Bastille Day Weekend: The French glamour lesson

During my two-week séjour in June, I honestly wish I’d taken cabs a little more often in Paris. Why? There’s nothing like being chauffeured in the City of Light, a splendid panorama of monuments and pageantry through a car window. After leaving William’s apartment, the energy was palpable as we crossed the Pont du Carrousel from the Rive Droite to storied Saint Germain-des-Prés on the Rive Gauche, the towers of Notre Dame glowing in the now misty night while teenybopper Selena Gomez’s “I Love You Like A Love Song” gave the car itself a pulse. (Along with ‘Call Me Maybe’, this girly track is very popular in France.) This is how one lives in Paris, it occurred to me, forever passing between the ancient and the popular present.

I felt an adrenaline rush looking out across the glistening midnight Seine: I was in one of the greatest cities in the world, going to an intimate party populated by Parisians I didn’t know but who apparently knew of me through my friend-of-a-friend, another dimension of life to be discovered in mere minutes. Add this to being coincé in the backseat next to two beautiful men, practically perfuming the air with their fluid French: Pinch me please.

Hommes en noir

Exiting a glass elevator, I was thrust through the door of a palatial apartment in the heart of Saint Germain-des-Prés, puckering up to a succession of cheeks and dodging cindery Marlboroughs as they fluttered through the air, loosely wedged between impeccably manicured fingers. The intimidation factor was high as rapidly fluent French poured from every mouth but my own. The time had come: If I wanted to be taken seriously, I needed to start speaking. It was a somewhat surreal sensation in the first place, listening to American rap on the stereo against the one of the most aurally delicate languages on Earth. 

Mostly an assemblage of buyers, merchandisers and PR people for LVMH brands and other designers, everyone was awash in black and white on the salon sofa. I half-expected to find a New York Times journalist to profile the set-up, but no: just another Friday night pre-game on the Rive Gauche. I realized I didn’t feel like I was on vacation any longer; this was all spontaneous and informal enough to be real life.

The evening continued at none other than Silencio (can I call myself a regular yet?). Rotating between the fumor (smoking room), the glistening copper-toned bar, and the dancefloor – much more crowded this time – I spent the next hour welcoming fellow Americans to my “native city.” I expected that successfully feigning Frenchness would be more difficult with New Yorkers, but apparently wearing black and side-parting my hair was enough to prompt them to ask me “what are you drinking” in the worst high school French. Authentically faking a French accent in English is a small victory, of course, but dare I call it a rite of passage?

Serious clubs don’t close until 6-8am in Paris – hilarious considering what an ordeal it is to find a cab after 2h30 – so I woke up, face buried in my pillow, around 14h30. Believe it or not, this is a relatively proper Parisian beginning to la Fête nationale. Most of the French appear to do very little for this holiday, in comparison to America’s large barbecues, patio parties, sparklers and flags on the Fourth. The exception is the massive parade on the Champs-Elysées, in which uniformed representatives from France and its territories all participate. Les pompiers (firemen) are an interesting breed on Bastille Day. They’re known for getting fabulously inebriated at various public parties throughout the city. They also like to get naked.

On Rue Montorgueil

Of course, being me, I was ignorant of the grand parades and spent my afternoon traipsing around William’s neighborhood in the 2^nd arrondissement, which I hadn’t explored during my vacation in June. The streets around Rue Montorgueil and Rue Etienne-Marcel roughly compose an area called the Sentier, historically a Jewish textile district. Today, it is Paris’ more classical answer to New York’s Soho. Most of the city's arrondissements reflect either the traditional, opulent Paris or its bohemian heritage. But Rue Montorgueil is the height of trendy, a truly 

cosmopolitan quartier, and until I meandered through its Saturday crowds – safe from oncoming traffic, as the whole street is a pedestrian zone – I was surprised at the lack of interesting fashion in Paris. (Avenue Montaigne in the 8^th, with its flagship stores, doesn’t count. Like its American cousin Madison Avenue, one sees small groups of tourists and the occasional Saudi princess, and – excepting the Haussmannian architecture – just about every boutique on it can be found in other large cities.) I wandered to the end of the street, which ends at the glorious church of St. Eustache, place of worship for the neighborhood’s aristocracy since the 16^th century (think Louis XIV’s first communion…Madame de Pompadour’s baptism...). Photos never do a cathedral justice.

