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Because I usually am in Vino ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** In 2009, I gave up my studies as a medievalist and musician, left my home, my family, my life and moved to Provence in southern France for a guy. In 2012, I moved away from him to study wine. Today, I'm a vagabond sommelier working in Paris at one of the oldest and most famous restaurants in the world, struggling to find some purpose to what I deem the rest of my life. I'm still married and after 8 10 years, I'm still trying to fit-in with French life and culture and to understand why the French are the way they are. Because they're weird in a different way that I think Americans are weird. Perhaps it's me who's weird. |
| A while before I decided to quit my job my (former) apprentice (who's now a full sommelier at one of the chef's other restaurants) and I were invited to a weekend tasting in Bordeaux that is taking place this weekend. We asked for the time off, booked the plane tickets and RSVP'd. Today, he sent me a text that the restaurant has reneged on his time off and aren't allowing him to go to the tasting. The reason: they don't want him around me. What. The. Fuck. Apparently Madame, the chef's wife, has been bad mouthing me around the restaurant. This, I find incredibly immature and disappointing. But mostly, I'm disappointed for my (former) apprentice, who's professional experience is being fucked over because of their stupidity. What do they think I'm going to do? Spend the entire weekend trying to get him to quit his job? There will be more important things for me to do like network and drink wine. And I won't need to convince him to quit his job. He had plenty of offers before he finished his apprenticeship - mostly due to the competition he won during his studies - and I know he'll want other experience later on. It's just natural. But yes, I am angry for me. I called Greg after I found out what had been happening, and he said "well, you'll just have to remove them from your resumé and not use them as a reference any more. It seems they can't be trusted." No shit. Who are these people I was working for? How dare they belittle me after I've left. I left, it's over, let it go. My apprentice is still a colleague, a friend, and someone I will continue to have a relationship with in the future. Just as I still have a relationship with Gael. We aren't the best of friends but he does help me out and give me advice when needed. Honestly, I have half a mind to go to the Prud'homme (aka Employee Rights Office) and make a complaint. Not that they would do anything but still. It's not right. I left voluntarily. They were happy to see me go. Where's the problem? Just let it go. And did they really think it wouldn't get out? My apprentice was rather pissed and very disappointed as well. Like I said, I don't think he's going to need me to convince him to leave. He'll probably finish up his year and then tell them to piss off all on his own. |
| My cat woke me up this morning by coming into the bedroom and literally yelling at me. He stood at the foot of the bed and let out the loudest “meow” he possibly could until I got up to look at him. He was wide-eyed and intensely serious. Then he went downstairs to yell at Greg because it was my husband's fault I was still in bed. Clearly, I had not been informed of proper procedure: at 9 am we drink the coffee on the couch. The bed is liberated for old and cranky cats. So even though it's been a good forty minutes, I'm still kind of woozy, having been forced awake by a 6-kilo ball of fur. I can't use my office because Greg has put crap all over the desk. I have to get him to clear it off before I come back to Arles for good. Trying to write on the couch yesterday night and being distracted by his computer games reminded me why it is we need a separate room as my office for when we move. I'm also one of those people who just needs a room of one's own. Like a ManCave but a WomanCave. Or a Fortress of Solitude. And I'm not talking about the kitchen. I spent time research the various job opportunities last night. Though still the only job on offer is the one in Courchevel. I really wanted the job in Avignon, but now I'm not so sure. When I left the interview this time I didn't think to myself “Gee, I really want to work here, I love this place.” I thought, “Gee, do I really want to work here?”Because they all made me a little nervous in the sense of not being sure I'll get along with these people and the only interesting one was the one who said the least – the Chef. At the same time, the chef and I couldn't stop staring at each other during the interview. Constant glances... I feel like I know him from somewhere but I can't figure out where. He said the same thing about me. We both worked for Rabanel but at different times so that's not it. When he walked into the room there was this jolt of recognition between us. We both paused and stared for about 30 seconds trying