Here is what happened today. Thought you might get a kick out of it:
I made friends with one of the cleaning guys! Mission accomplished. He is Ghanaian, just as I told you I suspected. His name is George and he is wonderful. And, get this: he calls me “his queen.” “His queen,” or alternatively “his princess” or “his love.” I adore a man with variable affectionate nicknames. The cheeky bugger. He just came up to me and asked me if I was Brazilian. I must have been sporting a rather unseemly look of confusion in response to this, because he went on to explain that I remind him (in appearance) of a Brazilian girl that was at the school before. Joy unbounded!!! Just as I was despairing, too: I ended up having to explain my lineage to someone this morning and got the usual eyebrow raise when I revealed that I’m half French and half Brazilian, and then the customary look of utter deflation when they realize that, in actuality, I am just another Jewish girl. No exotic eye candy for you. Quelle misere! Ah, it’s a tough life.
In stark contrast to dear Georgey, there is the still nameless grump who putters around scowling at everyone. He just grunts and moans and though I croon to him in soothing tones of French (as much as one can schmooze when delivering dishes to another poor soul who has to clean them. It’s rather a horrendous position, to be sure. Gross, and certainly repulsive enough to rival the rickshaw situation we discussed). But I digress! The point is that I am lovely and polite to him, apologetic and smiley, and he simply tuts and shakes his head. And is exceedingly rude. Actually, he doesn’t speak French or English, and I don’t believe he’s speaking in his native tongue. He just spouts guttural noises and I somehow understand what he’s saying (it seems I may be the only one), but even in this sad stuttering communication his loathing and scorn are not lost.
I am the assistant this week, which means I must arrive at the crack of dawn minus half an hour. And then I must find the basket that contains the food for my class (which is in a downstairs kitchen swarming with Ghanaians and whose door bears the sign “No Entry.” I mean, come on. Who put that much effort into confusing us poor new students? Once retrieved I must check all the items, confer with my Taiwanese? partner assistant who speaks ZERO English but tries really hard and just hurls mispronounced syllables at me at a horrifyingly rapid pace, and try to get the new- fangled dumb waiter to somehow go to my floor, run upstairs like a red- faced loon, get the food, distribute it evenly among trays for everyone, and then set up my own cooking space. Piece of cake. The chefs have taken a real shine to me. One of them likes to crack mean jokes about the Asians to me, I suppose because I speak French, and has taken to coming up behind me and massaging my shoulders whilst I cook, sometimes while talking about his wife. This is very pleasant indeed, although it can make chopping somewhat complicated. Not to mention everyone in the class is rather skeeved out. And the chef today likes to gravitate mainly in the orbit of my cooking space, which is fine but also wildly disconcerting. The point of this is that strange amounts of attention are lavished on me, so that when I was trying to pack up to leave, the chef made me stand still, like a coat rack, and handed me my things one at a time. It went something like this: my knives (which live in a suitcase. A veritable suitcase!) slung around my neck, check; my notepad and recipe, check; my scale, check; my two packages of puff pastry, check; and finally my gigantic water bottle nestled into my neck. This took about five minutes, and just as I was happily striding out the door, the chef asks whom the assistant is. It is I, biensure. I communicate this to him and he tells me, pityingly, that I must return the food downstairs to that furnace of a kitchen! And do you know what I did? I yelled “Shit!” really loudly, which had the chef nearly peeing in his checked pants. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see that! But it was quite amazing. In one moment my blustery, red-faced, frantic ill-preparedness had this entire stuffy establishment cracking up. Or stifling giggles, rather, since there is a sense of propriety to be maintained, après tout! Man oh man.
And off into Hades I descended! And then I biked home in the scorching heat (it had suddenly become spring) wearing an enormous winter jacket.
Groovy, no? Indeed. Write me! I love you more than I can say.
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