Sedating myself with glasses of kir at Café Etienne Marcel, I enjoyed a parade of chic before returning to William’s. It's no secret that Parisians may have invented people-watching. Sitting in such a state for two hours is something I’ve never felt comfortable doing in the States, but it grew to be such a natural ritual in France that I fortunately won’t give a shit whether I look like a pretentious lush resuming the habit back home. I’ve learned more about the world during those hours spent streetside, installed in a cane-back chair, than I have from any book. The education continued later that night, where I witnessed my first French birthday party.

Within two hours of leaving the Etienne-Marcel, I found myself in another impossibly posh apartment, this time off the Champs-Elysées. But this place exuded a storied, warm, family ambiance, the glowing parquet worn by generations of dance parties.  There were two fireplaces – one blocked by a white-tablecloth buffet of wine and exquisite little snacks – and classic French doors (redundant in this case?) opening onto a balcony for two. The group was a bunch of twenty-somethings, and a different crowd old friends of William’s gathered to celebrate the birthday of a lovely blonde in a black cocktail dress. It could easily have been a scene out of Le Divorce.

Best of all? For the first time, I conversed and partied completely in French - for HOURS. So long that it actually felt comfortable. I made my way around the salon, striking up fresh conversations with people I barely knew my name (kind of a big deal for someone who doesn’t yet consider himself fluent). William – whether he planned it or not – had thrust me into a dream-come-true, and his delightful friends carried me through perhaps the best evening of my entire life. This wasn’t just a birthday party: it was acceptance. I walked into a proper Parisian soirée, created my own conversations (even a few debates!), and walked away having finally witnessed how my generation in France socializes. Grenoble had given me the courage to speak French more often, but partying in Paris gave me the precious opportunity to use it and enjoy the outcome. 

Needless to say, I smiled to myself when I overheard another guest say "Il est mignon" as I was putting on my jacket to leave. 

Bastille Day Weekend: Playing Parisian

Train travel, if all goes fortunately as planned, is magically simple – even elegant – in Europe. I think the secret to ensuring this ease is simply adjusting to the fact that the French have, not surprisingly, a different way of transacting business. Like most Americans, I’ve become so accustomed to arranging all my affairs online and well in-advance, conveniently printing out confirmations of travel reservations and electronically entering codes at my points of departure without issue. Technology in certain domains is viewed differently in France, and the nature of purchasing tickets varies from public transportation to airports. The rail system exemplifies how much more direct business transactions tend to be here – that is to say, between client and seller. (Need help? You usually have to ask. Want to personalize a reservation? Tell the person serving you exactly what you want.) Once I understood this mentality, getting from A to B became so much easier.

Instead of trying to buy a train ticket on the Rail Europe website for my Bastille Day weekend in Paris (constant internet connection problems), I decided to employ my last-resort purchasing strategy at Gare de Lyon three weeks prior: I went to the guichet (ticket counter) an hour before my desired departure, asked what was available, and reserved a seat on the next available train. My agent was completely helpful, offered me far more options than were available online, and I was on my way to Paris – stress free – on a direct TGV within the hour. (Just long enough to shed the stifling afternoon heat with a cocktail in the lounge.) I’ve noticed that the French don’t like to deal with machines as much as they do human beings. In three hours, I arrived refreshed and comfortable at Gare de Lyon, the site of that heinously chaotic morning three weeks before. Savvy or not, I had a newfound confidence after a month in this country that didn’t exist the day I departed for Grenoble. Stepping out into rain by the taxi queue, the feeling of familiarity was almost overwhelming. I was back in Paris, my true home in France.

What’s more, the City of Light showed more layers this time, more detail. At the end of my two-week vacation in June, I had come to see Paris as more-or-less another large European city – certainly the greatest in France and one of the foremost in the world – yet aside from a few clichés and typically urban glamour, its people, its style didn’t strike me as terribly unique. Three weeks outside the périphérique changed that.  

