A Date with a Parisian

I won’t kiss and tell. Mostly because there wasn’t any kiss.

That doesn’t mean it didn’t go well.

I met this man on the subway; I was eating a croissant and checking my BlackBerry while suffocating between the stiff jackets of two businessmen on the morning commute. Suddenly I looked around and noticed that no one else was eating—or doing anything. The French take time for food, and they hate the metro. My morning activities were clearly branding me as an étranger.

The epiphany startled me. As casually as possible, I wrapped my croissant back up and slowly, stealthily slipped it into my bag. In the same deliberate motion, I slid the BlackBerry into my coat pocket. Maybe no one noticed?

Wrong. The young man behind me started laughing, and then spoke (in French): “It’s ok, you can eat on the metro.”

“But no one else is!”

“Lots of people do. It’s just too early for the French.”

So it wasn’t the act of eating that gave me away, it was the timing. Figures. I’ll simply never understand the French.

Anyways, this young man gave me his card and invited me to lunch—scheduled for today. The first thing I did was ask how he knew I wasn’t French, if the behavior was appropriate and the timing was the only thing that was off.

“Because you smile. The French don’t smile on the subway.”

This is the third time since my arrival in Paris I’ve been instructed not to smile. For those of you who know me, you know this simply isn’t possible. I walk to down the street grinning ear-to-ear…and often pay for it. Clearly some things are no different here.

The date itself was brief, rushed, fun. (He had a meeting at work to return to.) He talks a lot. I was most startled when he begged my pardon for the Parisians, because “they can be so rude.”

He’s not the first to apologize on behalf of his people. “Everyone’s always saying that,” I explained. “I’ve never had a problem. The French have been nothing but wonderful with me.”

He nodded. “That’s because you’re beautiful, and you speak French.”

I rolled my eyes.

“It’s difficult though, because you never know if they’re being nice because they’re nice people, or if they’re being nice because they want something more.” This was true. Then he continued, “I mean, I am very beautiful, so I have this problem a lot.”

I laughed, as I figured he was joking. I’m not sure he was.

As we were saying goodbye, he concluded by giving me presents/homework/CDs to “learn the culture. We can discuss over dinner on Wednesday.” And with that, he disappeared into the crowd.

I later received a text with further instructions for time and place.

Ah, the French think they’re just so smooth. ;)

Festival du Jazz

I didn’t know what to expect. I’d seen the posters smeared across almost every public surface in Paris, from construction sites to metro stations, and was eager to see what is was all about. Last night, I did.


Eric Truffaz, an trumpeter with an innovative approach to jazz, performed with Pierre Henri, an 80-year-old “composer” with an interesting sound at the Cité de la Musique, and I was there.

The setting is incredible. Living in the urban density of Paris, I was shocked to take the metro just a few stops north of my apartment to a wide open space that houses enormous halls and elaborate fountains. In the summer, they project movies on the bare walls of the buildings; all year long people of all ages, backgrounds, interests, etc flock here for music inside and out. Some of the buildings are saved from a classical era long gone; others are modern or built in a similar style to the Eiffel Tower. They’re mixed together, old and new, and it is beautiful. The Seine still runs here and was once used to bring grain to the giant mill north of the city; today the river is tranquil and only adds a feeling of serenity amongst the fields of grass and squares of stone. I should have taken pictures.

We found ourselves in a large auditorium looking down at the performers in awe. The music—well, I’ll recommend Truffaz to almost anyone. Henri had some passion for using a slamming door sound effect in his remixes. I’m not sure it worked. But it was an experience.

My favorite part, of course, was dinner afterwards. Sitting outside in the largest stone square, we watched the fountain run, drank red wine, talked with the other concert-goers who were equally shocked by the door.

It was fun.

I’m too tired to be coherent now, but I wanted to capture the logistics, the names, the places. It’s definitely worth doing again.

Bienvenue, bébé!

The family has officially expanded into the next generation--Welcome to the world Julien & Fred's baby, Anémone Françoise Juliette!

Sangria

I’m not a big sangria person. It’s so sugary sweet; I hate feeling of fruit juice and alcohol coating your teeth as you drink yourself deeper into the haze. But it’s tasty, and it always goes hand-in-hand with excellent atmosphere.

In Boston, Dali’s (located on the Cambridge-Somerville line, just two blocks from my old apartment) was the place to be. Yes, there was delicious sangria on Newbury Street and sure, other restaurants offered better tapas to accompany the sangria, but Dali’s was perfect. Walking into the dimly lit bar, you were engulfed by whispered conversations and laughter, silverware softly hitting plates, ice cubes and fruit swishing in glasses. The mirror along the farthest wall played the entire scene of the bar/restaurant back to you, adding to the surreal atmosphere. The fish and fruit above the bar helped, too. I remember sitting there one evening with my best friend and a pitcher of sangria; by the time I had one glass she’d already drank the rest.

