. His presence adds life to the apartment, his constant chatter creating a nice buzz that I can always hear from my room. He comes into my room often to talk, always asking mid- conversation if I'd like to be left alone now. I've learned that it's ok to say yes.

As for new Madame—she’s a true delight. 58, as she proudly announced at dinner a few nights ago, Madame bought the apartment with her husband after their marriage. Following their divorce, she kept the space, using the spare room for au pairs and, for the past ten years, students. She’s the daughter of the famous, French poet, Patrice de la Tour Pin—a man who, in addition to the publication of his own poems, translated hymns and prayers for the Vatican. There’s a street and square named after him in the 16^th arrondissement and his countryside home has been made into a landmark that groups pay visit to throughout the year. 

She’s full of life, new Madame—the whisps of her short, thin blonde hair falling in all different directions, while the creases on her face emphasize the animation of her expressions. Like her son, she imbues a genuine friendliness and keen interest in the students she houses.

The four of us—Madame, her son and Arien, the other homestay boy—eat together, sitting around the rectangular, wooden table in the small kitchen. We sit for dinner for about an hour and a half—such a difference to the 15 minutes I took to eat my dinner alone in my former homestay. Madame loves to cuisine, stirring up homemade soup and quiches, lentil salad and pasta dishes. I’ve explained my kosher restrictions as vegetarian; my friend who lived here last semester was vegetarian too. It's enough reason for Madame to validate her belief that Americans are the pickiest of eaters. 

I love it here, this sense of home, of a family-esque environment. I feel comfortable to leave my room, to use the kitchen, to chat. Here, there’s no need to maintain that sense of distance from Madame—she welcomes company and doesn’t separate her side of the home from the room I rent.  

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The seven hours of the workday go by at a natural pace—although my focus tends to wear thin the last hour. But I have nowhere else to go and nothing really else to do, so I welcome the structure the workday provides. I use my hour lunch break to stretch my legs and wander around the quartier (neighborhood) and in the afternoons, I'll choose to walk home-- dallying into the local bookstores and clothing shops, art galleries and food stores. 


Four months ago, I recall noticing the vibrancy the city takes on come the end of the workday—of the bustle of customers lining the cafes, of the pedestrians ambling along the roads. The sun goes down around 10 during the summer, and at 5.30—well the night just begins.

For the next seven weeks, I’m a part of this life. It's going to fly by, I know. And so my goal is to make the most of my every moment, of my every experience. As for now,  I've got a weekend in Paris to enjoy before the routine of the work week starts fresh come Monday morning. 

Top: View from outside of my window
Bottom: my room/ the iron balcony outside the window 

School's out

I ended my last day of class with a 3 euro street massage and an 8 euro piña colada. And then a walk home through the Jardin du Luxembourg and an evening visit to the gym: so ends my semester as a student abroad.

I mean, minus that I have my French oral exam Friday and my grammar final on Saturday. But exams abroad don’t count so I say today still marks my last day of school.

The plan had been to begin my internship tomorrow. Scratch that, I was supposed to start a few weeks ago. But with scheduling conflicts on both ends, the date, as of yesterday, has moved to June 11. From now until then, I have two finals to breeze through, a trip to London to see my grandparents and five days with no housing to sort out where in the world I plan to be.

I’ll admit, I’m nervous for the summer. Nervous that I’m here alone while my friends return to the states. I’m nervous about feeling alone, the time difference rarely helping in my attempt to keep in contact with home friends as a way of easing the moments I feel the seperation.

But every once in a while, there’s a moment of reassurance that hits. A moment that reminds me, I’m supposed to stay here. As much as I look forward to my eventual return to the states, six months of living in Paris may be my once in a lifetime opportunity and no way do I plan to pass that up.

As for the moments of reassurance…

The first time was about a week ago while making my way trough the metro. I ran into a woman, likely a few years older than I. She needed help figuring out how to get home. I let her have my metro map as I circled the route she needed to take. We walked together, given we were going the same direction. I inquired as to why she was in Paris. She was interning at UNESCO and had moved from Colombia a few days prior. She spoke no French, but her English was fine and before parting ways, we exchanged emails. Drinks, dinner, whatever. I’m always down for social hour.

And then there was my French teacher, hired by my program to tutor us for our upcoming French grammar exam. We got to talking, during our last session together. And it came up that I'd be here for the summer. She gave me her number—we could meet up for lunch, she suggested.

I have no idea how this summer will pan out. Ill be moving homestays, starting a new job, soaking in Paris in a manner different than I have as a student.

