Ah, Disneyland. Having enjoyed the Parisian version in our lives before Meredith, we were looking forward to introducing the girlie to the Disney esperience. As is true in the greater Orlando area, residents of the Paris region are eligible for annual passes to the Disneyland Resort (a.k.a. Eurodisney, a.k.a. Disneyland Paris). So, a couple of quick flashes of our lease (yet again!), and we’re good to go. We bought the passes in advance of our first trip to the park at the Disney Store on the Champs Elysees, saving us time at the gate.
We didn’t wake up super early, but got on the RER (that’s the metropolitan train line, in between the metro and the national railway system in terms of size and scope) for the 40-minute ride to Marne-la-vallée, which was once a sleepy outer suburb of Paris and now is home to a Disney multiplex. During the ride, we talked with Meredith about what she wanted to do at Disneyland. Her main response, “I want to hug Mickey,” followed by “I want to see Mickey and Minnie.”
Once through the gates, we picked up the day’s schedule at Town Hall and noted that Mickey was having an audience right then. Since we wanted to be sure to fulfill Meredith’s wishes, we headed straight up Main Street, USA to the designated spot. Alas, we were not alone. In fact, we waited for about an hour so that Meredith could, in her words, “jump to his [Mickey’s] arms.” Mickey took two breaks during our wait. Of course we had no idea if it was the same person in the same Mickey outfit with a bladder problem or if they switch off every 20 minutes or what. In any case, Mickey was great with all the kids and, unlike some visits with Santa we have witnessed, not a single child seemed scared of Mickey. He’d squat down to greet the smaller children, reach his arms out, and let them take the lead if they wanted to hug him or hold his hand or whatever. Plenty of adults squeezed him, kissed his nose, and got their pictures taken. Meredith and I posed with Mickey both for Bill and for the Disney photographer (more on that later).
From there, we crossed the park, met Stromboli and Honest John, and picked up “fastpasses” for Space Mountain. The Fastpass is a Disney innovation for extremely popular rides (aside from Space Mountain, they’re available in the Paris park for rollercoasters Thunder Mountain Railroad and Indiana Jones, as well as for Peter Pan’s Flight, which is the single most popular ride. If you slip your ticket into the Fastpass machine, it spits out a voucher for your “no waiting” time to enjoy the ride (many hours later, in most cases). You get a half-hour window to show up and show the Pass, which puts you way ahead of the boobs waiting an hour for Space Mountain. You can only repeat the process after you’ve taken your turn, which may be too late in the day to qualify for a second round. So if you want to ride these rides multiple times, you’re in for a lot of waiting around, but if once a visit will satisfy, this Fastpass business is marvelous.
Then we went over to Fantasyland and Meredith and I rode on Lancelot’s carousel (a beautiful one at that) while Bill picked us up fastpasses to some other rides. I should note here that the park is much more compact than DisneyWorld, and therefore quite manageable on foot for adults. The three of us rode “Les Voyages de Pinocchio,” which was rather dark and jerky, but Meredith loved it, especially the part where Stromboli put us in a cage. After that, we went to ride Space Mountain, making use of the “baby switch.” This is a second, far less-known, option for grown-ups who don’t want to miss out on rides simply because they are toting young children with them. Bill went to Fastpass his way into Space Mountain himself, while Meredith and I found the exit and “swam upstream” to the loading dock. The staff at the ride are familiar with this process, allowing Meredith and I to wait until Bill finished his turn, allowing me to hand Mer over to him and then take a ride myself. Not quite as much fun as riding together, but certainly better than foregoing one of my favorite roller coasters ever! Space Mountain in Paris has two full loops, one with a twist. It’s beautifully decorated, besides. A triumph of thrill and artistry. Okay, I’ll shut up now…
(to be continued)
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
Thursday, September 25, 2003
Paris Has Attitude
In order to find an apartment in Paris, we cast the net widely. We asked Paris-based friends for suggestions. We posted messages on various bulletin boards (physical and virtual). We scoured the internet. We looked in the Times.
My contacts at NYU in France mentioned an agency called Cosy Home. I exchanged a bunch of emails with various staff members there. We learned of a couple of ex-pat websites and got a few leads, including a potential apartment exchange with a French law professor who has an appointment at Cardozo (in Manhattan). We found quite a few "for rent by owner" postings on SabbaticalHomes.com and other on-line bulletin boards, but we just weren't finding the right thing. Many of these sites and agencies list lots of studios and one-bedroom apartments, but are not geared for a couple with a child. Apartments with two or more bedrooms are simply hard to come by.
Then we found a web-based apartment agency with several attractive options. To protect their anonymity, let's call them HouseFrance. At least one that we liked slipped through our fingers while we debated if it was worth the rent. [I should note here that the Paris market for furnished apartments is pretty similar to the Manhattan market: there's expensive but decent, and then there's cheap and crappy.] Bill came to the conclusion that we'd need to start calling the agency to get what we wanted, so I started using 10 10 987, a cheap way to call overseas from the US (39 cents to connect, then 3 cents a minute after that). I wound up speaking mainly to an affable voice connected to a person named Frank (not his real name). He was anxious to help out, and a couple of times we looked at the website together.
