Elle arrive

My cheeks hurt from smiling so much. I’m finally here. This is really my life.

Today I moved into a gorgeous (but modest) apartment in the 9th arrondissement of Paris. I had no idea what to expect; I’d only seen my home of the next 10 months through pictures on the internet. But now here it is, beneath my feet, above my head, all around. And it’s perfect.

I’m on the second floor (first floor French style), with two tall windows overlooking the busy Boulevard de Rochechouart. The neighborhood behind me is filled with vintage shops, bakeries, casual chic restaurants and Bobos (Bohemian Bourgeois); the neighborhood in front climbs Montmartre and is loaded with bars, discount goods and young people. Between the green trees growing in the park outside my window, you can catch a glimpse of the Sacré Coeur. It’s seriously perfect.


Today also happened to be the market, which is a five minute walk (or less) from my apartment (and directly in front of my cousin Julien’s apartment). Laurence took me. “You need food for the week.”

Along the way she warned me, “This isn’t Paris.” Looking at the glorious façades of the buildings lining the windy streets, I felt pretty sure it was—in fact—Paris. “This,” she explained, “is North Africa.” Arriving at the market, I saw what she meant.

I have never seen so much produce in my life. There are no goods—or very few—but the entire horizon is saturated with the miraculous colors and smells of fruits and vegetables. It’s more crowded than St. Tropez in August, but I couldn’t have cared less; this is where I shop now. I was comforted by the constant hollering of the competing vendors—all of whom are clearly North African.

We approached one half way down to buy some fruit. To my surprised, the vendor immediately seized my hand and showered me with kisses. Feeling as exhausted and make up less as I probably looked, I couldn’t imagine what he found attractive.

“You know,” Laurence said, “you could almost be North African with your skin like this.”

I smiled. I love the idea that I could be exotic, and this is the third time it’s been proposed.

“Well,” I said, “I’m not.” Then I smiled. “Now I’m almost French.”