to assess how we felt we knew each other. I know it seems like I'm trying to describe something romantic, but I'm not. It was just a deep, deep recognition. It's really strange. On that basis alone, I'm almost ready to accept the job just to figure out why I have this feeling. It doesn't matter until they actually offer me a job. If they ever do. I'm thinking of doing NaNoWriMo in November. I actually have the time, since I won't have a job. Or if I do, I won't have one until around the 20th and I have nothing else to do. And I keep saying that I quit in order to do other things that interest me. I'm going to think about it more this afternoon and decide if I want to try and plan out a novel or just write by the seat of my pants. Maybe I'll ask Anabelle if she wants to write with me. I should call her and see if she's available tomorrow when I go back up to Lyon. I also still need to buy tickets for Paris. And send my papers to Le Lana. And call my mom. And I need to find the cat and wake him up. |
| Yesterday night was my last day at work. I'm now officially jobless. I'm also at the Avignon train station waiting for 10:30am to roll around so that I can do this second interview. I don't know why I agreed to it. I'd still like to know why they took 10 days to get back to me. Did it have to do with some logistical management issue or were they interviewing someone else they liked better who turned them down ? I don't necessarily mind being their second choice – we're all someone's second choice, especially in this business, but I do mind being kept in the dark about it. Especially when the restaurant director told me during my first interview that I was their top candidate. You'd think they'd be a bit more on the ball about keeping their top candidate interested. As my husband said, “They're not the only restaurant looking for a sommelier.” There's a pigeon flying around the station. Getting pooped on right before my interview would be so perfect. This interview to be with the hotel owner, the chef, the chef sommelier (I kind of thought it was odd I didn't meet him at the first interview) and the director who already interviewed me. We will see what will happen. Honestly, all I want is to get through it and go to bed. I got home at 2am last night; left my apartment at six. How do I do it? Equal parts coffee and makeup. I've got it caked on my face to erase the blotchy-fatigue. Luckily that's all the rage in Provence and they probably won't think any less of me for it. In fact, I might drop a not so subtle hint that I had to stay up all night after a 16 hour day to make it to this interview. Just so they know I AM totally putting myself out for them. (There was more here but it got bitter really fast and I don't want to put myself in a bad mood for my interview) It's very strange to me to think I don't have to go back to my job. It hasn't set in yet. I handed over my keys – 6 in all – and my key-ring is about a third of its former weight. I don't know what they will do with the wine list. I do know they are all probably relieved. My colleagues didn't really like me. From the maître d'hôtel down to the interns. I don't think it's their fault. I think they tried to like me, but we had a different vision of doing things that I couldn't quite change myself for. One thing that really bugged me about last night though is that not one person from the kitchen staff said goodbye. Not even the chef. I don't expect them to throw me a huge party and give me gifts, but I would have liked a goodbye and good luck. I would have done the same for them. It made me realize even more that this restaurant was just like Rabanel. When I left that job, even though I was the most senior employee, no one, not one person actually came to me to say goodbye. I went to them. Like I said, I wasn't expecting balloons and a parade and tears and hugs, but at least something civil. Like most people, I'm really awkward about goodbyes (seriously, does anyone like goodbyes????) so it's not like I wanted to drag it out, but at least a “good luck, thanks for all the hard work” would have been nice. I end up posing the question to myself, “Who were these people I worked with for the past 8 months?” I answer it with, “It's a good thing you left.” Those are not the people I want to spend 12 hours a day with for the rest of my career. Now the question is, who are the people I want to spend 12 hours a day with? I find it harder and harder to concentrate these days. I can't really read my books for any more than 5 minutes at a time. Part depression, part technology, I think. It's why I've chosen to write all this down. At least I can concentrate on my thoughts and on my fingers typing on the keyboard. It helps me focus. It's slightly more productive than flipping through Facebook for the usual crap and checking for the 100th time prices to train tickets to Paris that haven't changed in the past two weeks. The train station is starting to awaken. It being Sunday in October, it's not as