Monday, July 20, 2009

An Au Pair to Remember

My dad’s gone off to England for a little soiree to honor the first matriculants of his Oxford college, among whom he in fact numbers himself.  Simultaneously, I have found myself in conversation upwards of twice in the last month with the hot Eurau-pair ladies whose charges frequent the same playground as my delightful J-Dogg.  I think they’re German or Swiss or something; they usually keep to themselves.  But on more than a couple of occasions lately, Jesse has charged into their little play circle, bestowing upon them his delightfully confrontational stare-down.  They spoke to him, and then to me.  Dad in England.  Chatting up the au pairs.  There’s a story there somewhere.  I don’t recall much of it, but the small bit that remains I must memorialize lest it evaporate on me altogether. 

The year was 1970 and I was six years old.  The family was off for half a year accompanying my dad on sabbatical, ending up eventually in Israel via Rome, but spending most of our time in England.  That trip had some ups and some downs for me.  I’ve shared some of the downs.  Now, to the best of my recollection, here’s an up. 

Let’s start with the recognition that my parents were - and are - good parents.  They look out for my sister and me.  I’ve always felt safe and protected with them.  Maybe not every single choice they make is beyond reconsideration, but that’s true for everybody.  Mom and dad did their level best, and that was pretty damn good. 

Let it also be noted that life in 1970 was different.  Most cars didn’t have seat belts.  Playpens were primarily designed to maim and strangle toddlers, and toys spontaneously ignited in cheerful conflagrations of noxious, colorful smoke.  Child safety was more a matter of “do no harm” than the elaborate enterprise it is today.  Don’t ride inside the dishwasher; stop eating matches.  Simple rules for a simpler time.

I remember being a small child out with my mom on errands, not wanting to languish with her for however long she’d take in the knitting shop or grocery store - and she was just as happy to conduct her business without my interruptions.  She’d just leave me in the car with the key in the ignition, so I could keep the radio going.  This was good parenting, and it made for cumulative hours of great childhood memories for me.  Leaving your kids - that’s what good parents did.  And in the bosom of the safety of international travel, even more so.  Hell, leaving the kids was as good as obligatory.

So, during our trip to England, on the exceptional occurrence of a visit out to London where we stayed in a genuine hotel and imbibed the heady draught of pure vacationism (instead of mere sabbaticalosity), it was not inappropriate for mom and dad to take one night for themselves.  I think it was just a nice supper out alone for the grownups, a chance for them to be themselves instead of being parents, for a mere evening.  My sis and I were fed, bathed, enpajamulated and lovingly tucked into our respective sacks.  Then mom and dad shut off the lights, quietly slipped out the hall door, and abandoned us to our own devices. 

Sis, at age three, fell asleep swiftly and soundly.  I, however, had lately embarked upon several years of insomnia, and lay awake in my bed in the quaint old hotel in a quaint old quarter of Jolly Old London - home of Beefeaters and the White Tower, Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus, Hyde Park and Sikh Temples… a throbbing metropolis very much unlike our usual haunts out on Oxford’s quiet Banbury Road.  London even seemed to rival in size and intensity my old home town of Los Angeles, which I supposed was saying quite a bit.  It got me sort of charged up, frankly.  I couldn’t sleep. 

The City was calling.  Only my sister’s soft snoring was keeping me in the darkened cloister of my hotel room, and that turned out to be an insufficient anchor.  I got up out of my bed, fiddled with the door till I got it open, and stepped out in my sleepduds into the brilliant world of the hallway.

I seem to recall leaving the room, and the brightness, and the crown moulding high up over my head.  I recall that the carpet was old and worn.  And I think I recall voices that beckoned me, siren-like, down the passageway.  Ladyvoices. Fun ones. 

I have mere memories of memory from here on - flashes of past remembrance of things I’m not entirely sure I still actually remember from their original occurrence: a heavy tarnished doorknob on a deeply coffered door; a tentative knock; a suspicious answer.  The door creeping open, revealing a well-lit interior and bright curious eyes.  White nightgowns, giggles, halting explanations, introductions.  Biscuits - English-style, crumbly-sweet, deliciously illicit. 

Of the two young women upon whom I’d imposed myself, I sadly recall almost nothing.  I did know they were European but not English, that they were excellent hostesses, that we played games - cards? - and I made myself very much at home in their hotel room that night.  The term “au pair” was not known to me at that time, though I learned later that’s what they were.  It is a term that ever since has been imbued for me with the sublime scintillation of pleasures obtained without permission.  And biscuits.  And, possibly, cocoa. 

I was surprised by a knock at the door: my mortified parents had come back from an otherwise relaxing night on the town to discover their first-born gone missing.  What they had done to find me - frantic calls to the front desk, random door knocks - I never knew; what I had put them through by disappearing like that - anguish, embarrassment, fear - never even entered my mind.  All I knew was that I’d been bored and awake, but then found some new friends to entertain me.  I bade my continental girlfriends adieu for the evening and returned to my own room with my parents, all of us ready for a bit of a rest.  I never saw those young women again, but I have thought of them many, many times since.  Needless to say.

And now that dad’s gone back to England yet again, I’m reminded anew of that night.  Plus, I guess I still have a bit of a soft spot for those au pairs.  They do make the ol’ playground seem that much more.... playful.  Perhaps I’ll bring them a plate of biscuits to return the favor and get some karmic closure, but I’m afraid the gesture might be misunderstood.