We negotiated about one place that looked good on the web, and found that Frank was able to get us a break on the monthly rent posted on the site since we wanted a place for 9 months. That apartment turned out to have some problems, however: for one, it would require that we walk through Meredith's bedroom to get to the staircase that led to what would be our bedroom. Several other 2-bedroom apartments had similar challenges -- lofts or other lay-outs that were inconvenient or dangerous or both for a family with a small child.
Although the rent was higher than we were hoping to spend, there was one place that seemed about right -- two bedrooms with a living room, dining room, kitchen, and two baths, on the ground floor of a building in the 9th arrondissement. We were determined not to be on a high floor of a walk-up, not only to spare Meredith's legs, but also knowing that we'd likely end up carrying her up some of the time. Frank contacted the owner. She was willing to come down on the rent by 75 euros a month. We decided to go for it.
Lots of money crossed the Atlantic -- a month's rent in the agency fee, then a big security deposit for the landlady. She called a couple of times to make sure the money was coming, since the overseas wire took several days to process. All seemed well. We were excited.
So, we arrived here and the apartment turns out to be a duplex that requires passing through Meredith's room not only to access our bedroom, but also to get to either of the bathrooms! We expressed our concerns to the landlady, who I have already mentioned is a gem, but we knew we were going to have to speak with Frank about this.
We called him the next day (from NYU -- as we had no operating phones to our name at this point). He didn't have much to say, although he did acknowledge that he had known the apartment was a duplex. I said that was the least of our worries, that the staircase was a danger to Meredith and that the layout was absolutely not what we had asked for or expected. We requested a reduction or refund of our agency fee. Long silence on the phone. He said he'd need to speak with his boss. We called again the following day (Thursday). He said he'd been in touch with the landlady about the non-functioning phone. No mention of a conversation with the boss. No progress of any kind.
So on Friday, with Meredith happily ensconced in school (there's a blog about that, fyi), we decided to drop in on the folks at HouseFrance. The street address, listed on their website, is on the Champs Elysees, a rather fashionable area of the city. We got to the address but could find neither hide nor hair of the agency, but we did find the building concierge, who told us to follow the rather insufferable-looking, chain-smoking young woman assigned to the task of mail delivery. Mailbag in one hand, cigarette in the other, she was surprisingly gracious as she led us to an unmarked office, where she announced to the receptionist that we were inquiring about HouseFrance. Then they both disappeared down a hallway for several minutes, leaving us to wonder what in the world was going on. The receptionist came back and handed us a post-it note with another address for us, not in the immediate vicinity.
We got back on the subway and headed for our new destination. Perhaps our fatigue had a positive effect on the staff, who knows. In any case, we got to meet Frank in person. Turns out, HouseFrance is a one-room operation on the garden level of a big building.
Frank's desk was about two armchairs' distance from his boss's desk, leaving me to wonder how long it really would have taken them to talk things over.
Frank actually took responsibility for the errors and came pretty close to apologizing for them. However, the boss, a young, wiry guy (we'll call him Lukas) sporting an F-train t-shirt, was somewhat less sympathetic and visibly irritated by the notion that "muh-neh" (that's money in English with a French accent) could solve our problems. No, we countered, it wouldn't, but it would go a long way to our feeling understood and appropriately compensated for our pain and suffering (so to speak). Meantime, Frank was on the phone trying to get us another apartment. This solution ("There MUST be a solution", said Lukas, several times) did not sound too agreeable to us, but we decided to at least be open to it.
Their proposal: they had an apartment in another part of the city that would be available in early November (that means, in two months from our arrival). We should immediately transfer Meredith to the nursery school in that quartier, so that she'd be settled there before our change of apartments. We of course were not going anywhere without seeing the apartment in advance, among other things. If we went for this plan, they'd be willing to give us back half of our agency fee.
And what if this wasn't feasible? What if, for example, Meredith could not be enrolled in that school (again, I refer you to the school enrollment caper for more on that front)? Well, they relented, if you must stay where you are in the end, then we'll refund your fee in total. Now this, THIS, was more than I for one had ever dreamed possible.
In all good faith, I took down the address of the apartment along with a neighborhood map that Frank printed out for us (and I highly recommend mappy.com for all your urban street map needs). And I went directly from the HouseFrance offices to the mairie of this other neighborhood, wended my way through several wedding parties (the French all have both civil and religious ceremonies, I think, and Friday afternoon is a common time for them), and found the bureau des écoles. With the small amount of information I had on me, the woman in the office thought there would be a place for Meredith, but we'd have to hurry.
On Monday, I called Frank and told him that I'd been fairly well received in the new quartier, but that we'd have to see the apartment before I took any other action. He said the owner of this apartment lived in England and was hard to reach, and that they would need to speak before he could contact the tenant to arrange a viewing. And then we didn't hear from him again. At all.
