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. 

Château de Versailles: A palace, a museum, a theme park

I have been to the Palace of Versailles twice prior to this stay in France, and it has absolutely met my expectations as a national monument, fabulously preserved and restored to its former splendor as proof of France’s royal past. Both times, the crowds seemed normal, the occasional construction and renovation efforts understandable. I always had time and space to contemplate and imagine the thousands of souls who once lived there and reigned over the grandest kingdom in Europe. A lot can happen in eight years…

Sadly, Versailles has somewhat lost the magisterial air it once held for me. Much has been beautifully restored in recent years, but with that restoration have come additions, most of which cheapened the historical experience during my visit last Tuesday.

In contrast to the glorious re-gilding of the palace roofline, and the painstaking reconstruction of the original gate separating the Cour d’honneur from the Cour royale, a large security checkpoint has been erected in the middle of the forecourt. Security is an obvious necessity in such an environment, but the checkpoint is a monstrosity of wood planks and glass, marring the order of the space, reminding all who enter that, yes, you are entering one of the largest tourist draws on the planet.

A number of new, wildly overpriced chain cafés and restaurants have appeared in the main palace and upon the grounds. The gift shops have multiplied. Perhaps it’s possible I never noticed some of them before, but there appear now to be so many that they honestly get in the way of simply navigating the museum. Add this to the indescribably large hordes of visitors (every school group in Europe was touring the château that day), titanic cameras flailing above a horizon of heads, and it’s virtually impossible to really see the place.

The carriage rides throughout the royal gardens have always existed, but instead of the somewhat more elegant bicycles for rent in the past (I didn’t see them this time), massive, vulgar people-movers shuttle between the palace and the Grand Trianon. (Of course, this costs 3,70€.) Large, yellow floating dividers have been placed along the Grand Canal, marking boundaries for rentable canoes. Sigh. 

That aside, I marveled at le domaine de Marie Antoinette in its entirety that day. Passing beyond the pomp and formality of Louis XIV’s fountains and parterres, I entered the mazelike park that composes the rest of the château’s grounds. Fashioned to look like a natural, untamed Eden – according to the aristocratic tastes of the 18^th century – it really takes seeing this space in person to comprehend how the French court existed in its own realm, geographically and psychologically detached from its own people, in a fantasy land of privilege.

The Petit Trianon is a wonder of neo-classical restraint and elegance, and it would hard to describe it as anything other than an escape. The faux “hamlet” is every bit the stage-like assemblage of quaint cottages it was intended to be. The mix of artifice and function lend a dream-like quality to everything.

In this space, Versailles’ spirits still linger, and I left Marie Antoinette’s “estate” on a solemn note. Her mark was still present in every room, the personality and tastes of a former queen who loved her intimate company, and the comforts her station afforded her.

One can’t help but leave judgments about Marie Antoinette, so reviled by history, at the door to this intimate paradise. 

How to make a home in Pigalle

On Tuesday, with clothing at last in the armoire, I felt prepared to take the métro to rue du Bac, where I walked along bustling Blvd Saint Germain to the imposing Assemblée nationale. Everything seemed monumental, fast and exposed. Squares extended into rotaries jammed with vehicles weaving throughout traffic and careening around corners. Horns echoed in competition with sirens and deafening mopeds. I found myself at pont de la Concorde, a wide bridge that leads to the massive square where tens of thousands of executions took place during the Revolution. Crossing northward, I caught a fabulous view of several bateaux mouches heading for Île de la Cité to the right, the horizon punctuated by the iconic belltowers of Notre-Dame. This was the Paris I remembered from eight years ago. After almost four days in Pigalle, I felt like I was in a different city.

On Pont de la Concorde

Before FINALLY receiving my luggage, it certainly crossed my mind that I was losing serious Parisian vacation time waiting in my neighborhood. But that’s just the thing: By the time I ventured into the fabulous, iconic Paris I last saw at 16, I realized I had already gotten so used to the streets, sounds, and feel of Pigalle, that I had successfully claimed by own little area of the city. It seemed so foreign upon arrival, so indifferent to my presence…so isolating. Yet in my desperation over not having my own things about me – thousands of miles from home, feeling so unprepared to just be here – it took me in and comforted me. I got to know the faces coming in and out of the gate to my little immeuble. Every time I returned at the end of the day, I looked about my familiar bedroom, out the window at my charming rooftop view, and found I had a home in Pigalle.

For four days, I traded my luggage for the most intimate and coddling of Parisian neighborhoods. 

Les mêmes vêtements.

Little in life – VERY little – happens as you expect it. Have a seat and grab a drink…this will require some time to read.