Surrounded by phone-clutching travelers in the queue, I could distinguish the Parisians immediately. Take the (unnatural) red head in this photo, an eccentric type often seen on the streets of numerous quartiers in the city: orange, blunt bangs (might even be a wig?) with a matte red lip and glasses she may have worn to Maxim’s circa 1959. Only this city, rich with cabaret history and decadent intellectuals – either of which this woman could be a part – could produce such a theatrical creature.      

Sliding into a silver Mercedes (Miranda Priestly, anyone?), I alerted the media – also known as William – via text that I was en route from the station. I helped the driver locate William’s tiny street in a zone piéton (pedestrian-only zone), and exhaling, fell back into my cushy seat, my heart and stomach aflutter with excitement about being back and the marvelous couple of days and nights ahead in the Paris I could finally say I knew. I recognized the inimitable limestone buildings that passed, the street names on their iconic blue-and-white plaques, the broad awnings of cafés where – weeks before – I’d watched the world go by over glasses of kir. At last, I thought, I have a place, something of a life here. I have a foot in two cultures.    

After sheepishly clarifying which “second floor” William’s apartment was on – I’d forgotten if it was the European or American – I ascended the narrow staircase to his door as a light flipped on, William on the landing with a slightly fatigued smile.

“It’s rainingggggg,” he moaned, alluding to the unseasonably depressing weather that had been plaguing Paris all summer.

We exchanged les bises, dropped my bags on the floor, and hit the alimentaire next door to prep for the evening’s cocktail party. An old friend was visiting from Brussels, and wine was naturally in order.

Crossing the Pont du Carrousel

Pushing aside the Dior sunglasses and party invitations to Maxim’s, we arranged a spread of simple but typically French hors d’oeuvres – cornichons (tiny pickled gherkins), cheese, toast and pâté – and passed the hour chatting and catching up, sipping vin blanc from the Loire.      

“You know,” William announced in his velvety accent (accorded much attention in my third post), “I love pâté. But it’s SO gross. I mean, whenever I eat it I think, ‘This looks and smells like cat food.’ Yet it’s always so good…” I spread the minced goodness on a square of toast.

Obviously, as a student of French, one of the enormous advantages to having a Francophone friend is the occasion to verify what is taught in class – or heard out and about – with real-world parlance. I pulled out my conversation journal, required for my class on colloquial French in Grenoble, and William and I laughingly read through all the phrases and idioms I had learned or heard from Laurence and on the town. Most of what I’d encountered in daily conversation is still in current use, but some expressions are dreadfully old-fashioned.

“’Je me damnerais pour ça? (I’d damn myself/kill for that.)’ Oh God, no. Only grandmothers say this.” I conjured images of swooning matrons in Chanel skirt-suits, hands to their foreheads at a tea service. Still, convinced that my soul is at least half that of an elderly socialite, this is just theatrical enough for me to adopt.

The doorbell rang, and in walked Sam, a Cameroonian-born Parisian who’s now a buyer for a posh boutique in Brussels. I noticed that the boys, long-time copains, were both suddenly donning black – the fashion industry uniform – thus my cue to follow suit. I nixed my pink button-down for a sheer, jet-black deep-V and shawl-neck cardigan. 

Cole Haans and one umbrella later, I was scurrying downstairs with my Frenchmen to a cab in the glistening cobblestone street. 

Heaven for the weekend, thoughts en route

Written 13 July 2012

I love the moments I spend traveling alone. I don’t think there’s any better place to reflect upon the world, people, countries, LIFE, than when passing between places, seeing so much in a small unit of time. It’s possible I’m only saying this because I’m presently on the TGV from Grenoble to Paris, blazing by everything from lush parcels of farmland – complete with grazing cows and snowy-white lambs – to ancestral farmhouses proudly dominating the landscape, nestled near brooks that the Romans probably drank from. It’s hard not to feel like Charlotte Grey returning to Lézignac right now. 