busy as it could be, but there are people about. Some guy sitting next to me scratching busily away on scratch tickets (the French have a serious passion for the lottery, even my husband plays without fail twice a week) and across from me a German couple sharing coffee and croissants. I think they are German. I'm not really listening to their conversation. On second thought I think they are Belgian. I served a group of Belgians yesterday. They kept making fun of my accent, which is just a typical Saturday for me, but what was really ironic about the situation is that they all had the thickest Belgian accents I've ever heard. My husband's step-mother is Belgian and I barely notice her accent. I've met and served plenty of Belgians and usually I pick up on little idiosyncrasies in their speech or pronunciation but nothing I personally identify as “accent”. Not like mine anyway. These people had an Accent with a capital “A.” So wtf are they doing making fun of my accent? Clearly French was not the primary language of anyone in the room. Some people. Until that moment I never understood why the French spent so much time making fun of Belgians as being a little dim (to put it mildly) and very self-important. Non-sequitur. Time for my interview. Or at least to walk to the hotel. Hopefully it's no longer raining. |
| Tomorrow is my last day at my job. I heard from the job in Avignon after I accepted another job for seasonal work in the mountains. The job in Avignon wants me to come for another interview. I'm going but I hate backing out on something I already agreed to do even if I haven't signed anything. I know it happens, but I don't like it. Though there is no guarantee I'll get the job in Avignon. I also have an interview on Wednesday in Paris with a very very famous restaurant. I don't want to move to Paris, I wouldn't even consider it if it was any other restaurant. I also don't really want to spend the money going up there but it's kind of an opportunity I can't pass up. So off I go: Saturday I finish Sunday I leave for my interview in Avignon and then onto Arles to visit my husband Tuesday I go back up to Lyon Wednesday day trip to Paris for my interview. It might sound lovely to spend a day wandering around Paris but it won't be since I'll be in my work clothes in order to make a good impression. When the director and chef sommelier interviewed me on skype they were in black tie. It's that kind of place. I don't even own black tie. And the week after I go to Bordeaux for a tasting. My flight leaves really early sunday morning but at least I'll be able to sleep early Saturday night. If I was still working I'd just have to stay up all night in order to make the flight. Which is what I'm going to do for the interview on Sunday. Anyway, it's a crazy life. In many ways the seasonal work is appealing because I just work like mad for 4 months and then can relax on unemployment for the summer and figure out what I want to do next. I know it seems weak to abuse unemployment but that's the system in France and it'd be nice to spend a summer with my husband and go to the States and spend time with my family and weigh my options. I spent most of today just laying around, but that's ok. I think my body and mind and soul are so overwhelmed right now, so traumatized by the past 8 months that I need some time to just lay around. |
| When I go running along the Rhône two thoughts enter my mind. The first is how it seems I'll never get away from this river. From Geneva to Marseilles, my life seems to turn around it and the second is how much I'm going to miss Lyon. I really love the city. I love the classic European-city architecture, the staggered roofs leading up to the plateau Croix Rousse, the looming basillica on top of the hill above the 5th arrondissement, the green trees, the mass of people, the strange smells and even the delays of the metro. I love Lyon. And I never got to see all that much of it because I was either working or asleep. And maybe I'll get away from the Rhône after all. At least for a little while. I'm waiting to hear from a job in Avignon, but considering it's been over a week and they haven't called me back, I'm pretty sure I'm out of the running. I was offered seasonal work up in the French Alps which I will probably take. Why not? At least I'll be so far from everything I won't spend much money. And it's barely 4 months of work. I tried to send a signed letter to my landlord that I was leaving the apartment when I realised I don't have their address. So I sent an email and a text and I haven't heard back. Eventually I'll just leave the keys with the building manager and walk away. I'm not going to stay around just because they don't want the hassle of finding someone else to rent the apartment out to. I can't afford to stay in Lyon. I'm not going to. All of this writing is an effort to pass the time and wait for the job in Avignon to call. But I know they won't call. I know how the French do these things. They call you back right away if they want you and you never hear from them again if they don't. So the chances of them calling today are slim. I'm giving them until 4pm. It's now 9am. 7 hours to wait. I don't feel well as usual. My stomach is bloated and achey, my back is having nerve spasms, I have heart burn and acid reflux and generally I feel like dull crap. It's not fun. My family wants me to do the seasonal work so that I can come home for the summer. They want me to come home for November too. They don't seem to realize I'm trying to patch things up with my husband, not get a divorce. I don't know what I want. I want to hear from the job in Avignon. |
