Sometimes all it takes is a long walk by the water to make everything okay.

Today my friend and I grabbed some coffees and walked the sea wall.  The smell of seaweed, salt air, and the sight of the mountains and my old neighborhood in the distance warmed my heart.

Things are getting exciting in this city as the Olympics are coming to town, but I’m most thankful for these quiet moments.

I’m still enjoying catching up with old friends and roaming the city, and received the good news this morning that I got a job during the games.

It’s nothing glamorous, but I’ll be a part of the action as a host at one of the sights set up in town.  I look forward to interacting with all the people coming to Vancouver for the first time and seeing the city take on a new life.

For now I’m enjoying the quiet, and plotting my life here little by little.

I’m glad I took off to the South for the week, because now that I’m back I have hit the dirty Parisian sidewalks running.

I find myself feeling more a part of the scenery with my own apartment and a job a few blocks away.

I am now a waitress in Paris, asking “Que’est-ce que vous desirez?”  In my best French accent, balancing plates and espressos for the well dressed young men and women of the Marais.

The restaurant opened last night and was quickly filled with the owner’s friends, sipping Champagne, eating the homemade chips (pronounced “cheeps”) and eventually settling down for a big meal.

I’m trying to do my best to adapt to the Parisian service industry.  I’m trying to be polite, but not too talkative, efficient, but not too fast, to smile, but not to smile so much that they start to think I’m sneaking some of the Chardonnay.

The restaurant is warmly lit and the exposed brick and small wooden tables give it a cozy urban feel. The menu is written on a big chalkboard and I find myself awkwardly holding it up for people when I can’t find somewhere comfortable to lean it. When there are several customers I run around like the headless chickens at a French market trying to make sure everyone sees the wine menu, the drink menu, the meal menu, and of course the dessert menu.

The menu is simple and modern, with entrees that include a few American inspired items like chicken crunchy (said “crunshee”), quesidilla and a very popular burger and fries as one of the mains. There is even a spring roll a la Francaise, stuffed with goat cheese.

After working in a big steakhouse where we were told to give refills before pops were finished and quality check after the first bite, I find myself pacing nervously in the small space as I adjust to the French boulot.

I am impressed with the French and their ability to consume three-course meals and wine at lunch time.  I watch beautiful women in three inch heels work their way through a large burger and fries like it’s a side salad and light up inside.  The French don’t fear food, they take it as pleasure and ritual as it should be.

So far I have walked away with some decent change at the end of my shifts.  Last night I made 30 euros in tips and my boss was thoroughly impressed.  He wants me to work every night.  In Paris, where tipping is as common as a woman in jogging pants in the 16th arrondissement, this is pretty good.

What’s best is I finally feel like I’m seeing Paris as I wanted to see it.  Im making euros doing something I enjoy, drinking my espresso behind the bar in a charming cafe and getting tips from the locals who know the city best.