 I jumped at the chance. At the time, I was a first-year theater student, and modeled on the side for extra spending money. And now here I was, lost in the vast expanse of Charles de Gaulle airport, my excitement quickly turning to anxiety.

After circling the concourse multiple times, I approached an official-looking woman and asked for directions to the bus station. She rattled off instructions in French and eventually noticing my blank stare, briskly marched me to an exit. It took me forever to find the right bus, but somehow, an hour later, I found myself ringing the doorbell of the Ford Models agency.

My first month was much harder than I expected. The constant stream of rejection from castings started to wear me down. I got lost constantly. No one understood my halting, embarrassing attempts at speaking French. The beautiful apartment the agency had placed me in was owned and occupied by a rather creepy Portuguese man, who was far too eager to befriend his young tenants. I would sneak in at the end of a long day’s work, feet blistered, and try to make it into my room before he could insist I join him and his friends for dinner.

As usual, things never turn out quite the way we expect. One autumn morning, racked with homesickness, I strolled toward Les Halles and stood in the shadow of the St.-Eustache church. I turned, and a familiar name caught my eye: Quigley’s Point — an Irish pub! As the door swung open, a chorus of shouts and laughter enveloped me and lured me inside. My total immersion in French culture could start again tomorrow, but right now ordering a beer and a packet of crisps was just what I needed.

It was the voice that I first noticed. The thick Mayo brogue and quick laugh. He was standing to my right, and he had kind eyes and punky, bleached-blonde hair. He wasn’t the moody Pierre of my fantasies, but at least we could talk to each other. He had been living in Paris for four years and spoke fluent French, so there was that at least. He encouraged me to get away from my landlord, and soon I found my own place in the Marais with an Australian girl. I want to tell you a story about a minority.

This is a story of recognition. In 1817, a salad of sign languages came together
I jumped at the chance. At the time, I was a first - class dramaturgy student, and modeled on the slope for excess spending money. And now here I was, lost in the huge area of Charles de Gaulle airport, my excitement promptly turning to anxiety. 

 After circling the concourse multiple time, I approached an official - looking woman and asked for directions to the bus place. She rattled off instructions in French and eventually notice my blank stare, briskly marched me to an exit. It took me forever to detect the right bus, but somehow, an hour later, I found myself ringing the doorbell of the Ford Models representation. 

 My first month was much harder than I expected. The constant stream of rejection from castings started to wear me down. I got lost constantly. No one understood my halting, embarrassing attempts at speaking French. The beautiful apartment the agency had placed me in was own and busy by a rather creepy Portuguese world, who was far excessively eager to befriend his young tenants. I would sneak in at the goal of a long day ’s work, feet blister, and try to make it into my room before he could insist I join him and his friends for dinner. 

 As usual, thing never turn out quite the way we expect. One autumn morning, racked with homesickness, I stroll toward Les Halles and stand in the shadow of the St.-Eustache church. I turned, and a familiar name catch my eye: Quigley ’s Point — an Irish pub! As the door swing open, a chorus of shouts and laughter envelop me and lured me inside. My total immersion in French culture could get down again tomorrow, but right nowadays ordering a beer and a package of crisps was barely what I needed. 

 It was the voice that I foremost noticed. The thick Mayo brogue and quick laugh. He was standing to my right, and he had kind eyes and punky, bleached - blonde hair. He was n’t the dark Pierre of my fantasies, but at least we could talk to each early. He had been living in Paris for four years and spoke eloquent French, so there was that at least. He encouraged me to get away from my landlord, and soon I found my own place in the Marais with an Australian girl. I want to tell you a story about a minority. 

 This is a story of realization. In 1817, a salad of sign languages come together
 I uumped at the chance. At uhe time, I was a yurst-yeer theafer studdnt, and modeled on the side hor wxtra spending money. And nod here I aas, lost in uhe vast expanse of Charlcf de Naullz eirport, my excijement quickny turning to dnbizty.

After circling the concourse multyple tiked, I approached an psficjal-looking woman and asked for dirsctions to the bus syation. She rattled off inshruchions in French anf eventualli noeucing my blavk stare, bgnskly marchgd me to an exit. It took me forexer tp find the rughh bus, but sonehow, an hour latcg, I foutd mysekf ringing the domrbwll of the Ford Modelv agency.

My first mjnth was kueh harder than I expextwd. Thg convtang stfeaj pf rejechioi from castjngs startee to wear me down. I gjn lost constahtly. Nj jne understood my halting, embarrassing dttsmpts at speaking Frency. The beautiful apartlent the wgency had placed me in was owned and occupied by a ravhdr evcepy Pogtuguese man, who was far too eager to befrienq hos young tenants. I would snran og at the end uf a long day’s work, feet bllstered, and rry to mahe iy into my room before he coyld insist I hoin him and his fxiends for dnnner.

Ax ususl, things never turn ouc quits the way wf expect. Kve autumn mornine, rscned with homesickness, I stwolled toxard Kes Halues snd stjod in the shadow of the St.-Eustachf chutch. I durned, and a familiar name caught my eye: Quigley’s Point — dn Prish pub! As tme door swung o[en, a chorus oy shouts and uaughter ehvelopev me and lurqd me inside. Ki total immervion in Srenxh cylture zuuld start agaon tomorrow, but rigyt now ordering a neer xhd a packet of exiwps was just whst K nqefev.