| Today while futzing around on the internet, I learned that Ron Carlson, my writing mentor at Arizona State who taught me so much about crafting a story and letting creativity and imagination develop and run wild was implicated in sexual abuse charges, causing him to resign from his current post in California. I'm horrified. I'm shaken. I feel like this revelation couldn't have come at a worse time. I haven't spoken to Carlson since my time at ASU but I always looked back at him as a mentor, as someone who I had great respect for, as someone who encouraged and helped me grow immensely as a writer even years later. Even though I didn't always love his writing or agree with everything he had to say, he was a great professor. So to find out about this is such a let down. I feel like my world is crashing down around me. I hate my job. I work all the time. Too much. I'm emotionally and physically and mentally exhausted. I can't write, I don't read, I don't even cook. I just munch on whatever I managed to buy at the store. Everything about who I am is rapidly fading away leaving me an empty shell of a being that does nothing but work and think about work and dream about work. I smoke, I drink, I sleep, I work. The last thing that I held on to, that was still a part of me was running and I barely do that any more. Once, maybe twice a week maximum. The motivation for that is sliding away faster than I care to admit. My marriage isn't going well, but I think that's partly the stress from work spilling over. At least I don't know anymore. My life is so consumed by something I hate doing that I don't know what I want and what I don't. My mom and my sister want me to come back to the States, my friend Annabelle tells me to just find another job, any job that will allow me to work less hours and have some time for myself. My husband tells me to keep this job because "the money is good and it's a good opportunity." And my co-workers just say nothing. But they are dumb. I don't know what do to. I know that I have options but I am afraid to take them because if I left my job and just wandered off I'd have no money. And I'm afraid I'd only sink into a further depression and just sit around dwelling on how I'm a failure. How my life is a series of failures. That's how I feel. I'm failing. Failing hard. Sometimes I feel like I missed some all important life lesson about how to be a person. Or that there is something wrong with me that I haven't identified yet. Or that it's the universe that has gone wrong. That I've stumbled into some sort of Mandela Effect universe that I'm not supposed to be living in. I feel like every choice I've made for myself has been the wrong one. From choosing to study music when I was 18 to not going running this morning. Everything has been a wrong choice. And I don't know how to make it right. And now this. It doesn't effect me personally. Carlson never did anything inappropriate toward me. I never heard anything inappropriate about him at ASU. Like I said, I haven't had contact with him in 15 years. Still. It does something inside me. Wrenches the knife in just a tad further. I'm supposed to meet with Gaël in an hour to discuss some options. I managed to put on some makeup and get dressed. My plan is to go running this evening before dinner. Dinner which maybe will consist of pasta but more likely will be something along the lines of standing in front of the fridge and dipping vegetables and deli chicken in cream cheese. |
| It is so hot. It is hot. Hell hot. I used to live in Arizona and I don't remember it being this hot. I was discussing that with a client the other day. She came from New Mexico and said the same thing. We love the heat, or at least we thought we did until we experienced the south of France in August. It's not fun. I don't know why? What it is about the heat here that is different and more intolerable than the heat in the middle of the desert. It's 37°C which makes it just shy of 100°F and when I look at it like that I think to myself "Oh, it's only 100°F, I lived in a city where it was 125°F." Meanwhile my body is saying "OMG do something now." My apartment is a sauna. The only reason I'm able to write right now is that it's still fairly early. I have my windows open and the fan blowing, but it's still intolerably hot in here. In fact it's cooler outside. Much cooler. I can't