While Grenoble has been fine, I’m aching to get back to Paris for the weekend, where I’m celebrating Bastille Day (simply known as le Quatorze juillet or la Fête nationale) and seeing my friends before I leave in – sniff – three weeks. Interestingly, the capital was not where “it” all started in 1789…I actually just left the birthplace of the Revolution. The ancient province of Dauphiné, where Grenoble and the Isère department are located, claims to have seen the first demonstrations for liberty in the nation. Yesterday, I visited Château de Vizille – about 30 minutes by bus from the city – home of the Musée de la Révolution française, a store of famous art and media from the first rebellions to 19^th century interpretations of the major events. The château was built by François de Bonne, duc de Lesdiguières, and exemplifies both the glory and rusticity of provincial nobility with its cracked stucco and locally quarried stone, worn and rounded by centuries of baking in dauphinois sunshine.   

I have only two remaining weekends before I leave, so I won’t have any more time to play with William and friends in Paris before I head to Charles de Gaulle on August 3. The thought kind of makes me want to cry. Before I left the U.S., I knew I’d love France even more than I did my first two stays here, but I’m still quite surprised at how incredibly comfortable I feel in this country. (I know there's still much I haven't seen and still don't know.) As I’ve said before, I’ve been welcomed and befriended so fast and with such sincerity that I’ve become accustomed to it, something that – honestly – doesn’t happen so often in the U.S. I’ve never before been away from my country for more than 10 days, and here I am – a month and half later – feeling, frankly, unprepared to let this life go for the one I know best. That says something.

I’m planning my return as soon as possible.

Chez Laurence: A French household

What struck me first about my new French home was its bare-bones simplicity. Despite knowing perfectly well that space throughout the rest of the world is not what it is in America, I explored the apartment of my mère d’acceuil with a curious appreciation, aware that its arrangement would have been considered somewhat awkward and even careless in my country. I think this has nothing to do with sophistication and everything to do with cultural attitudes about practicality. Despite a fabulously rich history in the decorative arts, setting standards for artistic movements over centuries, the French tend to be extremely practical when it comes to living space.

Furniture in France has never been formulaically arranged as in the Anglo-Saxon tradition. Born of the feather-light elegance of the 18^th century, there are more groupings of tables and chairs, and less sofa-and-end-table combinations. Pieces float away from the walls in a room, rather than clinging to them. There really is logic to this seemingly odd habit, as – space in Europe being so limited – it’s easier to maximize the utility of furniture by easily moving it around a place as needed. Chez Laurence, chairs from my bedroom have become additions to the kitchen table when extra guests arrive for dinner. The tiny central “living” area in the apartment contains a television, but there are only two small salon chairs for viewing. Is it aesthetically pleasing? Not to an eye trained to see a couch with matching armchairs, horseshoed around an entertainment center. But in a flat with three people, no more than two are ever watching TV in the first place. An unused sofa suddenly seems silly. My bedroom has merely a comfortable double-bed, a desk and chair, and a few small tables. The spare assortment of mismatched furniture seemed clumsy at first, and then I realized how easily the mountain breeze passed through my balcony windows and cooled the apartment, unhindered by clutter.

If human beings were musical instruments, Laurence would be a chime. Her voice is soft, feminine, and liltingly French, but there’s a mischievous twinkle in her eye that betrays her fun-loving, jolly manner. Theatrical, not dramatic, she bursts with flair, and no story comes without hand gestures. She’s the quintessential French host mom, sending me out for baguette at her favorite boulangerie in Place Notre-Dame, and insists on doing everyone’s laundry and pressing my shirts. Dinners are simple but classic affairs at her heirloom country table, with a charming service of blue-and-white china from her native Alsace.

The cooking is fabulous: naturally fresh and light, but bursting with flavor thanks to her stellar sauce recipes. Naturally, wine and five different cheeses are de rigueur. I could stay at table with her forever, and often do. How does one even think about homework after hours of stories about Nazis occupying the family home during the war?

I think I especially like Laurence because she is – in surprisingly many ways for a woman multiple-times my age, of a different nationality AND gender – much like me. She has many traditional ideas about the way the world should work, and loves to reminisce about the France lived by her ancestors. (Coming from a woman who can trace her family history back to the Middle Ages, I listen intently.) But Laurence also studied and lived in China and Japan, a period in her life that continues to influence her tastes and philosophies. A voracious news consumer, she keeps up with many intelligent radio and TV programs, and always has something new to discuss over tartines (yesterday’s baguette topped with anything from butter and jam to Nutella) and coffee in the morning.