Sitting by my bedroom window above one of the most tranquil courtyards in Paris – or so it was described by my landlady, Marion – I’m still taking in the fact that I’m thousands of miles from home, in a place so storied, famous and great that it’s hard to believe it actually exists as a real city where people live day-to-day. Despite two brief trips to France in the past, it was still mind-boggling to hear only fluid French as I stepped out of my taxi onto Rue Chaptal in the 9^th arrondissement. (This is the language here.) I’ve been here 72 hours, in one quartier, and yet I’ve born witness to so much of life’s great pageant that to try and communicate it properly would take hours of writing. I’ll just begin with tales of my journey here. 

It alone is a long story.

Getting here was not easy. I now realize how incredibly fortunate I’ve been in the past while traveling, avoiding any real horror stories aside from waiting with a stand-by ticket for 12 hours in an American airport years ago. Long-delayed flights and lost baggage are common tales, I know, but both happened to me for the first time between the U.S. and France last weekend. Chicago O’Hare was madness – no surprise there – and it took me an hour and a half to get through check-in and security. The city was wretchedly hot on Friday, and my suitcase followed with all the lightness of a boat anchor, despite my leviathan efforts to pack minimally. I was very much looking forward to spending my final hour on American soil sitting in air conditioning and refreshing myself with a tuna sandwich and crisp Pellegrino. My flight was on time and I was giddy to depart for Europe. My calm is laughable in hindsight…

My United flight to Toronto was suddenly delayed for an “incoming aircraft”. Not the usual half hour, of course. My 4.07pm departure was pushed to 5.25. Then boosted to 5.16 and 5.15. Then back to 5.20. It was finally decided that I should fly out at 5.30. My arrival time had thus been officially moved to the precise boarding time of my Air Canada connection in Toronto. The O’Hare rep assured me that my baggage would make it to the next plane, and that all Air Canada representatives knew who I was and that I’d be late…along with numerous other passengers destined for Charles de Gaulle. This guy also told me I could skip any Canadian border inspection since I was just connecting for mere minutes and I had to catch a flight. I’ve come to the conclusion that the word of these people is worth about as much as one finds in the morning toilet.

The Canadian immigration agent glared at me as he asked for my passport and declaration card, hamming up the intimidation (obviously I took the time to pack my .35 in my carry-on…American airport security just misses these things, you know?). In my opinion, this is just Canada compensating for decades of border-patrol laxity, and since I was obviously powerless anyway, I played along and was soon running to the boarding gate.

Thank God the jet was nice. International flights are, as all of you must know, the last bastion of hospitable airline service. Remember when you could get a complimentary dinner – and drinks – in Economy to San Francisco or Florida circa 1996? Well, now you need to fly abroad for that. But the service really was wonderful on Air Canada. Two little bottles of French Syrah was all I needed, people, and I finally…FINALLY…calmed down and napped. I was amazed at how soon it was morning as we descended over the patchwork of green fields around CdG.

“GOD, this is taking a long time,” I mumbled, watching the dregs of my plane’s luggage roll out at Baggage Claim. The thought had crossed my mind that it’s always possible for airlines to lose luggage on international flights, but because it had never occurred in my relatively dense flight history, I always brushed it off as mere possibility…not a regular occurrence. With looming dread, I tried ignoring my naïveté: It was clear my only checked suitcase was not on the carousel. Like a lost puppy, I followed a few outraged and bag-less Americans to Service Bagages. Hoping that my usual charm would be a pleasing contrast to the angry sweatsuits before me, I mustered my most polite if simple French and started to feel pretty good about my reception from a French customer service rep.

“Votre ticket, s’il vous plait,” she chimed while typing my various codes and name. The penciled brows arched. The bedroom eyes flew open. She emitted an “oh la la” before reaching for the phone.

“But how bad coud this be?” I thought. Pretty bad.

“C’est encore à Toronto…” she responded, with a shrug and pouted lips, “It’s still in Toronto.” SHIT.

Surprisingly, I didn’t cry, grimace, or even glare. She immediately told me that it would arrive, by personal delivery to my Pigalle apartment, the next day. Always sweet and eager to please, I figured that would be a cinch, and I’d be donning all my favorite outfits at Café de la Paix the next afternoon.

It is my third day in France. I am still wearing the same clothes, and have bathed with nothing but water and handsoap. And yet, though I’m still in survival mode (and sans bagages), I still find myself falling back in love with the place. Next time, when I’m well-dressed and content, I’ll tell you why.

Here are the past 4 days in third-person:

Samedi (Saturday)

Eamonn pleasantly leaves Baggage Services and nabs cab at Charles de Gaulles. 

E has lovely chat with Senegalese driver Milo until he remembers he stupidly forgot other expensive bag full of thousands of dollars in cash and electronics at Baggage Services.