Not that we didn't try to contact him. Bill and I both left multiple messages, but to no avail. And so, nearly two weeks later, we finally got a hold of him on the phone. Frank claimed he had been waiting for me about something related to the school enrollment, but that was clearly an attempt to shift blame. Then he wanted a copy of the receipt for the gate we installed to keep Meredith from climbing the stairs. Bill started to really lose it then -- how many new delay tactics could they impose? I spoke to Frank in French for a while, explaining that the gate had nothing to do with the agreement we made about the refund. He put us on hold a couple of times, then asked me, quite abruptly, if we could come back to the office the following morning. "Why?" I asked. "To get your refund," he replied. Well, okay then!
I will admit to feeling very anxious and nervous beforehand, but the meeting went very smoothly. For one, Frank was alone in the office -- no boss or colleagues to eavesdrop on our conversation. He had the check ready for us, in an envelope, with only one request -- that we not deposit the check until Monday (we received it on a Friday). Fine, no problem there. And then it was done. We shook Frank's hand, wished him a good weekend, took the muh-neh, and ran.
P.S. The check cleared.
My contacts at NYU in France mentioned an agency called Cosy Home. I exchanged a bunch of emails with various staff members there. We learned of a couple of ex-pat websites and got a few leads, including a potential apartment exchange with a French law professor who has an appointment at Cardozo (in Manhattan). We found quite a few "for rent by owner" postings on SabbaticalHomes.com and other on-line bulletin boards, but we just weren't finding the right thing. Many of these sites and agencies list lots of studios and one-bedroom apartments, but are not geared for a couple with a child. Apartments with two or more bedrooms are simply hard to come by.
Then we found a web-based apartment agency with several attractive options. To protect their anonymity, let's call them HouseFrance. At least one that we liked slipped through our fingers while we debated if it was worth the rent. [I should note here that the Paris market for furnished apartments is pretty similar to the Manhattan market: there's expensive but decent, and then there's cheap and crappy.] Bill came to the conclusion that we'd need to start calling the agency to get what we wanted, so I started using 10 10 987, a cheap way to call overseas from the US (39 cents to connect, then 3 cents a minute after that). I wound up speaking mainly to an affable voice connected to a person named Frank (not his real name). He was anxious to help out, and a couple of times we looked at the website together.
We negotiated about one place that looked good on the web, and found that Frank was able to get us a break on the monthly rent posted on the site since we wanted a place for 9 months. That apartment turned out to have some problems, however: for one, it would require that we walk through Meredith's bedroom to get to the staircase that led to what would be our bedroom. Several other 2-bedroom apartments had similar challenges -- lofts or other lay-outs that were inconvenient or dangerous or both for a family with a small child.
Although the rent was higher than we were hoping to spend, there was one place that seemed about right -- two bedrooms with a living room, dining room, kitchen, and two baths, on the ground floor of a building in the 9th arrondissement. We were determined not to be on a high floor of a walk-up, not only to spare Meredith's legs, but also knowing that we'd likely end up carrying her up some of the time. Frank contacted the owner. She was willing to come down on the rent by 75 euros a month. We decided to go for it.
Lots of money crossed the Atlantic -- a month's rent in the agency fee, then a big security deposit for the landlady. She called a couple of times to make sure the money was coming, since the overseas wire took several days to process. All seemed well. We were excited.
So, we arrived here and the apartment turns out to be a duplex that requires passing through Meredith's room not only to access our bedroom, but also to get to either of the bathrooms! We expressed our concerns to the landlady, who I have already mentioned is a gem, but we knew we were going to have to speak with Frank about this.
We called him the next day (from NYU -- as we had no operating phones to our name at this point). He didn't have much to say, although he did acknowledge that he had known the apartment was a duplex. I said that was the least of our worries, that the staircase was a danger to Meredith and that the layout was absolutely not what we had asked for or expected. We requested a reduction or refund of our agency fee. Long silence on the phone. He said he'd need to speak with his boss. We called again the following day (Thursday). He said he'd been in touch with the landlady about the non-functioning phone. No mention of a conversation with the boss. No progress of any kind.
So on Friday, with Meredith happily ensconced in school (there's a blog about that, fyi), we decided to drop in on the folks at HouseFrance. The street address, listed on their website, is on the Champs Elysees, a rather fashionable area of the city. We got to the address but could find neither hide nor hair of the agency, but we did find the building concierge, who told us to follow the rather insufferable-looking, chain-smoking young woman assigned to the task of mail delivery. Mailbag in one hand, cigarette in the other, she was surprisingly gracious as she led us to an unmarked office, where she announced to the receptionist that we were inquiring about HouseFrance. Then they both disappeared down a hallway for several minutes, leaving us to wonder what in the world was going on. The receptionist came back and handed us a post-it note with another address for us, not in the immediate vicinity.
We got back on the subway and headed for our new destination. Perhaps our fatigue had a positive effect on the staff, who knows. In any case, we got to meet Frank in person. Turns out, HouseFrance is a one-room operation on the garden level of a big building.
Frank's desk was about two armchairs' distance from his boss's desk, leaving me to wonder how long it really would have taken them to talk things over.