Watching French television with Laurence for the first time was something of a cultural initiation that I didn’t find in Paris, an ordinary woman consuming her nation’s media and reacting to it as only an interested citizen would. Perhaps to help Ruth and I follow the rapid pace of the voice-overs, she whistled and shook her head in disgust at reports of sexual harassment in Egypt, gasping and oh-la-la-ing at an exposé on scam lotteries aimed at senior citizens.

With Laurence's other American: Ruth

Just for fun, here’s a brief compilation of classic expressions chez Laurence. I love these SO much, that I've included pronunciation guides in the videos below.

C’est fou, quoi! – That’s crazy/foolish/insane! (Quoi means “what”…for emphasis. Not unlike the British usage: “That’s jolly, what.”)

Fin – Anyway… (short for enfin: “finally”)

Ohh, je me damnerais pour ça... – I’d kill/give anything for that (literally: “I’d damn myself…”)

C’est génial! – It’s great/fab/wonderful!

C’est sympa, ce truc, hein? – This is pretty neat/cool/fun, right?  

J’sais pas (pronounced shay-pa) – “I dunno.” (familiar register French)

C'est une chose spéciale... - That's something particular... (a slightly negative/worrisome connotation)

And while this is a totally mundane couple of words, used by practically every native speaker, it's my drug:

Ben, oui! - Well, yes!  

Grenoble: Part Deux

I at last arrived in Grenoble, capital of the Isère département, around 3.30pm on June 23, a positively sweltering Saturday. Stepping out onto the quai, I was blasted by sizzling heat, quickly reminded how incredibly far I’d blazed across the French countryside in 3 hours, now deep in the southern half of the métropole. After waking from a luscious nap on the train, I spent my time gazing across la France profonde. This is the term for all the country's rural domains to which French urbanites flock with a seemingly religious observance every weekend and summer (merely one way to spend five weeks of vacation, I suppose). Despite the new surroundings – and the trial endured hours before – I had vastly matured in Paris, and thus felt surprisingly adjusted and prepared for the next six weeks in a new city.

Feeling like a completely different human being since my arrival at the Pigalle apartment two Saturdays prior, it was strange meeting my academic program directors from the University of Michigan at the station. The fact that I was just beginning my experience abroad hadn’t really occurred to me until then. I had felt oddly suspended between two continents, pleasantly detached from my American life while slowly adopting my new French reality. I felt for my new peers in the program, just arriving in a daze of culture shock…and jetlag. I gratefully realized how fresh and content I was, by comparison.

We were a small group of about three or four at the moment, meeting our mères d’acceuil (“host moms”) at the train station. I also met up with my friend Alex, the program assistant, who had been of major emotional support during my hours of drama at Gare de Lyon. Earlier on the phone, he had already assured me that my mère d’acceuil, named Laurence, was a veteran host mother with a history of patience under pressure and a relaxed attitude. That was certainly one thing in my favor on a day when everything seemed to blow up in my face.

“Last time, one of her students went into apoplectic shock, and she couldn’t have been cooler about it. Believe me, this woman is the most laid-back person in the world.”

 

For once, a promising start.

I had sent Laurence an email back in May, introducing myself and thanking her in advance for welcoming me at the station. She had given a brief description of herself – tall, with short brown hair – and had mentioned that she had a son. Other than news of her famously pleasant personality, I knew nothing about the person with whom I’d be living until August.

I also realized I was speaking in French…entirely. In Grenoble, everything was quickly becoming official. As I stood in the lobby of the gare, adjusting to the thought of becoming a summer student for the first time in my academic career, heads turned to peek behind me.

“Bonjourrrrr!” sang a buoyant voice at my back, slightly short of breath, “Oh la-la! Cette chaleur, c’est affreux!” (“This heat is awful!”)