I won’t have my group of American friends as comfort, but thank goodness I'll have the familiarity of the city to fall back on. I think spending the summer alone will only encourage me to seek out a new adventure: befriend the stranger, take on a new activity and throw myself into whatever way I can reap the most out of my summer abroad.

It's all going to be ok.

Nearing the gap between Paris as a student, Paris as an intern

We’ve made a list. A list of the must sees and must dos for the next three weeks of our program. For my friends, the end of the three weeks marks the end of their abroad experience. A goodbye, for now.

For me, the coming three weeks will, too, end my four months of study abroad. But it will also be a start to life in Paris as a full- time intern.  

Part of me worries that I’ll be lonely this summer—what with no close friends to serve to enhance the experiences. Part of me feels a determination to meet new people. Perhaps befriend those at the office. Perhaps hop on the meetup.com fad. There’s an American ex- pat magazine named FUSAC. I used to scour the miniscule print of each monthly edition—searching for a summer job, a summer home, summer plans. But there’s a corner for those looking to meet others. Other Americans. Who knows? Maybe I’ll take advantage of that too.

Somehow, it’s all got me thinking of life post college. Perhaps it's seeing the Facebook statuses flood my feed—statuses of halfway done with college, a year left, totally complete.

Here we are. Here I am. Abroad, for junior year. A year left of school and then off to the real world. I started panicking last night, worried that I wouldn’t find a job that would keep me in D.C.—potentially move me to N.Y.—that would allow me to report for a paper.

A year from now and life as we know will change, once more. And unlike three years ago with the start of college, it’s not a winding road with a set path to get you from A to B. You’re lucky if you find A once you graduate. And chances are, you’ll come across E without ever finding B, C and D.

Staying in Paris is a good start. I’m here to work—here to adapt to a city on a different level than that as a student. 


But for now, I've got three weeks to enjoy Paris as a student. And really, focusing on the summer and year ahead, does little in gearing my appreciation for the moment of now, my experience of today.

Three weeks left? It's good enough reason to stop with the babble and get going with the Paris- student- bucket list.

No AP Style here

24 June 2011

I’m beginning to hit the control button rather than the option key on my Mac. Damn my 9- 5.30 work PC.

Until yesterday, I’ve had loads of spare time at work. My supervisor hasn’t, and still hasn’t, given me deadlines on any projects. But she also hasn’t really been all that specific regarding my assignments. It’s been up to me to choose which articles I wish to write, choosing them off of the company’s client spreadsheet. Oh, and cat articles. I’m halfway through editing cat articles. I’ll move on to dog articles after. I know… exciting.

I received an email from my supervisor yesterday morning, asking me to write a (as she labeled it) “special” article. The piece covered Try A Trade, a hands on, skills road show that tours high schools across New South Wales. Try a Trade features eight unique booths, manned by professional trade representatives. Two to three students visit the booth at time, allowing for sufficient time to interact with the trade rep and carry out a skills task related to the job. (At the hairdresser station, for example, students shave a beard or color/ style hair.)

Did you know Australia has a shortage of skill workers? And that Australia is the same size as the US but has about the same population as NY (and the majority of Australia’s population live along the coast)? In attempt to combat the shortage of trade professionals, Australia seeks to recruit individuals from the UK to fill in the empty slots.

Which is where Try a Trade comes in. It’s a brilliant way of presenting an alternative to non- “uni” bound students while attempting to recruit prospective future trade workers. It’s a positive for both sides really.

While at work, I keep a separate Word document open to jot down thoughts to include in a later post. I get out of work at 5:30; I had planned to ex out of the cat docs at 5 to update my blog.

Well 5 came and went and no blog post from me. Reasons:

A)  got engrossed with these kitty cats… and caught up with the songs playing on my iPod. (It's perfectly acceptable to listen to your iPod while at work here. Yesterday was my first day trying it…  adds a little personal touch (playlist: Gesher ’07, the playlist I had made for my grandmother and country music) to my workday, while actually helping me focus. I loved it!

B)   I was asked to put together a photo/ video/ text slideshow for a client. I swear, my name was written all ova’ that.

So yes, blogging at work didn’t quite run according to plan. (Not that I’m bothered by it. I honestly had such a fantastic day yesterday!)

But I do want to post my thoughts.. I wouldn’t say they necessarily flow, so buddy header and bullet point are gonna come in quite handy. Here goes…

Proof of Entrance at Sydney Clubs

Stamps before entering a club is nothing new... we have them in DC. Palm downwards and BAM goes the (washable) stamp on the back of your hand. There are stamps here too. But nope, not in the same location.