Frank actually took responsibility for the errors and came pretty close to apologizing for them. However, the boss, a young, wiry guy (we'll call him Lukas) sporting an F-train t-shirt, was somewhat less sympathetic and visibly irritated by the notion that "muh-neh" (that's money in English with a French accent) could solve our problems. No, we countered, it wouldn't, but it would go a long way to our feeling understood and appropriately compensated for our pain and suffering (so to speak). Meantime, Frank was on the phone trying to get us another apartment. This solution ("There MUST be a solution", said Lukas, several times) did not sound too agreeable to us, but we decided to at least be open to it.
Their proposal: they had an apartment in another part of the city that would be available in early November (that means, in two months from our arrival). We should immediately transfer Meredith to the nursery school in that quartier, so that she'd be settled there before our change of apartments. We of course were not going anywhere without seeing the apartment in advance, among other things. If we went for this plan, they'd be willing to give us back half of our agency fee.
And what if this wasn't feasible? What if, for example, Meredith could not be enrolled in that school (again, I refer you to the school enrollment caper for more on that front)? Well, they relented, if you must stay where you are in the end, then we'll refund your fee in total. Now this, THIS, was more than I for one had ever dreamed possible.
In all good faith, I took down the address of the apartment along with a neighborhood map that Frank printed out for us (and I highly recommend mappy.com for all your urban street map needs). And I went directly from the HouseFrance offices to the mairie of this other neighborhood, wended my way through several wedding parties (the French all have both civil and religious ceremonies, I think, and Friday afternoon is a common time for them), and found the bureau des écoles. With the small amount of information I had on me, the woman in the office thought there would be a place for Meredith, but we'd have to hurry.
On Monday, I called Frank and told him that I'd been fairly well received in the new quartier, but that we'd have to see the apartment before I took any other action. He said the owner of this apartment lived in England and was hard to reach, and that they would need to speak before he could contact the tenant to arrange a viewing. And then we didn't hear from him again. At all.
Not that we didn't try to contact him. Bill and I both left multiple messages, but to no avail. And so, nearly two weeks later, we finally got a hold of him on the phone. Frank claimed he had been waiting for me about something related to the school enrollment, but that was clearly an attempt to shift blame. Then he wanted a copy of the receipt for the gate we installed to keep Meredith from climbing the stairs. Bill started to really lose it then -- how many new delay tactics could they impose? I spoke to Frank in French for a while, explaining that the gate had nothing to do with the agreement we made about the refund. He put us on hold a couple of times, then asked me, quite abruptly, if we could come back to the office the following morning. "Why?" I asked. "To get your refund," he replied. Well, okay then!
I will admit to feeling very anxious and nervous beforehand, but the meeting went very smoothly. For one, Frank was alone in the office -- no boss or colleagues to eavesdrop on our conversation. He had the check ready for us, in an envelope, with only one request -- that we not deposit the check until Monday (we received it on a Friday). Fine, no problem there. And then it was done. We shook Frank's hand, wished him a good weekend, took the muh-neh, and ran.
P.S. The check cleared.
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
Star Academy
I'll admit it, I (Cathy) am kind of addicted to this French reality show that's a cross between American Idol and Big Brother. Sixteen would-be singing sensations live together in a chateau outside Paris. Seven days a week they are subjected to a variety of instruction, physical, musical, dramatic and dance. Each Wednesday, the "nominees" for the week are announced -- one of them will be eliminated that Saturday night. Of the three, one is rescued by the viewers, who can call or text message their votes of support ("Pour sauver Icaro, tappez un."). After that contestant, or academycien, is saved, a second is saved by the other contestants, who have to choose on the spot. The odd one out, having already packed his/her bags that afternoon, never returns to the chateau.
Every day except Sunday, there's an hour-long peek at what's going on at the chateau, mostly taped from the day before, but always including some live footage (en direct, as they say). The taped stuff has pop-up video commentary to introduce what's going on. Sometimes we see them in session with various "profs" (who are also the judges), or rehearsing, or just hanging out. Then Saturday night, there's a 3-hour (you read that right) live show that includes a variety of performances by all concerned, and features appearances by major and not-so-major stars of today and yesterday. So far, they've been joined by Sting, Jean-Claude Van Damme and French idol Johnny Hallyday as well as T-3, a trio of Michael Jackson's nephews, and a few alumni from the two previous seasons of Star Ac'. The nominees do not participate in any of this stuff, they just have to sit and wait their fate until the last 30 minutes or so, when they each get to sing a snippet of the same song and (sometimes) give a beauty-contest pitch for why they should be saved.
In addition to the stress of the competition and the pressure of learning a lot of new material every week, there are some great soap opera-like subplots that have emerged. In particular, Sophia (the overall standout, a beautiful young woman with great talent) has been involved with Romain, perhaps the cutest male academycien who seems just a bit too laid back. In competition with this couple are Elodie (the blonde bombshell) and Edouard, who as I write this is in the nominee hotseat. I'm betting the fans will save him, to keep their fires burning if nothing else. Elodie arrived at the chateau 4 weeks ago with a boyfriend back home; last week, she officially broke up with him, but it was clear that she was getting down with Edouard for at least 10 days before that.