Almost my height, in a precious white peasant blouse, jeans and Roman sandals, the woman approaching me resembled numerous past elementary school teachers. Harried and quirky, Laurence sashayed into the station with a perky giggle that indicated we would be friends before we reached her apartment in town. I eagerly leaned in and we exchanged the famously French bises (one kiss on each cheek) in greeting, a custom that doesn’t exist – beyond eccentric circles – in the U.S. (As much as I love hugs, definitely NOT a French norm outside the closest friendships, I absolutely prefer the intimacy and elegance of this traditional salutation.)   

An unofficial adoption ensued, as Laurence gathered her two Americans and gabbed cheerfully for the entire tram-ride to her home in Grenoble proper. From information on local swimming facilities to recent gossip about city officials, my classmate Ruth and I were treated like natives in a city we had never before seen. Laurence spoke energetically but clearly, enhancing her speech with theatrical gestures. “So this is immersion,” I thought, suddenly feeling more and more confident that I could speak more than I’d thought. Fears about not knowing enough idiomatic expressions, speaking inanely in textbook French, disappeared when I realized Laurence understood everything I said and actually appreciated my level. 

Whatever I had learned in so many years of studying French, the moment was at last upon me to make it count. 

Grenoble: Part Une

Life in France has become so natural that I haven’t felt the need to post much. I’ve also been completely absorbed in my first week of coursework since last Saturday. I’ve officially begun my student life during this summer in Grenoble…but not before a mildly traumatic beginning. Of course.

I bid au revoir to my darling Parisian apartment in the 9^th at 7am on Saturday, June 23, enough time to arrive at Gare de Lyon with 15 minutes to spare before boarding my TGV train to the South. Certainly, this doesn’t sound like a lot of time, but with my ticket already purchased - and the convenience of printing kiosks throughout the whole place - this was not supposed to be a cause for concern. But, stressful travel plaguing me thus far abroad, the machines didn’t recognize my name…in every combination possible. Misdirected by numerous, indifferent staff, I finally arrived at the guichet (ticket service counter)…in just enough time to miss my train to Grenoble. Naturellement.

I was told I would have to purchase an entirely new ticket for the next departure, at full fare, since I wasn’t able to refund before my original train departed. Customer exploitation aside, I just wanted to get on a train and apologize profusely to my host mother for the extensive delay. I handed my card to the lip-pouting woman at the counter, knowing painfully that the only difference between a coach seat and the first-class ticket I was forced to buy was 40€ in price. She swiped and slid my card back under the glass barrier, lips pouted, eyes fixed on her screen.

“Cette carte ne marche pas…” (“This card doesn’t work.”)

I SO wanted to rewind an hour and start the day over. My card had worked just FINE for two full weeks in Europe, and I had informed my bank of my travel plans. This was a nightmarish joke.

I insisted the card had worked since God was a boy, but realized how much time I was losing. I had a ton of cash in my wallet (or so I thought), so I started counting. Of course, I had several euro less than what I’d thought. I just stood there - staring blankly - telling the woman I was short, like a gambler to a loan shark. Pouted lips and an indifferent expression indicated that a ticket was not coming my way, regardless of whose fault the whole mess was.

I just roamed Gare de Lyon in a daze for the next 10 minutes, totally bewildered. This morning was supposed to go like clockwork – the simple part of my trip! Getting into the country was always supposed to be the difficult part, not traveling within it. Utterly exhausted and starving (I had been planned to eat something on my now vanished train), I ventured out into the streets around GdL, suddenly feeling just as alone and vulnerable as the day I arrived in Paris two weeks prior.

For the next hour, I felt like I had come full-circle. My credit card didn’t work at any ATM, everyone I knew in Paris was out of town for the weekend, and I had no means of calling my bank at home until I bought another calling card. This being France at 8am on a Saturday, I’d be waiting an hour before ANYthing opened. Even then, the first two shops happened to have technical difficulties this out of all days, and therefore couldn’t process a ticket téléphone. Naturally.

Tried another ATM machine…card rejected. The world was suddenly conspiring to prevent me from taking a three-hour train ride to the southern half of the country. Train stations aren’t supposed to be such nightmares – that’s what airports are for! God help me – how would I get out of Paris? I was completely stuck.