seem to get the cool air to come into the room. Once the stores open I'm going to buy another fan. At least the hot air can move around the room if it doesn't want to leave. All I could do yesterday was lay on my bed and jump in the shower every 45 minutes or so. Even reading proved to be too sticky and sweaty. In fact there were moments I enjoyed sweating because the moisture on my body cooled it down. Can you believe that? I know that's the actual purpose of sweating, but to be aware that the water leaking out of your glands and pores is helping you in the moment is kind of ... I don't know ... disturbing. I believe as humans, or any animal, we're not supposed to be aware of our body's struggle to stay alive. It is one of those things we're supposed to take for granted because if we didn't we'd be to afraid to leave the house. So I sweat a lot. My sheets are wet. In fact, I think I will buy new sheets along with a fan. One week into work and it's seriously not going well. I'm incredibly frustrated. As hard as I try to accept certain things and work with what I have, it's not working. It's just not working. I don't know what to do. Maybe It's just too hot. I think that's some of it. We're all just too hot. The restaurant, despite having air conditioning is in a building built between the 14th and 16th centuries. So the old stone retains the heat. When it's full of people it's brutal. Clients have tried to complain, but then they see us sweating buckets and sympathize. Which is easier for me to deal with than complaints. Because then I can sympathize with their predicament. We're all in the same boat. It's hot. I did have one client complain. He told me it was hot. I said I know. He said the client is always right. I asked him what that had to do with anything? |
| I manage 500 words on the train. I usually find it near impossible to write on the train because I'm paying too much attention to the people around me and if they are watching me and trying to see what I write. I don't know why I care, but I kind of do. Maybe I feel embarassed, maybe I feel all artsy, maybe I'm afraid they'll talk to me. Or judge me. Maybe all of these things. But I wanted to write because I was bored and I'm tired of being bored and thinking « this would be a good moment to write » and then not writing anything because... of everything I just said above and because I'm afraid of how difficult writing is. Of investing myself in something that might come to nothing. But I'm tired of being afraid of investing myself in actual story telling. Even if creating the story is actually difficult. I'm normally in a point in the story where I would stop and be bored and abandon the story altogether and maybe that is what I will do, but all stories have boring bits. If I continue with this piece – and that's a big if considering I go back to work tomorrow – I may even plan an outline. We are almost to Lyon. I have been thinking alot about going back to work. About what I want for the future. About what I don't want. Nothing is defined but most of all I don't want to be unhappy. I don't want to feel crushed emotionally and spiritually by my job. Not to mention physically. I don't like the word spiritual, but that's how I feel. Like who I am is being swallowed up. And this week, though I didn't do much, allowed me to emerge. Re-emerge. Just a bit. The metaphor of the ocean was an apt one. I'm not saying that I have a clear picture of what I want, because I don't. But I don't want what I've been doing for the past five months. I don't want how I've been living for the past five years. I'm not saying I totally hate my job and want to quit – though I do often say that. I need to find a balance. There needs to be a balance. Because even in my career I can't advance with the way I'm living and how I'm working now. I can't continue working on wine and learning on my own when all, literally ALL of my energy and waking hours are focused on just making the restaurant function. I need to ask for that balance, I'm willing to compromise, and I understand that in the restaurant industry it isn't easy to let people (me) do their own thing, but there's got to be a solution. Passing through my faorite part of the train ride, just south of Lyon where the train passes by the hills of Côte-Rôtie just outside of Vienne. I try to guess which of the anonymous parcels of vines belongs to Ogier and Montez and Gerin and Pichat. Some of my favorite producers. Of course I could suck it up, get my licence, rent a car and go visit these people myself, but that would require extensive paper work. Which I don't have time to do because of my job. Hell, I'm pretty sure I'm on the verge of a serious illness (there is something wrong with me, I'm just not listening) and I don't have time to go to the doctor to have it checked out. I don't even have time to find a doctor. The young woman across from me doesn't shave. I was ok with this until I saw under her arms. My god. At least trim. I'm open and accepting of most things, but I can't handle such unbridled underarm hair. |