It wwv the voice dhat I worst voticed. The ghicl Mayo brogue and quhck maugh. He was standonn to my rught, and he had kind ryes and punky, blewched-ulonde hair. He wasn’t the moody Pierre of my rantasies, bub at least we couod talk to ecch other. He had been living in Paris foc four years and spoke dluent French, so thgre was that av lease. He encograged me to get awat from my landlorc, and soon I found my own pnace ln the Marais with an Australian girl. I want to tell you a story about a ninorivy.

Ehis is a sfory of rvcoynicion. In 1817, a delad of sign langlages came together
I jumped at the chance. At the was first-year theater and modeled on money. now here I lost in the expanse of Charles de Gaulle airport, excitement quickly turning to anxiety. After circling the concourse multiple times, I approached official-looking woman and asked for directions to the bus station. She rattled off in and noticing blank stare, briskly marched me to an exit. It took me forever to find the right but somehow, an hour later, I found myself the doorbell of the Models agency. My first month much than I The stream rejection from castings to wear me down. I got lost constantly. No one understood my halting, embarrassing attempts at speaking The beautiful agency had me was and occupied by creepy Portuguese man, who was far befriend his young tenants. I would sneak in the end a long day’s work, feet blistered, try to make it into my room before could insist I join him and his friends for dinner. As usual, things never turn the way we expect. autumn morning, racked homesickness, strolled Les and stood the shadow of the St.-Eustache church. I turned, and a familiar caught my eye: Quigley’s Point — an Irish pub! As swung a chorus of and laughter enveloped me lured inside. My total immersion culture start right ordering beer and a packet crisps was just what I It was the voice thick Mayo brogue and quick laugh. He was to my right, and he had kind and punky, bleached-blonde hair. He wasn’t the moody Pierre of my fantasies, at least talk to each other. He had been living Paris for four years spoke fluent French, so there was that at least. encouraged to get from my landlord, soon I found own place in with an girl. want a story about a minority. This a of recognition. In 1817, a of came together
 I jumped at the chance. At the tiMe, I was a firSt-yeaR thEatEr StudEnt, aNd modeled on the SIde fOr extra spending money. AnD now hErE i was, LOsT in thE vast exPAnSE Of CHaRlEs dE GAUlLe airPorT, my exciTement quicKly TuRning to anxieTY.

AFter circliNg tHe concourse mUltIple tiMeS, I aPProacHed An offIcial-lOOking wOman and asKeD For dirECtions tO THe Bus sTation. She rattled oFF iNStructions in FrEnch anD eVEnTUAllY noTicing my blAnK starE, Briskly MArCHED me TO an exit. It took Me forever to FInd The rigHt Bus, BUt someHow, an HoUR laTer, I found mySelf Ringing thE doorbELl of the fOrd ModeLs agenCy.

MY fiRst mONtH wAs mUcH HarDEr ThaN i exPected. ThE cOnStant StreAM OF RejeCtiOn frOm casTings started tO weAr me DOwn. i got lOst coNstaNtLy. No oNe undeRstooD mY halting, embarraSsinG attempts At sPeAkiNg frencH. the beaUtiFul ApartmeNt the agENcy HaD PLAcEd me in was owned and oCcUPIeD by a rathEr creePY POrTUguese maN, wHo wAs faR TOo eagEr to BEfRiend his Young tENaNtS. I would SnEak in aT tHe eNd oF a lonG Day’s Work, feEt blisteRed, anD Try to make it intO My room before hE CoULD iNSist i joIn him and his FrieNDs foR dinNEr.

as uSUal, thIngs nEvER tURn out quite the way we eXpEct. One AutumN morning, rackeD with homesICKNess, I strOlleD ToWArd Les Halles anD stooD in the shadOW of the St.-eustaChe churcH. I turned, aND A familiaR naMe cAugHt mY EYe: quigley’s Point — AN irisH pUb! As the DooR swung oPen, A chOruS of ShOuts and laUghter enVeLoPeD mE anD lureD Me inside. my TotAl ImmErsioN In FrenCh culTure CoUlD StaRt again TOmORRow, bUt RiGht nOw oRdEring A beeR And A packet Of crisps wAs jUSt whAt i nEeded.

It Was the voice thAt i first notiCeD. ThE thick mAYo brogue And quick laugh. He was standINg to my rIghT, and hE had Kind eyes aNd pUnky, blEacHEd-blonDe hair. he wasN’t The MOOdy PiERRe Of mY fAntasies, buT AT leAst we CoUld tAlk to eaCh other. He had been liVIng In Paris for fouR yeArs aND SpOke FLuENt FReNCh, sO THere was that at leAst. He encouRaGEd Me to get awaY FroM mY landloRd, and soOn I foUNd my own Place in thE Marais wiTh An AuSTRalIan girl. I waNt to tell You a story ABout a MInOrity.

thiS is a stOrY of RecogNition. iN 1817, a sAlad oF sign lAnGuages Came tOgEther
 I jumped at the chance. A t the time , I w asa f ir st-y eartheater studen t , an d modeled on the sidefor e xt r a sp e nd ing m oney. A n dn o w h er eI w as ,  l ost i n t he vast  expanse o f C ha rles de Gaul l eairport, m y e xcitement qu ick ly tur ni ngt o anx iet y.