Being a relatively “together” adult, I had avoided tears thus far. The worst phase of the morning was a 20-minute panic-session on the streets surrounding the gare. I finally spotted a bar where – observed by a group of beer-swilling, Saturday-morning regulars – I bought an international calling card. A frantic call to my impossibly patient mother ensued (2.30am Michigan-time), walking her through an online RailEurope purchase for a ticket to Grenoble. This was literally the only trick I had left. Just as she clicked Confirmer, an error message appeared. Something fabulously vague about a processing error.

Verging on a true meltdown, my dignity flowing out of the phonebooth and into a Parisian gutter, I suddenly recalled an episode last summer when my bank card mysteriously stopped working for approximately two hours in New York City, without a hold. I hung up the phone and stumbled over to a BNP Paribas. Removing my card, I entered my PIN, trembling.

BEEP. BEEP. Success. I marched back to Gare de Lyon with a wad full of vibrant currency, pride still in tow.   

Paris: An affair to remember...and repeat

Amazingly, a little over two weeks have passed since I first stepped out of a cab onto Rue Chaptal in Paris. Missing many essential worldly goods, slightly disoriented, and desperate to make a good impression in the city I had idealized after eight years of absence, no one could have convinced me that I would feel completely at home there after seven days. Doing a vacation’s-worth of laundry last Friday afternoon in the laverie at the end of my street, I was struck with melancholy about leaving the next day. I felt an incredible sense of belonging, fondness and attachment to Pigalle, the same kind of anxiety experienced before pangs of homesickness. Being so alone that first day, so uncertain and feeling so foreign, I forced myself to make something more than an “exciting” vacation out of Paris: I made a home.

What’s more, I felt older. Not tired, but wiser, with a more sophisticated view of reality and yet therefore more appreciative of everything in it. Being without my own things for four days, completely alone, in – initially – a very foreign city, literally gave me a new lease on life. All at once, I toughened up, yet strengthened my sense of affection for people. I found myself embracing the French, both the negative and positive. I found myself completely content to let the world be as it was at the moment, complete submission to a live-and-let-live philosophy. It was immensely liberating.

Why? To me, there is one particular cultural trait – absolutely including Parisians – that sets France apart from so much of the America I left behind: sincerity. So often misunderstood as coolness or hauteur – which exist in absolutely every culture and country, and are therefore human traits rather than national ones – I continue to find that the French mean exactly what they say and support it with values and actions. The cashier at the tabac isn’t being rude when he says it’s impossible to buy the international calling ticket you ask for instead of a rechargeable card; rather, he’s simply adamant that you not buy the wrong thing. The simple markers of politesse go a VERY long way here, and “please” and “thank you” are genuinely appreciated. Smiles are reserved for moments of true affection, gratitude and pleasure. Is it better than the American way? I can’t say. But at the moment I prefer it.

This is why the several Parisians I befriended over my two weeks mean SO much to me. I know it was no small deed to make me a part of their circle. They let me speak their language with them, and even allowed me the pleasure of helping them speak mine. I listened to their childhood stories and the realities of their lives in one of the most lusted-after cities in the world. They, without hesitation, took me in with open arms and not only showed me their city, they made me a part of it. I feel like I finally carved my own space in my favorite spot on the globe. I’m forever grateful for that.

Last Friday, I went on one of my habitual and famously exhausting café hunts, straining to find a place with precisely the right tone for my final night in the city. Who knows if I found it, but it was irresistible nonetheless.  I went to Ma Bourgogne, installed in one of the four elegant corner arcades of the splendid Place des Vosges. Rated at some point as one of the most extraordinary public squares in the world, it seemed fitting. The weather was perfect. A dramatic sky, scattered with luscious clouds, sported a gold sunset that formed a halo around the steep rooftops of the park’s 17^th century mansions, uniformly aristocratic. I ate most of my steak tar-tar, relaxed with a Stella, and ended with a frothy black espresso after a bowl of DIVINE Berthillon ice cream.

I brought a book to keep me company, but as always, abandoned it in favor of the sweet music of velvety French voices. I knew I could never be alone in Paris.