E returns to CdG lobby to find that he is forbidden re-entry to baggage area, and desperately begs man with employee badge to help him re-enter. No dice. Adorable Greek girl also missing baggage helps him re-enter with special pass. Staff members amusedly hand back vacation-in-a-bag.

E steps onto streets of Pigalle for first time in 8 years. Holy-Fucking-Shit Moment 1: “I’m in FRANCE!!!” HFSM 2: “OH GOOD GOD. I’m completely alone in a foreign country and there’s no going back."

E timidly starts speaking French, because every social interaction from arrival on is a source of anxiety. E realizes his IQ will appear to drop many points from a French perspective. E tries to cope with humiliation by not smiling at anyone on street.

E meets landlady, Marion Binoche Stalens – Juliette Binoche’s sister. E decides not to discuss this fabulous connection, since Marion is wonderfully sweet but understandably busy as a photographer/cinematographer/actress. Marion prepares E’s apartment gloriously. And duh, Marion also looks SO much like her sister.

E finds quintessentially Parisian apartment with rooftop views even more adorable than the photos. E is in a daze and wishes he had the rest of his clothes to make the moment perfect.

E realizes he can’t even get a cell connection while roaming internationally, and finds that wireless in apartment doesn’t work. E is sad because he can’t communicate with anyone at home until he finds shop selling phone cards. Internet cafés are hard to come by and E accepts that there is no even remotely reliable, free Wi-Fi in Paris. E wants to die because there is so much Facebooking and blogging to do.

E walks feet raw on miles of winding streets and takes in all he remembers of his previous visit to Paris…and how the clichés really do apply here.

E naps.

E is terribly happy his travel outfit was carefully selected, because it’s all he has to wear and is getting a good reception: People never address him in English unless he speaks it first. Score. E also realizes that single outfit, appearing for hours and hours on the same streets, makes him highly conspicuous in Pigalle and Montmartre.

E buys international calling card and calls friends at home to let them know he’s not dead. E uses payphone on noisy rue de Lafayette.

E loves how sun shines until 10.30pm (22h30) in France.

E bathes in hot water and handsoap, and slumbers beautifully.

Dimanche (Sunday)

E wakes up to a rainy day (far earlier than EVER in Ann Arbor) and seeks out Orange (major French TV/Internet/phone carrier) store or tabac (typical liquor/lotto shop) to buy cellphone minutes for little French phone, generously lent by biffle Francophone Dana Sasinowski. Remembers that all such establishments close on Sunday. (Fuck.)

E ventures to payphone to call Service Bagages de Charles de Gaulles to check luggage return status. Incoherent and typically indifferent Frenchman tells him it’s already at CdG and will be delivered same-day as specified. E tries to tell him (in English – ugh) that his American phone number doesn’t work in France and that he needs to give other instructions to deliveryman. Frenchman hangs up. 

E spends morning taking métro rides around his neighborhood, buying baguettes and red wine at market, and sampling French TV in his apartment. E also buys groceries at Carrefour (which E decides is the French/Parisian equivalent of Kroger). 

E waits at apartment for luggage to arrive. Falls asleep for 2 hours, and takes quick walks, but no delivery seems to happen…for 10 hours.

E wants to cry, but instead makes hilarious little pasta supper with sliced gouda and arugula and listens to Edith Piaf.

E takes another pathetic water-and-handsoap bath in a cute tub pretending to double as shower. 

E sleeps another great sleep.

Lundi (Monday)

E wakes up to more rain.

E walks to Orange store on Boulevard Haussmann to buy new SIM card for French phone and lots of minutes/texts for official communication in France.

E is only foreign customer at Orange who arranges his affairs entirely in French. E receives first French cell number. E is totally thrilled.

E returns to apartment and calls CdG again to see if bag was even driven to address previous day. Agent says yes, his computer says it was. E thinks that deliveryman couldn’t get through gate to apartment building and left suitcase on street to let it be stolen, or perhaps – as agent thinks – it was given to the building concierge. But E currently doesn’t know if concierge is even home.

E awaits call back from Marion to see if the above situation is even possible.

E gets tipsy on Beaujolais in apartment listening to Délibes and ventures to internet café to publish blog post.

E realizes how unbelievable it is to be in Paris, on his own, living in 3 of his own French rooms.

Mardi (Tuesday)

E awakes to...more rain!! There are also adorable screaming voices coming from the little school two doors down.

E reaches darling Marion, who calls indifferent CdG services agents and deals with them as only the French can. E wants to kiss Marion over the phone.

E waits for word on luggage at "Aussie" coffee shop a stone's throw away from apartment, le Kooka Boora, which is really just a fabulously American hipster-style place that would make Ann Arbor proud. FULL of Americans studying abroad or living here. The latter make E highly envious.