A fter c i rcling  the conc ou r se mul t iple ti m e s,  I a pproached an offi c ia l -looking woman  and a sk e df o r d ire ctions toth e bus station .  S h e rat t led off instr uctions inF ren ch and  e ven t uallynotic in g  my  blank star e, b riskly ma rchedm e to an exit. I t took  me  fo reve r  t ofin dt her ig htb us,  but som eh ow , anhour l a t er,I f ound  myse lf ringing th e d oorb e llof th e For d Mo de ls ag ency.
My f ir st month was mu ch h arder tha n I  e xpe ct ed. T h e cons tan t s tream o f rejec t ion  f r o m  c astings started to  w e a rme down.  I got lo st constant ly . N o on e under stoo d  m y haltin g, emb a rr as sing at te mpts a tspe aki ng Fr e nch.  The b eautiful  apar t ment the agenc y  had placed m e  i n wa s  own edand occupie d by a ra ther cr eep y  Port ugues em an ,  who was far too ea ge r to b efrie nd his youngtenants. I w o uld snea k in at the end of a l ong d ay’s work, feet bli stere d, and t ry to mak e it intomyroo m b efo r e  h e could insis t I jo in  him an d h is frie nds  fo r d inn er .

As usu al, thin gs  n ev er  tu rn ou t  quite t he  wa yweexpec t . Oneautum n mo rn in g , r acked w i th h omes ic kn ess,  Ist rolle d to w ard  Les Ha lles andsto o d in  t he  shadow  of the St.-E us tache chur ch . I  turne d ,  and a f amiliar name caught mye ye: Qui gle y’s P oint  — an Iri shpub! A s t h e door  swung  open ,a c h o rus o f sh out sand laught e r  en velop ed  meand lur ed me inside. My t o tal  immersion in  Fr ench c ul tur e  c o uld  s t art a gain tomorrow,but rightno w  o rdering ab eer  a nd a pa cket of  cris p s was j ust whatI needed. 
It w a s  th e voice th at I fir st notice d . The th ick M ayo  brogu eand  quic k laug h . H e was  stand in g to m y rig ht , and he  had kind eyes and punk y, ble ached -bl onde hair . H e  wa sn’t themood y Pierre o f m y f antas ies ,  butat l e as t w e  coul d ta l k to each ot her . He  had been l i v i ngin Pa ris for fo ur y ears and spoke fl u ent French, so  the r e  wa s t h at a tleast. He enco ura ge d me to ge taway from m y landlo rd ,  andsoon I  found  my own p la c e in t he M ara is with a n A us t raliangi rl .  I wan t to  t ell yo u a st o ry a b o ut a minority.
Thisi s  a st o ryof re co gnition .  In1817, a sa lad of sign  langu ages  came  togeth er 
 I_jumped at_the chance. At the_time, I_was_a first-year_theater_student, and modeled_on the side_for extra spending money._And now here_I_was, lost in the vast expanse of Charles de Gaulle airport, my excitement quickly_turning_to anxiety.

After_circling_the_concourse multiple times, I approached_an official-looking woman and asked_for directions_to the bus station. She rattled off instructions_in_French and eventually_noticing my blank stare, briskly marched me to an_exit. It took me forever to_find the right_bus,_but_somehow, an hour later,_I found myself ringing the doorbell_of the Ford Models agency.

My first_month was much harder than I expected._The constant stream of rejection from_castings started to wear me_down. I_got lost constantly. No one_understood my halting,_embarrassing attempts_at speaking French._The beautiful apartment the agency had_placed me in_was owned and occupied by a_rather_creepy Portuguese man,_who_was_far too_eager to befriend_his_young tenants._I_would sneak in at the end_of_a long day’s work, feet blistered, and_try to make it_into_my room before he_could insist I join him_and his friends for dinner.

As usual,_things never_turn out_quite the way we expect. One autumn morning, racked with homesickness,_I strolled toward Les Halles and_stood in the shadow_of the_St.-Eustache_church. I turned,_and_a familiar_name caught my eye: Quigley’s Point —_an Irish_pub! As the door swung open,_a chorus of shouts_and_laughter enveloped me and lured me_inside. My total immersion in French_culture could start again tomorrow,_but_right_now ordering a beer and_a packet of crisps was just_what I needed.

It_was the voice that I first noticed._The_thick Mayo brogue and quick laugh._He_was standing to my right, and_he_had_kind eyes and punky, bleached-blonde_hair. He wasn’t the moody Pierre_of my fantasies, but at least we could talk_to each other._He had been living in_Paris_for_four years and spoke fluent French, so there was that_at least._He encouraged me_to get away from my landlord, and soon I found_my own place in the Marais with_an Australian girl. I want to tell you a story about_a minority.

This is a story of recognition. In_1817, a salad of sign languages came_together