Working in Paris as an ‘étrangère’ didn’t exactly work out how New Zealander Danielle Heyhoe expected – until she learned to fully embrace her French experience
I was working in Paris more than a decade ago when an Italian crossed my path. We were both surprised. I’d lived in the capital for about 11 months, believing my colleague Jean to be French. He spoke the language fluently with our customers, and I would follow along until I simply couldn’t, which was when he switched to English. It was an act of kindness; I believed he spoke only two languages and was worse in mine.
I was standing in the scullery holding a crate full of clementines when it happened. Yasu, wearing his chef whites and leaning against the threshold to the kitchen, told me that clementines were prolific in Milan. I was at a loss, and must have looked it, because he quickly added, “Jean hasn’t returned to Milan since childhood.”
Why would Jean return to Milan? It was a simple question, and at first, Yasu said nothing. We both waited. “He can get a bit nasty when it comes to his country of origin,” Yasu told me. “Don’t say I said anything.” I wouldn’t dare. I liked Yasu too much.
At that moment, Jean’s head appeared in the doorway, inches behind Yasu. We both stared at his furrowed brow and crimson cheeks. “Mind your own business,” he hissed. Then, just like that, my sole ‘French’ companion was gone. The unspoken question being: How had I lived almost a year in France, and not befriended a single French person?
LIMITED CHOICES
The foreigner who doesn’t speak French has a small number of choices in Paris. It’s not a question of ability – it rarely is in a foreign-speaking country – it’s a question of suitability. When I first arrived in France – a graduate with a postgraduate diploma in international relations – I had two choices of employment, both in hospitality. This didn’t upset me. I was an impressionable young woman who had been entirely shaped by reading Almost French as a 16-year-old. And, of course, my grandmother’s inauthentic claims of French ancestry. I hadn’t stood a chance. I had come to Paris to fulfil the writer’s dream. To know Paris is to know a great deal, which I believed would provide me with extensive content for my work. I signed up for a writer’s workshop at Shakespeare and Company. The plan was food prep in the morning and write in the evening. Everything was going to be fine. Art de vivre.
After a few hours on Craig’s List, I found a chambre de bonne in the 8th arrondissiment. A chambre de bonne was the residence for a maid several hundred years ago. This one was available to rent on
