Several years ago, in September, I packed an enormous bag and boarded an airplane bound for Paris. I was 21, and headed toward a job I’d found on Craigslist. For the next 10 months, I’d agreed to be what the French call a fille au pair—an au pair girl—to a family with a 9-year-old and a 10-year-old. Hours later, when my flight landed at Charles de Gaulle, I took a bus to the Arc de Triomphe and a cab to the address I’d been given, hauled my suitcase up a spiral wooden staircase to a tiny seventh-floor apartment, and passed out.
I’d taken the position in exchange for this room—a chambre de bonne, as it's called; a former maid’s room in the building’s attic—and 350 euros a month. In addition to picking up the kids from school, helping with their English, preparing dinner, overseeing their nightly routines, and taking them to museums and activities, I’d be part of the family, the parents said. The interview process had consisted of Skyping with the family twice. They seemed lovely. So I went.
from Food52 https://ift.tt/2Z6ViVz
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