Here, it’s a greenish- black tattoo like stamp on the inside of your wrist.

Um, the same location that the Nazis tattooed serial numbers onto innocent Jews and prisoners.

Great. Holocaust thoughts while entering the club. Such a killjoy. And it’s definitely what I want to keep thinking about a few days later when no matter how tough you might scrub at the stamp etched across you wrist, it just won’t budge. 

AP Style is a foreign concept in Sydney

The writing in Sydney, or at least the writing I’m editing, is horrific. I asked my supervisor day one, if Australia follows AP Style rules (the rigid rules we, as future Journalism professionals, abide by). My Writing for Mass Comm teacher might have fainted had she seen my supervisor's puzzled look. Australians write as they please here, following no rules and ignoring all attempts at being concise, clear and direct.

I copied a few of the lines from the cat articles I’ve been editing:

• “Obesity in cats is a growing problem, especially in a society that is also facing an epidemic of the overweight.”
• “Also don’t listen to stories about cats that are never found.  This will not help, only make your more sad and scared.”

Reading over these articles is doing a lot for raising my morale regarding my own writing skills.

Sydney Lingo

Part of what makes working in Sydney, and I’m sure any other foreign country, so fascinating is that you pick up on the nuances of the culture by actually working in the culture. After reviewing my first article, my supervisor pointed out that my spelling was wrong. Down under, it’s colour not color. And s’s not z’s. Whoops.

Words are also different.

• Washroom: bathroom
• Moggy: cat (Oh, please... just ask me how many synonyms I now know for the word “cat.”)
• Solarium: tanning bed

Phrases and responses:

• You say: “Thank you.”  They respond: “It’s ok.”
• Cheers: Used for everything. Just tag on to any sentence.

Intonation here is also unique in that many Australians end their sentences in a higher pitch. As if constantly asking a question. Maybe that’s what makes them sound so friendly. No harsh statements out of these Aussies. Just questions. Cheers!

Cat Facts

(Thanks cat articles.)

• Ernest Hemingway’s cat, Snowball, had six toes. Snowball’s offspring roam around the Keys and are taken care of by representatives from the Hemingway museum. (It was a part of his will for them to do so.)
• Cat’s ingest grass which apart from causing them to vom, helps dislodge hairballs.

What I’ve Learned from my Internship So Far

I’ve spent my week writing articles on tanning and on relationship advice. I swear, ask me anything about spray tanning and I’m on it. But besides my newfound bronze bod knowledge and my tips on how to keep your relationship strong, the job has actually reassured me of my passion for writing and how right of a choice it was to major in Journalism. The job also reminds how little I enjoy sitting in front of a computer screen all day (well, unless its mine and the page is open to Facebook. That’s a total different story.)

It’s remarkable. So many of us begin college unsure regarding our course of study. We’re always assured not to worry, it all works out. Life aligns, you decide.

But to be a struggling freshman wavering between Psychology and quarterlife crisis, words of reassurance about some hazy future does anything but assuage you. Um, ok mister pin stripe suit. How do you really know that I’ll figure out what I want to do once my four years are over?

I’m a rising junior now; I look back on my two years of college and smile. (And then freak because the prospect of school coming anywhere close to ending causes extreme heart palpitations.) But it’s a knowing smile, how yes, it really did all work out. I did find my passion and transfer that to a major. And finally… finally there is proof that I chose to follow the right path.

Ss not Zs

20 June 2011

I’m sitting at my own desk, lined against the wall of this spacious, rectangular office. The décor is ultra modern; the stark white walls and seemingly plastic desks contrast nicely with the black of the office chairs and screens of each desktop computer. Dark wood flooring tiles the grounds, adding a warm touch to what could have otherwise been a cold room. Large windows cover the wall as you enter the space, allowing for natural light to seep into the room. The floor shares the space with two other businesses... I think graphic design companies. My company, however, owns the floor. Literally in terms of amount of people and actually as in they were here first.

The office has one restroom. Thankfully located near my desk. It’s quite entertaining watching employees shuffle in and out of the bathroom door. To the horror of one of the interns, someone had forgotten to lock the door. I’m glad it wasn’t me.

I’ve been assigned to the writing and marketing department. (Department here is a loose terms as there are probably three or four of us that make up the team... I’ld say three of them are interns.) Jenine, the company’s owner and my supervisor, set up my employee email (real proof that I work here) and sent me the Google docs page with listings for the articles that had to be written for the company’s several clients. She encouraged me to direct my focus towards articles for two mobile flirting companies (deep, I know) and a tanning website. Ok, so maybe my assignments aren’t to write the deepest type of articles. But they’re fun to write! I'm able to include my voice, rather than follow the rigid AP style rules. (I asked Jenine if they have AP style in Australia. She looked at me oddly.) 