In Paris, it’s Bar Dix. This weekend I called one of my new school buddies up: “What are you doing?”

“Um, nothing?”

“Do you like sangria?”

“Yea, love it.”

“Meet me at Odéon at 10:00pm.”

After getting lost (as usual), I glanced at the map and led him to #10 and down the stairs. There we found my Dali’s of Paris.

Tucked into the basement of an otherwise nondescript bar, Bar Dix serves delicious (teeth-coating) sangria in old clay pitchers beneath ancient artwork. The ceilings are arched as they so typically are in Paris; the walls are made of old stone. Huddled into this tiny square room, we passed the night. And loved it.

A colleague and friend recommended it to me. I’d recommend it to anyone who comes to Paris.

Les Brocantes

I love markets. I really do.

Despite the fact that they’re most often so crowded you can hardly move, I love everything about them. In St. Tropez, I loved the colors and smells, the overall feel of something magical on the Place des Lices. My favorite stalls were the spice stalls, with their hundreds of colorful and potent spices displayed proudly; the soaps and lavender, the epitomy of Provence; and the fabrics, the shawls and pereos of all colors, shapes and sizes. I went every possible Tuesday and Saturday this summer, and only made three purchases.

I love the produce market here, too. I go every Wednesday and Saturday, even if I have plenty of fruit at home. Again, it’s the colors and scents that lure me in… but it’s also the culture of the people buying and selling. It is Africa.

I’ve sought out and visited almost every regular market in Paris, but nothing could prepare me for the brocante.

Les brocantes are almost like yard sales, except—being in Paris—what people have stuck in their attacks are usually great antiques. One stall lured me in because it was exactly what the brocante of my imagination looked like. Under two tents were dozens of giant crates with antique goods just thrown in. Some were garbage, but if you dug through, you found treasures.

I wandered the aisles for an hour, hopping from box to box like a bee from flower to flower. I created a pile of my discoveries. Then, with fear in my heart for how much I’d have to put back, I asked how much.

I know you’re supposed to barter at les brocantes—it’s how you get the good price—but when the vendor told me 30€ for all this cool stuff, I didn’t dare speak. I just threw the money at him and ran off with my prizes.


And now that the awe’s wearing off… I think I’m heading back for more.

This could get dangerous!

My New Office

I like to have an “office.” It makes me feel calmer while I work.

In the south, I had an incredible office. Little red stool, antique desk, beautiful view. Whenever I needed to crack down and write, I could sit there and be immediately focused.

In the organized chaos of Paris—and similarly, of my apartment—finding “the zone” was more difficult. I wrote in bed. I wrote at my kitchen table. I even set up a chair and the balcony, but it still didn’t quite fit. I had to work hard to fall into a writing rhythm.

I thought I’d make school my office, but that didn’t work either. The staff is too mean and the students too noisy.

But today, I found my new office. While walking the dog I stumbled upon its pink awnings and, gazing past the “Wifi” sticker on the window, knew immediately it’d be perfect. Inside looked welcoming, relaxing, humble and cute. It had my name written all over it. Literally.


So here I am, and after just one espresso I’ve cranked out to important pieces for the job. I think every day you'll find me Catz Café!

I <3 Comedy Central

Thank God for online videos...

Seeing Signs?

Ok, so I really like my job. The work I've been doing lately from the comfort of Paris has been particularly exciting, and I think I've been doing it well--despite the craziness of my days.

I mean, I always liked this job. But somehow I thought communications wasn't for me--especially not in the space of "philanthropy" and "social entrepreneurship." I liked it, but I always saw myself as doing something else. I just didn't know what.

But, as a firm believer in the The Alchemist, I know when to just shut up and heed the signs. For example, after a lousy day at school, a friend called to tell me he discovered everything anyone ever needed to know about me by entering the exact date, time and place of my birth into some astrological-software. The stars were uncannily correct when describing me, my strengths, my faults. And the stars recommend that I pursue "a career in communications, journalism, persuasion, writing"..."public relations and/or creative marketing"... and that I "have a certain attraction for the avant-garde, modernity and the future, and [am] interested in and excel with new techniques and technologies"...and do best with "projects of a social or humane cause." I just laughed it off.

Then, on my walk, I got lost. I often do. I'm too embarassed to pull out the map on a busy street, so I walk off and find a quiet spot to figure out where I am and which way I need to go. When I realized I was lost today, I wandered around trying to find such a spot, and soon found myself huddled in the safe, warm shelter of large doorway. After I figured out which direction I needed to go, I became suddenly curious as to what operations where going on behind the regal doors. I stepped out of its shelter into the mist and laughed as I read the sign:



There's no fighting fate.