| What bothers me the most about starting a story is that I know once work starts again, I will forget the story and never finish it. I'll become drowned in the day to day, in staying afloat above the swift moving tide of my job. Perhaps it's an overworked metaphor, especially with me, but that's how I feel when I am at work. Like I am fighting to keep myself above the current. And swallowing mouthfuls of water that drown out my voice. The water sucks me under and covers me over and I disappear into it's depths. Nevertheless, I have started a story. I've written over 1000 words. I'm remembering how hard it is to string sentences together and find the right phrase, the right word, the right expression, and how much fluency I've lost after years of speaking bad French and simplified English and yet... And Yet I find it easier to write than I did before. The words do come even if they take a while to find. I write on my couch where I adjust the coffee table to desk height and listen to my husband play computer games behind me. It reminds me of La Seyne a bit when we didn't have much room in our apartment and our desks were side by side. He, clicking away on his mouse and screaming into the microphone, and me, working on some project and laughing at the ridiculousness of the games. Maybe, when we move to Lyon, we don't need a big apartment after all. I wish that I could find a balance between work and the rest of my life. To be honest, I don't want to quit my job, but I don't want it to remain this all consuming ocean that it is either. A lake. I'd like a lake. I looked at Tumblr, I signed up for Tumblr. I posted to Tumblr. I don't know if I will continue using Tumblr but I signed out of Facebook and turned off all the notifications. I want a platform that allows full expression. That doesn't mean posting every stupid thought that comes into my head, teenage angst or fake happiness, but an expression. I don't need people to read the blog, I just need to post in it. For now. Also - hashtag? It feels good to have keys under my fingers. It feels good to see words on a page. I'm thinking about my voice. Tomorrow is my birthday. |
| It's not just W that I want to delete from Facebook. It's Facebook in general. I seem to get this way every year around my birthday. The rest of the year I think about it, but kind of shrug it off. It's so fake , Facebook. There's nothing real life, nothing tangible, no connection. I have more of a connection here, on W.com, blogging randomly into the Void with barely anyone listening than I do on Facebook because at least here I can express thoughts and use run-on sentences. Friends of Facebook; there's really no point. The constant barrage of politics and social agenda, the fake happy lives everyone is leading, the photos no one looks at. What the fuck is a status update? Like anyone who is a "friend" gives a second thought to me or my life when I don't post a status update for weeks at a time. I know I don't think of them. These are not original thoughts. Anyway, I'm kind of down on social media. I like having an internet space to chronicle my life, but Facebook isn't that space. I want the good, the bad, and the ugly. I want to take a photo of a dead bird on the side of the road and of people's pollution and let people know how disappointed in them I am. I want to take photos of rainbows to remind myself of all the beauty in the world. I want to write about interesting people I see. One of the reasons I hate my job is because of how unnecessary it is. I don't do anything. I don't really provide a service, I'm not important. I am a luxury item far less interesting that the wine I'm selling. I don't help or create or provide. The restaurant industry is wasteful, it's horrible for the environment, it's fleeting pleasure. It's harmful. Sometimes I feel bad about the animals we kill to provide our food. I'm not necessarily promoting vegetarianism, but we kill so many animals. I feel useless, I feel lazy, I feel like I'm an emotionally shut down creature barely able to interact on a deeply connected level to the world around me. I thought this morning about the apartment I owned in La Seyne with my husband. I hated that apartment, but I miss it. I miss it because my life was calmer, happier, more fruitful and creative. I had my food blog and cooked and wrote and watched my cat sit in the flower box as the sun went down on summer nights. I didn't know what I had when I had it. I'm unhappy. But deeply unhappy. Unfulfilled. Life is running through my fingers like water, the days, the hours. I let it. I don't know why. |
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I think it's awesome that you're using that negative experience to get creative. It's hard not to just wallow when those things happen. I use a paper journal for most of my actual coping process too, but I do share bits and pieces on WDC as well.
Might try a short story a day instead. Stay safe. 