I started with the tanning website, choosing to document the pros and cons of professional tanning versus self tanning products. I grew up wearing clothes in the pool as a form of sun protection and I’ve been known to curl up in a vinegar bath, hysterically crying that I’m going to get skin cancer. I’ll be the first to tell you that all tanning, salon or store bought, is bad for you. But I figured pros and cons would be a rational way of approaching my topic, although with an obvious lean towards the con. (Clearly there’s nothing good about tanning.) And then it hit me... I’m not writing for myself. I’m writing for a client. A client that sells self tanning products. There’s no room for my “tanning kills so do it in moderation” lecture. It’s incredible how PR sneaks its way into what, to the unknowing eye, appears a harmless article for a company’s website. (Interestingly, each assignment also includes keywords that have to be included every 100 words or so. It works to increase search engine recognizance.) It took me roughly three hours to research and write my 400 word article. I emailed it in and took my hour lunch break.

The Defector’s office is located in the city... roughly a 20 minute walk to the Harbour if that helps give bearings. I strolled along Williams Ave (I think that’s the name of the street) with my packed lunch (a grilled vege and mozerella wrap), enjoying eying my reflection as I strolled past the shop windows. I ate lunch on a bench in Hyde Park. It was a gorgeous hour’s break. I watched a man blow bubbles for a living, entertaining the many children playing in the patches of grass. Another man played the guitar, creating a serene mood for the warm winter day.

I returned from lunch, alternating between skipping from excitement, and attempting to maintain my cool. I approached Jenine to review my article, anticipating the heaps of constructive criticism on my work that one would expect from their first submitted article.

My biggest error, it turned out, was "idolization." "Idolisation" is the proper spelling here in Australia. And TGA instead of FDA. I felt like such a typical American in that I didn't even think that there was a difference in Australian spelling and names of organizations.

But that was it. Jenine loved my work and told me to continue choosing articles off of the assignment page. It was a nice little self- esteem boost.

I spent the rest of my work day writing articles for mobile flirting clients, drawing on my own relationship experience to give tips on long- distance dating, ending long- term relationships, showing rather than saying “I love you” and summer love. (These were suggested topics, not ones I brainstormed on my own.) I found it so strange that I was using my own experiences to give advice to others. It was easy to write, just odd that I referring to my own life.

Day 1: long, but quite a success. The working world isn't so bad after all.

Raising the confidence

20 June 2011

It’s perfectly acceptable to begin your first college internship your junior or senior year of college. That, afterall, is what most people are doing on my trip. It’s just that I go to AU where it’s a norm to be working for a congressman your first year of school.

When students, my freshman year, were searching and claiming internships on the hill, I was settling in to my life at AU. Sophomore year rolled ‘round and I embraced the prospect of making money. I devoted my year to the respected profession of babysitting, the same year many of peers began their second or third internship.

Here I am, an internship baby, not sure if I’m prepared for my first day in the working world.

My internship is in the city, just a few train stops from my apartment. One other boy from my program is interning with me at the same location. He got to Sydney a week early and has assured me he knows how to get to our workplace. Work begins at 8:30. We’re leaving at 7:45.

Presently, I’m sitting on my balcony, gazing ahead at the morning light highlighting the city a hue of amber. I’ll be on my way to the city center in 30 minutes. By then, the sun will have fully risen. A new workday will have begun.

The prospect of beginning a professional internship unnerves me. I question if possess the skills set needed, if they’re strong enough, if I’ll be viewed as an asset to the company or just an intern, struggling to keep up with the plethora of experience evident in the company’s employees.

But I can’t dwell on the what ifs. It’s unrealistic to expect I’ll glide naturally in without the bumps in the road. I remind myself that I am entering my third year of college and therefore not entering the office blindly. I’m carrying two years of communication classes and a decade of social media skill. Hell, I live and breathe Facebook and my thoughts flow in hashtags. I should view my internship as a challenge to myself, rather than a moment to question my confidence. A challenge of applying the skills set I currently own and direct them towards tasks assigned. I can’t compare myself to the other employees or my fellow program participant. I need to focus on myself and be proud of the work I will and I can achieve.

The roads below me have a steady flow of traffic rushing in opposite directions. Like in Europe, the cars drive on the opposite side of the road here. But like the world, the drivers are likely on their way to work. I forget, they’ve all been in my place before. It’s slightly reassuring.