The Phone Jack

In addition to a bank account, one needs the internet to survive. (Truthfully, the bank account is the means to the internet, and that is why it's required for survival.) After surveying every French person I know, I realized that prices for internet service are generally the same so I might as well walk across the street to Darty and buy their version. French internet is notoriously unreliable, so if the service provider is directly across the street from me, I figure it’ll be difficult for them not to service me.

So I marched over with my bank account number in one hand and the lease in the other. “Yes, well,” the vendor said to me, “we need the last phone number that existed in the apartment.”

Seriously? “Ok… How do I get that?”

“Ask the landlord.”

Of course my landlord’s on vacation until October. So I did the next best thing: I called the real estate agency that manages the apartment.

A young woman picked up the phone and I explained my situation.

“You must speak with the landlord,” she said.

“Yes, as I said, the man at Darty told me that. But my landlord’s gone until October.”

“Yes, but you must speak with the landlord.”

Um, ok. “I hear you, but my landlord’s gone and I need the internet sooner than that.”

“Yes, but you must speak with the landlord.”

I began to hear the Twighlight Zone theme song and realized I was going crazy. Except I wasn’t. “My landlord’s gone. Who can I speak to instead?”

“You must speak with the landlord. We can’t help you.”

“Yes, but who can I speak to instead?”

The conversation proceeded just as such for at least five more minutes. (If nothing else, I will learn patience in this country.) Finally I told her she needed to help me because I’ve moved into an apartment, I have no landlord, and there are certain things I need and its their responsibility to work it out—or else. I have no idea if it is their responsibility, but I find that sometimes threats do—in fact—work. She asked me to hold and found her boss.

I explained the situation again, and he said: “Yes, you must speak with your landlord.”

I’m not kidding. Those were his words. “She’s gone," I said. "What else can I do.” It was no longer a question but a blatant demand for action.

“French Telecom.” Alas, we’re getting somewhere! Or so I thought. He then explained the complex rules of French phone services, and ended by asking me if there was a phone jack in my apartment.

“Um, not that I’ve seen.” I noticed that before and found it strange, but willed myself not to worry about it. I had almost convinced myself that the French get phone and internet without ever needing any kind of outlet.

“Well, if there’s no plug for the phone, Darty can’t help you anyways. You need to pay France Telecom to install it.” I can only imagine how many euros that would cost. Then he asked, “Do you have the metal plaque?”

“The what?”

He sighed, because clearly only idiots don’t know about the metal plaques. “Every apartment that has a phone line has a metal plaque,” he explained. “Do you have one?”

Yea, I’m going to need a little more than that. “Where might the metal plaque be?”

“Outside.” Duh. “If you look outside your apartment to where the wall meets the floor, there will be a little metal plaque—two inches by two inches—that has a picture of a phone and a number. You tell France Telecom the number, and then they can give you the number of the last phone line, and then you can go to Darty.”

I looked outside. Sure enough, there is a little metal plaque with a phone on it and numbers--next to my neighbors’ door frames. By mine, there's nothing. No plaque, no plug, no connectivity.

This country is exhausting.

The Bank

Having a bank account is important for a million obvious reasons. In France, it’s even more important because you need one in order to do crucial things like get the internet or apply for discounted rent. However, because it is a necessity, the French make it hard to get.

Personally, I’ve been trying since June. Within days of arrival I marched into a local bank in St. Tropez with a check in my hand and opened an account—mostly because I wanted the cash. The banker told me that the carte bleu—the most treasured component of a French bank account—would arrive in the mail.

That’s when I realized there was no key to the mailbox, so I couldn’t receive mail anyways. From this spurred an incredible series of adventures at the post office, which eventually led to the facteur (a very powerful man of some sort… mostly because I still haven’t figured out exactly what his role is) unlocking the box and leaving it open. Still, no card came.

I returned to the bank, and my banker told me that in fact I couldn’t yet receive my carte bleu; the bank needed a copy of my carte de sejour—a highly coveted document that proves foreigners like me are actually legally residing in France. For the carte de sejour, I had to give an incredible pile of documents and my first born child to the local Préfecture, a bureaucratic branch whose soul job is to make lives miserable.

First thing in the morning I went to the local Préfecture in Toulon. A half hour after the office opened, the line was already 512 minutes long. I found the information booth instead.

There, I learned that because I'd be living and studying in Paris and NOT the Var, I needed to go to the Préfecture in Paris to get the carte de sejour to get the carte bleu to get the internet and whatever else I needed to live. For crying out loud.

We already know how swimmingly the trip to the Paris Préfecture went.

So today the banks that are partnered with the school arrived on campus to guide ignorant Americans like myself. I explained my situation to my elusive bank’s representative, and he told me to go to a special branch down the road.

I did. And I explained the situation. Again.

“Oh, well, you must go to St. Tropez to tell them to mail the carte bleu here. It’s at that branch. It's the only way.”

Figures.