the Monaco/French border every day. Industries du Loup staff are fortunate enough to have a shuttle service to and from the city of Nice, home of the staff accommodations, along with the salad. Salad niçoise. The company houses most of its staff in a couple of buildings on Rue Arson, or Arson Street I guess you could say, where I’ve been allocated a studio apartment. It’s anything but spacious or swanky, but it’s bright and clean and has a tiny Juliet balcony overlooking the street, so that’s pretty cool.
I’d arrived late Thursday night, and the following day, I was taken to the HR department in Monaco. I’d also visited a government building of some sort to arrange my work permit. Thankfully, I was accompanied by someone who spoke French because as it turns out, the first language of Monaco isn’t English but French.
Help!
I’m told there’s also a local language in Monaco which is a mixture of French and Italian, but I’m not going to worry about that. Instead, I’ve decided to concentrate on learning French and have spent the weekend listening to YouTube videos, spending my downtime repeating useful phrases, injected with a little Remy-like flair.
Things like:
Is this seat taken?
Can I buy you a drink?
Is that a baguette in your pants, or are you just pleased to see me?
You know, the useful stuff.
Monday morning—my first real day at work—and the blonde sitting in front of me on the bus turns my way with a smile.
‘Bonjour.’
I hesitate for a moment not because I’m rude but because my mind freezes. I can say bonjour in return, sure, but I don’t want her to start babbling in French, thinking I speak the language or anything.
‘Hi,’ I eventually settle on. I’m a scintillating conversationalist, right?
‘What did you think of Monaco?’ Thank God, an English speaker! ‘I saw you on the bus on Friday.’ Her accent is British and her expression open and friendly. ‘You must’ve gone to sign the paperwork for your work permit.’
‘Yeah, I did.’ After, I had a few hours to kill before being bussed back with the rest of the staff, giving me a little time to explore, not that I went far. ‘I think Monaco is beautiful, though I’m pretty sure I prefer Nice so far.’ I think I’d eventually end up feeling hemmed in, living in a country that’s no bigger than Central Park. ‘To be honest, I’m still trying to process that I’m here.’
‘Don’t worry, it takes time,’ she answers kindly. ‘I’m Fee, by the way.’ She points at her name badge on her blue polo shirt which actually reads Fiadh. ‘Ignore this,’ she says, glancing down. ‘No one can ever pronounce it anyway.’
‘Fiadah,’ I reply with the correct pronunciation. Fee-ah. I also know it means wild, though she looks anything but wild. Her fair hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail, her complexion peaches and cream. Besides, no one who wears a polo shirt could ever be wild.
‘An Irish American?’ she asks, her eyes sparkling.
‘Róisín.’ I hold out my hand along with the introduction. Róisín, said Row-sheen, means little rose in Gaelic, so I’m told. I have an equally interesting middle name because I’m what you might call a bit of a mixed bag. Poor Irish Lebanese Kentuckian born little girl. ‘Guilty as charged.’ Second generation Irish, third Lebanese. Culturally confused AF.
‘What are the odds!’
‘Very slim,’ I reply, chuckling, her delight almost infectious.
‘I can tell we’re going to be firm friends.’
‘United by our parents’ love of unpronounceable names?’
‘Oh, God, never say that in front of my mother. She may have lived in London for thirty years but cut her and her blood will probably run green. Did you grow up hating that no one could ever say your name?’
‘Yup,’ I agree emphatically. ‘There are only so many times you can be called raisin without losing it a little. By the time I turned twelve, I refused to answer to anything but Rose.’
‘Raisin? That’s hilarious.’
‘For at least a hundred times.’
‘And after that, it’s just annoying, right?’ I nod. ‘I used to get called Fido a lot myself. Or some bloody awful variation. Fi-dada, Fi-yar-dar. So I put my foot down. Only my parents are allowed to call me anything other than Fee.’
My mother died when I was a teen, so few people know my real name is Róisín at all. But I don’t mention any of this. Mentioning you’re an orphan, even as an adult, only makes for awkward conversations. Also, my Irish roots aren’t so fierce.