Other compelling members of the troupe are: Pierre, who in spite of a terrible piercing on his right eyebrow has penetrating blue eyes and a killer voice; Anne, who bears some resemblance to Helen Hunt and was transported this week to Las Vegas where she met Celine Dion; Stephanie, a bouncy blonde; Michal, who is of Polish extraction but speaks flawless French, plays the piano, and participated in a previous season of a similar show in Poland; and Paxti (sounds a bit like "Potsy") who appears to be the youngest participant and has recently won the hearts of the judges.
The big problem is that the daily show is on right when we need to get Meredith ready for bed. Bill is often game for getting her ready so I can watch, but it's just terrible.
Only three have left so far (Icaro, Michel, and Marjorie), and after tonight there will be 12 left, which means 11 more weeks of this. The suspense is killing me, I do hope it will continue!
Every day except Sunday, there's an hour-long peek at what's going on at the chateau, mostly taped from the day before, but always including some live footage (en direct, as they say). The taped stuff has pop-up video commentary to introduce what's going on. Sometimes we see them in session with various "profs" (who are also the judges), or rehearsing, or just hanging out. Then Saturday night, there's a 3-hour (you read that right) live show that includes a variety of performances by all concerned, and features appearances by major and not-so-major stars of today and yesterday. So far, they've been joined by Sting, Jean-Claude Van Damme and French idol Johnny Hallyday as well as T-3, a trio of Michael Jackson's nephews, and a few alumni from the two previous seasons of Star Ac'. The nominees do not participate in any of this stuff, they just have to sit and wait their fate until the last 30 minutes or so, when they each get to sing a snippet of the same song and (sometimes) give a beauty-contest pitch for why they should be saved.
In addition to the stress of the competition and the pressure of learning a lot of new material every week, there are some great soap opera-like subplots that have emerged. In particular, Sophia (the overall standout, a beautiful young woman with great talent) has been involved with Romain, perhaps the cutest male academycien who seems just a bit too laid back. In competition with this couple are Elodie (the blonde bombshell) and Edouard, who as I write this is in the nominee hotseat. I'm betting the fans will save him, to keep their fires burning if nothing else. Elodie arrived at the chateau 4 weeks ago with a boyfriend back home; last week, she officially broke up with him, but it was clear that she was getting down with Edouard for at least 10 days before that.
Other compelling members of the troupe are: Pierre, who in spite of a terrible piercing on his right eyebrow has penetrating blue eyes and a killer voice; Anne, who bears some resemblance to Helen Hunt and was transported this week to Las Vegas where she met Celine Dion; Stephanie, a bouncy blonde; Michal, who is of Polish extraction but speaks flawless French, plays the piano, and participated in a previous season of a similar show in Poland; and Paxti (sounds a bit like "Potsy") who appears to be the youngest participant and has recently won the hearts of the judges.
The big problem is that the daily show is on right when we need to get Meredith ready for bed. Bill is often game for getting her ready so I can watch, but it's just terrible.
Only three have left so far (Icaro, Michel, and Marjorie), and after tonight there will be 12 left, which means 11 more weeks of this. The suspense is killing me, I do hope it will continue!
Creative Parking 101
Today, I watched four men walk up to a car that was parked on the street, pick it up, and move it about five feet forward. I was sitting in our living room at the time and wasn't sure that I had seen what I thought I saw. I mean, cars are usually pretty heavy, a couple of tons or so. So I went over to the window to check it out. None of the men were particularly muscular, but sure enough they had carried this car forward a few feet to make room for their own car. How many times I've wanted to be able to do that in New York!
I should explain that on the whole, cars in Paris (and France) are a bit smaller than the cars in the U.S. In some cases, a LOT smaller. One particular brand named Le Smart Car is a two-seater that is not even 5 feet long (I'm not kidding). The new Austin Mini that has become popular in the States recently looks like a stretch limo next to the Smart Car. But the people who drive them do seem like geniuses when it comes to finding a parking space in this city. Recently, I saw 3 Smart Cars parked in a space that would have only fit one Ford Explorer. However, they are surely putting their lives in danger every time they pull out of one of those tiny parking spaces. Around the city, I think it would be okay because the traffic never seems to move too fast. But I've seen these cars zipping around on the Périphérique, the 8-lane highway belt that runs around Paris. I want them to have to put one of those triangular orange flags on a long pole like kids have on their bicycles to make them more visible.
Parisiens have other ways of creating parking space for themselves. Most of these are likely illegal. Like parking on the sidewalk. Or on the corner in an intersection. A few days ago, someone didn't have enough space to squeeze into a parallel parking spot on the street the regular way, so they backed into it, perpendicular to the sidewalk, and half the car was ON the sidewalk! These are the kinds of things that would get you towed in a New York minute in NYC. But here, I don't see many tickets being handed out. Our street here is metered, with Muni-meters that are almost identical to the ones around our old building in Forest Hills. The parking tickets here seem to get received with the same nonchalance that the French approach most things in life.
It's kind of nice not having to find a place to park every day.
