2016
Each one of us—having made the decision to come here alone, in our own corner of the world, for our own reasons, and with varying degrees of reflection—now rolled down a dimly lit French autoroute in a Renault minivan. Piled in between ski gear, was a strange new group of friends. And in between fighting for control of the aux cable and venting about another week behind us of wrangling French children and appeasing French parents, we all felt the relief that came with having made, by all accounts, a good decision.
Here we were on a Friday night, stretching 80 euro weekly stipends across some of Earth's most coveted real estate. And at this time where just about any social interaction (ordering food at a restaurant, delivering a package at the post office, a doctor's visit, etc.) required some inordinate amount of mental preparation; we had found, in each other, a place where we could be our most uncontrived selves.
These were the early days—before those things from our own corners of the world would unpack themselves and pull us apart again.
The break-ups we were reeling from. The commitments. The overgrown career paths. The doubts. The desires.
Before the inevitable goodbyes. Before new friends and then those goodbyes.
For now, we were silly 20-somethings on our big break together.
Our au pair adventures often went along the lines of a classic "walk into a bar" joke: Four girls (insert four different nationalities here) walk into France—comedy was bound to ensue
How many au pairs can you fit comfortably on 1.5 sofa beds in Chamonix?
The answer is: at least 6, as we determined thanks to a couple guys from New Zealand we met CouchSurfing in late February.
Chamonix is a funny place in France where you have just as good a chance of hearing English as you do French. It's filled with young people on working holidays. The après ski scene rivals the ski scene. We might as well have been kids in a candy shop.
Chamonix Centre was a two kilometer walk from the New Zealanders' apartment straight up a road dark enough to marvel the stars. Beer bottles in hand, and Kacey Musgrave's Follow Your Arrow playing from a phone speaker, we danced into the night.
We kept dancing. We found our spirit animal at The Monkey. We played foosball at Bard'Up. We drank– Jäger Bombs. Get 27. Beer. Tequila. Vodka. We flirted with American guys at The Pub, high on the re-discovered ease of chatting with strangers in English. We went underground, clubbing at the Bunker and L'Amnesia where we dwindled away one by one into early morning hours. We railed against hangovers the next day. We skied (or attempted to.) We ate chicken nuggets with barbecue sauce at Elevation 1904. We squeezed in a last dance at Chambre Neuf before heading back to Annecy where we would be our best, most responsible, au pairs selves Monday morning.
Deep within the shenanigans was something poetic. We were young women, each at a crossroad in our lives, stopping to enjoy the view. We didn't know what we were going to do with our lives; and in these moments, that was alright. We were gutsy. We were smart. We weren't satisfied with the lives we had left behind. We would figure it out. And for a little while, we just wanted to have fun.
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