Somehow this morning on the thought of the winter about four years ago -- when I worked short-term in one of those flower shops of the 15ieme district in Paris, because of financial constraints, meanwhile, I reported at the Sixth University of Paris in Department of Mathematics, prepared on the basis of specialized courses; That year was not able to complete them though. I have the impression of me that time, young, short curly hair on top with a rubber banded little bar, hid inside a green overall apron printed with the word "INTERFLORA" -- name of the shop-- and a silver-side white sweater, in my hands either groves or cloth, or black barrels and barrels brush with which I moved all around. In that short period of time I have gone through the bottom of social life of being called and dismissed, suffered with scorn and humiliation. Rather to be called a helper, the work is rather to be a servant. I didn't know how lucky I was to encounter such an employer that was exactly like in those films and novels like a smiling tiger and his wife a step-mother; Both Chinese, they were least looking like my country folks. Every night I ended the day last outside the door with a huge broom, to sweep off the leaves and dead flowers, and look at the trimly suited white-collar workers passing by me. Morning, I should get there by 7, because many things to be done. All the flowers before the night were locked in warehouse nextdoors, and in the morning tens to a hundred pots of the basins for me to move out. Before, I always naively thought that working in a flower shop was very romantic, but after having been there for two weeks I did not think it any more. As the lovely flowers in the eyes of their bosses are only pots of cash: I have felt that the dark warehouse as a prison: the flowers are locked into the night, pulled out the next morning, and with the enthusiasm and sweet smile on the face of bosses but never shown to me, for a premium price. In fact, if it were not for the wife as harsh and critical, the work in a flower shop is a fun thing. Especially for a favorite of flowers. I usually could not deal with customers, that was the boss wife's joy. I just stood in a curtain-separated small room behind with washing javel all barrels a day, to wipe, to clean pots, to water the flowers -- As for watering the flowers, non-experienced would have thought about spraying with water bottles with fun -- but it was completely wrong. In fact, I should carry the whole basin, however heavy it is, dip into a vat of cold water, soak the plants from root. The water was usually put in some drug to maintain the flowers fresh, so that the potted plants could be kept for a long time. Sometimes I used water sprays, but due to be spent vary -- for large and delicate flowers of the plant, only a little spray could be applied to the root or stems, if the water droplets hit petals so the flower would soon wither and hire a scolding from the boss' wife. During my work I could not sit, if she didn't hear any noise she would enter from outside, and if I seen sitting on the table edges (no chair), would be told: "Oh? Your life so well Ah?" And then found me whatever she could imagine out for me to do. Actually I felt strange this woman's personality, she knew many of the flowers, could bundle a specially beautiful flower basket, when her daughter -- a seven or eight-year-old girl came to the shop occasionally, she would reveal the maternity with a warmest smile. But towards me, I do not know for what reason, she was like in pregnancy with a profound hatress. I guess maybe it was because I was taller, nicer-tampered and younger, educated but certainly a bit clumsy in her eyes. I did not understand why she was not good to me, only the ailing, afterall I was a more than 20-year-old girl, who does not know the world. After a day of humiliated and hard work, with tears in my eyes, through Issy-les-Moulineaux the Grand Cross of the crowded population back to my small rented room. Sometimes she sent me to give her friend sent-things in another corner of the Chinese take-away store, which was strange that the same group of strange people with a variety of scanning eyes over me, I really find it strange that my original two decades as not living on this planet, because there are so many strange biologicals, and I've never met them; which has been when I have lived in Paris The greatest feeling. There were also a good experience in my flower shop worker life, among all the errands my favorite was to deliver flower. The boss' wife would give me her basket of flowers and the address on a note, did not forget to put an enigmatically sentence, "That is a rich area ah, you have to carefully Point!" Then I would like a bird, happily rush out and leave the Cage on earth, climb into a metro with the flower. I remember the most stringent of all, is a big house with yard in the 16ieme District, inside which a very very old lady, I gave her the flowers, she said: "Please wait a little," turned to bring me two brand-new golden-edged 2-euro coins. That was my happiest time in all work experience, I do not know there are tips and felt good just happy that I have two coins to retain only willing to spend a long time. -- I kept them for quite a few weeks just to remember that happiness. In the cold wind behind the curtains, I often listened to the people walking up and down in the street came in, bought a huge and beautiful flower bouquet, which was often the price of two or three days of my paid work. At that time, I could not help but imagine that one day I can end this life of poverty, and seriously enter the shop to buy a bouquet of flowers. Now life is finally embarked on a half on the right track, but the mind is always there when I recall from those moment of incredible hardness in my life: The girl wearing a green apron, sad but stubborn, standing in cold wind was soso shaking, but certainly believe that the future, although not see anything, could be better. In any case, from a word of that time's diary to encourage myself: the experience, no matter how difficult, after years been passing, is good as the wealth of memories. yaya 2008, 11/29

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