I should explain that on the whole, cars in Paris (and France) are a bit smaller than the cars in the U.S. In some cases, a LOT smaller. One particular brand named Le Smart Car is a two-seater that is not even 5 feet long (I'm not kidding). The new Austin Mini that has become popular in the States recently looks like a stretch limo next to the Smart Car. But the people who drive them do seem like geniuses when it comes to finding a parking space in this city. Recently, I saw 3 Smart Cars parked in a space that would have only fit one Ford Explorer. However, they are surely putting their lives in danger every time they pull out of one of those tiny parking spaces. Around the city, I think it would be okay because the traffic never seems to move too fast. But I've seen these cars zipping around on the Périphérique, the 8-lane highway belt that runs around Paris. I want them to have to put one of those triangular orange flags on a long pole like kids have on their bicycles to make them more visible.
Parisiens have other ways of creating parking space for themselves. Most of these are likely illegal. Like parking on the sidewalk. Or on the corner in an intersection. A few days ago, someone didn't have enough space to squeeze into a parallel parking spot on the street the regular way, so they backed into it, perpendicular to the sidewalk, and half the car was ON the sidewalk! These are the kinds of things that would get you towed in a New York minute in NYC. But here, I don't see many tickets being handed out. Our street here is metered, with Muni-meters that are almost identical to the ones around our old building in Forest Hills. The parking tickets here seem to get received with the same nonchalance that the French approach most things in life.
It's kind of nice not having to find a place to park every day.
Wednesday, September 17, 2003
Meredith's diet (Part II)
It should come as no surprise that school lunch isn't free. What is surprising is that there is a fee structure associated with the lunch, including five different rates depending on the family's financial situation. After dropping Meredith off at school one morning, Bill came home and handed me a flier. [I should note that he seems to receive a disproportionate amount of school paperwork.] In order to qualify for a reduced price lunch, one must present oneself with all manner of documentation at the caisse d'école (not the same as the office that we had visited previously), including three months of pay stubs, a tax return, etc. Of the 6 documents required, we had zero. The sheet Bill received specifically stated that no reductions would be granted without all of this paperwork. Undaunted, and with the knowledge that such absolute statements on paper normally mean very little in person, I headed to the caisse with my passport, the letter informing me of my fellowship, and the lease. [It's astounding to me how many times I've needed to use the lease as an official proof of residence -- I never once needed to use it in New York!] The woman at the caisse finished her cigarette, then came to the window to hear me out. She examined my documents, filled out a form by hand, and asked a few questions. In particular, she was interested in knowing how we were covering the rent, since it was more than my monthly fellowship stipend. I said that my family in America was helping out, and thought that for sure this would do us in. She told me I'd hear by the end of the week. Yeah right, I thought. And yet, lo and behold, the letter arrived and informed us that we qualified for the "second tier"! So instead of paying 3 € (euros) 50 per day, we pay 2 € 80. When our checks finally arrived, I was able to pay the principal.
The snack (le goûter) however, is paid separately, and in cash only. An announcement went up on the bulletin board saying the snack should be paid this Friday. No where, in all the paperwork we have received from the school or in any of the postings in the foyer, has there been any mention of the cost of the snack. I waited my turn to see the principal with some cash in hand, she looked up Meredith's attendance at the goûter and announced that for the month of September, we owed 12 €, or less than 1 €/day. Pas mal, as they say around here, pas mal du tout (not bad at all), especially considering Meredith really does eat her snack every day!
The snack (le goûter) however, is paid separately, and in cash only. An announcement went up on the bulletin board saying the snack should be paid this Friday. No where, in all the paperwork we have received from the school or in any of the postings in the foyer, has there been any mention of the cost of the snack. I waited my turn to see the principal with some cash in hand, she looked up Meredith's attendance at the goûter and announced that for the month of September, we owed 12 €, or less than 1 €/day. Pas mal, as they say around here, pas mal du tout (not bad at all), especially considering Meredith really does eat her snack every day!
Monday, September 15, 2003
Meredith's diet (Part I)
So, since we've moved to France, Meredith has decided that she loves yogurt. I think she'd eat it at every meal, if we let her. She also loves opening our little fridge and choosing her flavor (we've taken to buying the variety pack with 4 different flavors, but she enjoys them all). In addition, she'll have some fruit (a pear or half a banana) and part of a croissant or some bread along with her standard beverage, diluted orange juice (we've managed to find the calcium-added Tropicana, bonus!). Alternatively, she still enjoys a bowl of cereal with raisins now and then.
In the evening, she'll sometimes have a yogurt or string cheese as soon as we get home from school. Dinner is usually a hamburger, a hot dog, or a fish patty, although she still likes her cold pasta and rice. We'll often wrap it up with a cookie -- she's been allowed to pick out a package that looks appealing to her and Bill and I have been pretty psyched about her choices!
The kicker, though, is that she eats better at school than at home. Her teachers have all mentioned that she eats well ("Elle mange très bien!") which is a major compliment around here. On the school lunch menu: veal scaloppini with roasted potatoes; beef bourguignon with pasta; rabbit (!); filet of sole and rice pilaf. Then, in the afternoon, she gets a snack, which is usually a pain au chocolat (what we'd call a chocolate croissant, what Meredith calls "bread with chocolate") or a tartine (french bread and butter with jam), or a chausson aux pommes (like an apple turnover, but better).
