.vaille que vaille.

Excerpt from journal, 9 juillet 2010:

Today was the first day of my "stage." I woke up at 4:30. Yes, 4:30 am, unable to feign sleep any longer. My feet are exhausted, and have been cramping up all afternoon. My arms and legs are sore from my concrete bed and my mind stopped filtering French to English about 9 hours ago. I have flour all over myself, sweating from head to toe, and there are (for some reason) cuts all over my hands.

But I'm happy.
So happy.

God is good, but more than that, He is assuring. I woke up today absolutely terrified. My heart beating erratically and my thoughts unsettled. But I wiped away residual tears and walked out of my dingy apartment with an air of fragile confidence. I boarded the métro, & rode it to my destination: Mairie d'ivry. Although geographically, the bakery is really close, it was still about a 30 minute commute. For some reason, the RATP doesn't believe in efficient East to West and vice versa commute. When I arrived at the shopping center, I could smell the wafting scents of a Parisian bakery from the street. I didn't even need a map. "J'ai juste suivi ma nez." The bakery is adorable. Although it's tucked within a shopping mall that looks like a concentration camp, and it's across from a Carrefour -- the French equivalent of a Wal-Mart, and thus, the tiptoeing presence of globalization. With a brick walled exterior and a motif of orange and brown, La Tradition is both traditonnelle and contemporaine. The bakery is split into a self-service mini-café as well. Everything sold in that bakery is handmade. Madame Chariot and her team are so passionate, so attentive, about what they do. And you can tell. I was so proud and in awe of having such an opportunity to work with these people . My heart could not stop smiling. The front entrance of the bakery was still closed when I arrived, but the kitchen door was propped wide open, the singular light in a silent corridor, the only kind of silence you find in the morning. There was a scrawny man in a wifebeater and white shorts, barefoot and running around with flour caked over his face. I poked my head through the door and saw three other men, equally as hard at work. When I did, the fresh smell of bread almost knocked me over in happiness. I meekly asked the man who approached me -- with a look of estranged bewilderment "wtf-does-this-asian-chick-of-fourteen-want-at-6:50-in-the-morning?" I timidly asked if Mme. Chariot was there and introduced myself in probably the softest voice humanly possible. When I introduced myself as the intern from America, he replied with acknowledgement, and enthusiasm. He led me to the front to meet another Madame (whose name I sadly was never introduced to), but I thought she was Mme Chariot for the longest time, until the real Mme Chariot actually arrived. The woman was extremely kind, one of those hippy granny types, with a pixie cut, turquoise jewelry, and a laugh that was infectious. She also had an accent, from the south, so she pronounced "pain" like "PAY-N." The second person to arrive was Lou, 25, who was reserved, but friendly nonetheless. As the day went on and I proved to her that I was earnest, I even got a couple smiles out of her. She seemed to have the influence of an older sister. The way she spoke, how calm she was under pressure, and her sage advice. Half the time I didn't understand wtf they were saying, but they would pull me aside and whisper gossip to me about certain customers anyway, and I would just take the cue and laugh when they did. At first I didn't do much, I mean I literally didn't do... much. I just stood around and hovered, because there wasn't any sort of "okay, this is how things work around here" breakdown. I realized that being there was what I made of it. And if I was only going to be there 5 days a week for 2 months, I better make the most of it. So I started asking questions, offering to help, taking initiative, and eventually they let me serve the customers, which freaked me out. If I was left out front by myself, I would panic and hide if a customer came in or busy myself with twiddling my fingers and I could feel their expectant gaze on me to take their order. When I would make some dumbass mistake, they would brush it off and tell customers that I was their new "little american intern, in Paris to learn the baking biz." To which the disgruntled customer would wipe away the irritation from their faces and smile, exclaiming how wonderful that little scenario seemed to them. But I'm a fast learner, and I want to do well. By the second or third hour, Mme and Lou were actually pulling me aside and taking the time to teach me with patience, trusting me. When Madame Chariot finally arrived, she was a little intimidating, but there was such love in her demeanor and well wishes for me that quickly melted away. She's still my boss, though. The hippy Mme and Lou thought it was funny and a little bit strange for an art student to be jumping so randomly into culinary, but Madame Chariot respected that, saying that it was very courageous for me to be doing what I'm doing. She asked me what I was interested in learning - the fabrication process or the commercial aspect of the business and I said both. She said then that I could devote a month for each. One in the back and one in front. I was ecstatic. When does someone have such an opportunity? Time passed relatively slowly, but once we opened, there was a significant flow of clientele. When the lunch rush arrived, I ran out of places to hide and stared blankly when they shouted orders at me, but still, they were patient. The most confusing were the sandwich orders. Which, wtf is up with the French and their obsession with sandwiches? And the twelve million ways of referring to an ingredient? Crudité? Why can't you just say végétale? Bayonne? What is that? And what kind of bread do you want it on? Normale? Tradition? Viennoise? Sésame? Then the customers get mad at me because I can't ever freaking hear their library voices let alone their lack of enunciation. I think my brain chooses to turn off & on as it pleases. They could have asked me for a skinned cat, sautéed with scallions and I would have replied with an enthusiastic "oui." I was ordered to the back several times to retrieve sandwiches from Béranger (aka Bob, who I will describe later). So there I was, working at a real French bakery, saying, "Bonjour Madame, Bonjour Monsieur, C'est tout? Merci! Au revoir! Bonne journée!" I couldn't believe it. As my day was about to end, and I was going to keel over either from fatigue or excitement, I couldn't tell which, Fleur came through. I don't know how to describe Fleur. I love her. She's the sweetest woman with the sweetest voice. I mean her name translates to "Flower." She has an adorable French haircut with curls, and an adorable smile. She would ask me "ça va?" Whenever she saw me and would smile and wink when I made mistakes. For my lunch break, I got to sample the pastries and eat outside with Mme. Chariot, who was very kind, but eventually we got on the topic of politics... which was strange, since I'm not very political, but I found that it doesn't matter. I've learned that the French like to talk, so it's okay if you don't. They will. They'll carry out a conversation with themselves. Fine by me. As I packed to leave, I stopped by Béranger to say goodbye and before I knew it he was showing me how to make baguettes, croissants, and showing me the workings of the kitchen. . . we talked and joked for hours, as I stood, in my débutante curiosity, he delighted in my company -- as the other men had already left. Béranger is smart, funny, and most of all, easy-going. He laughs as much as I do, so we have fun together. I rarely have ever heard a Parisian laugh at my jokes, but he does! And he's caring -- very knowledgeable about his craft and willing to share it. He's honest and I think he's the kind of guy that oozes confidence and encourages the same from those around him. I felt no judgment over my ridiculously horrible French, which, as the hours passed, became increasingly American and disjointed. Even though I was exhausted to the bone, I loved staying there. Eventually I bid everyone farewell until Monday.

I can't believe how blessed I am.
I really can't. "