In the evening, she'll sometimes have a yogurt or string cheese as soon as we get home from school. Dinner is usually a hamburger, a hot dog, or a fish patty, although she still likes her cold pasta and rice. We'll often wrap it up with a cookie -- she's been allowed to pick out a package that looks appealing to her and Bill and I have been pretty psyched about her choices!
The kicker, though, is that she eats better at school than at home. Her teachers have all mentioned that she eats well ("Elle mange très bien!") which is a major compliment around here. On the school lunch menu: veal scaloppini with roasted potatoes; beef bourguignon with pasta; rabbit (!); filet of sole and rice pilaf. Then, in the afternoon, she gets a snack, which is usually a pain au chocolat (what we'd call a chocolate croissant, what Meredith calls "bread with chocolate") or a tartine (french bread and butter with jam), or a chausson aux pommes (like an apple turnover, but better).
Saturday, September 13, 2003
Meredith la petite écolière (the little schoolgirl)…
This chapter of our ex-pat life began well before we set foot on French soil. For those who might not know, public education in France begins at age 3, although it is not obligatory until age 5. If that sounds contradictory, it is. Welcome to France. What it means in practical terms is that students aren't guaranteed a spot in the first two years of "école maternelle" (maternal, or nursery, school); it's kind of a first-come, first-served set-up. In France, however, no doesn’t mean no, at least not right away.
A strange coincidence helped us out enormously in the early going. As the days of August passed quickly by, we were still unclear as to where we'd be living in Paris, and were exploring several different avenues simultaneously, some through agencies, some direct ads. One of the owner-advertised rentals that sounded interesting was a 2-bedroom in the 9th arrondissement (Paris has 20 of these divisions, kind of like the 5 boroughs of New York in terms of governance structure and municipal interests). The photos of this place on the internet made it clear that there was a young child living in the second bedroom. I spoke to the owners a couple of times as we were trying to negotiate a deal with them for a 9-month rental (they were asking 2200 euros/month!) that we ended up deciding against, but the landlords were very helpful in explaining that we should get in touch with the mairie (town hall) of the arrondissement in which we planned to live right away, and even provided us with the phone number of the 9th.
It turned out that we took a place in the 9th (through an agency, more on that in a different entry), so I called the mairie and spoke with the school office. NOTE: The French in general don't like to do business over the phone; they far prefer in-person communication. The office manager, Madame Level, directed me to fax several documents right away -- Meredith's birth certificate and vaccination record, proof of our address in Paris, and my passport. The only two vaccinations the French care about are DtaP and what they call BCG, which is for TB. As it happens, although Meredith has had dozens of shots, she doesn't have this. In fact, it's not available or recommended in the US at this time. So Meredith's pediatrician wrote a letter, which I translated into French, and I faxed that as well. Fortunately, we know a pediatrician in Paris who I planned to contact anyway, so we figured he could help us get Meredith this shot right away.
Ah, yes, the day we arrived in Paris was the first day of school! So, jet lagged, dazed, and confused, we made our way to the mairie and found the school office. I presented myself and our situation, and we were given three, that's three, copies of a letter along with the address of the école maternelle and the phone number of the school principal. We called right away (this was about 4:30 in the afternoon on Tuesday), and the principal, Madame Secondé, instructed us to arrive at the school at 8:30 on Thursday morning with our documents. We spent the time in between wondering if anyone was going to ask us about the shots and why we couldn't see the principal on Wednesday.
So, we dressed Meredith up for her first day of school and easily found the principal in the school lobby. She consulted her list and led us directly up to a classroom, Classe numéro 2 in the petite section with Mademoiselle Catherine as the maîtresse. Meredith's name was added to the class roster and we were handed a sheaf of paperwork to fill out. Meredith was happily making herself at home, but there was a lot of weeping and wailing all around, on the part of parent and child alike. Talk about your separation issues! Lots of kids clutching loveys (or doudous, as they're called here), sucking pacifiers (yes, these kids are 3-5 years old), and even drinking from baby bottles. We made it clear that Meredith would be staying for lunch (a good number of children go home to eat), and left her for the day.
As far as transitions go for Meredith, that was about it. She continues to speak English a good deal of the time, but she clearly makes herself understood. Her teachers and care-givers report that she is adorable and souriante (smiling) all the time. She seems to love the art projects and "gymnastics" (dancing? Exercising?) that they do everyday. And since she doesn't have one particular doudou that's the most special, she decides each morning which stuffed animal is that day's lucky winner. When we pick her up at 5:30, she's usually out on the playground, happily playing by herself or with some of the other kids, and generally filthy.
In time, some things have been revealed. For one, there's no school on Wednesdays. Ever. On the other hand, starting in first grade, there is a half-day of school on Saturdays. How this schedule works to anyone's benefit is beyond me, but that's how it is. Fortunately, there's a day care centre de loisirs at the school on Wednesdays, for which there is a charge, but at least Meredith can go to the same building every day.
It did take a bit of doing to get Meredith enrolled, but nothing worse than we experienced in other bureaucratic arenas (at least thus far). What is interesting to note is the reaction from Parisians, French and expat alike, to the news that we managed to get Meredith into school. Some are shocked, some are stunned, but all are surprised to some degree, and many share stories of their own difficulties getting their children into l'école maternelle. Perhaps ignorance was bliss in this case!
A strange coincidence helped us out enormously in the early going. As the days of August passed quickly by, we were still unclear as to where we'd be living in Paris, and were exploring several different avenues simultaneously, some through agencies, some direct ads. One of the owner-advertised rentals that sounded interesting was a 2-bedroom in the 9th arrondissement (Paris has 20 of these divisions, kind of like the 5 boroughs of New York in terms of governance structure and municipal interests). The photos of this place on the internet made it clear that there was a young child living in the second bedroom. I spoke to the owners a couple of times as we were trying to negotiate a deal with them for a 9-month rental (they were asking 2200 euros/month!) that we ended up deciding against, but the landlords were very helpful in explaining that we should get in touch with the mairie (town hall) of the arrondissement in which we planned to live right away, and even provided us with the phone number of the 9th.
It turned out that we took a place in the 9th (through an agency, more on that in a different entry), so I called the mairie and spoke with the school office. NOTE: The French in general don't like to do business over the phone; they far prefer in-person communication. The office manager, Madame Level, directed me to fax several documents right away -- Meredith's birth certificate and vaccination record, proof of our address in Paris, and my passport. The only two vaccinations the French care about are DtaP and what they call BCG, which is for TB. As it happens, although Meredith has had dozens of shots, she doesn't have this. In fact, it's not available or recommended in the US at this time. So Meredith's pediatrician wrote a letter, which I translated into French, and I faxed that as well. Fortunately, we know a pediatrician in Paris who I planned to contact anyway, so we figured he could help us get Meredith this shot right away.
Ah, yes, the day we arrived in Paris was the first day of school! So, jet lagged, dazed, and confused, we made our way to the mairie and found the school office. I presented myself and our situation, and we were given three, that's three, copies of a letter along with the address of the école maternelle and the phone number of the school principal. We called right away (this was about 4:30 in the afternoon on Tuesday), and the principal, Madame Secondé, instructed us to arrive at the school at 8:30 on Thursday morning with our documents. We spent the time in between wondering if anyone was going to ask us about the shots and why we couldn't see the principal on Wednesday.
So, we dressed Meredith up for her first day of school and easily found the principal in the school lobby. She consulted her list and led us directly up to a classroom, Classe numéro 2 in the petite section with Mademoiselle Catherine as the maîtresse. Meredith's name was added to the class roster and we were handed a sheaf of paperwork to fill out. Meredith was happily making herself at home, but there was a lot of weeping and wailing all around, on the part of parent and child alike. Talk about your separation issues! Lots of kids clutching loveys (or doudous, as they're called here), sucking pacifiers (yes, these kids are 3-5 years old), and even drinking from baby bottles. We made it clear that Meredith would be staying for lunch (a good number of children go home to eat), and left her for the day.
As far as transitions go for Meredith, that was about it. She continues to speak English a good deal of the time, but she clearly makes herself understood. Her teachers and care-givers report that she is adorable and souriante (smiling) all the time. She seems to love the art projects and "gymnastics" (dancing? Exercising?) that they do everyday. And since she doesn't have one particular doudou that's the most special, she decides each morning which stuffed animal is that day's lucky winner. When we pick her up at 5:30, she's usually out on the playground, happily playing by herself or with some of the other kids, and generally filthy.
In time, some things have been revealed. For one, there's no school on Wednesdays. Ever. On the other hand, starting in first grade, there is a half-day of school on Saturdays. How this schedule works to anyone's benefit is beyond me, but that's how it is. Fortunately, there's a day care centre de loisirs at the school on Wednesdays, for which there is a charge, but at least Meredith can go to the same building every day.
It did take a bit of doing to get Meredith enrolled, but nothing worse than we experienced in other bureaucratic arenas (at least thus far). What is interesting to note is the reaction from Parisians, French and expat alike, to the news that we managed to get Meredith into school. Some are shocked, some are stunned, but all are surprised to some degree, and many share stories of their own difficulties getting their children into l'école maternelle. Perhaps ignorance was bliss in this case!
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
I just called to say, “I have no phone service.”
Let’s be clear, phones have been available in France for about a century. However, for reasons unknown to me, possibly having to do with cost, many French people resisted having phones installed in their homes. This meant that prior to the advent of the cellular phone (see Bill’s ‘blog on that portion of our Adventure), the corner payphones got lots and lots of use. Even in my first solo trips to France in ’87 and ’88 I noticed a great deal of payphone usage, with people standing in line to use phones on the street.
Our apartment, however, came with a phone already installed; it was one of the features listed on the website and of course would be desirable, if not downright important, for us to have. When Mme Chevaillier (known to Meredith as “Madame” or “the dame”) informed us that the phone was cut off, she quickly explained that it was due to a miscommunication with France Telecom, the Ma Bell of France. Apparently, when she requested that the phone bill be forwarded to her in Nice, where she lives, they got the address wrong and the bills were returned as undeliverable, leading the nice people at France Telecom to disconnect the phone. She said she’d take care of it as soon as she returned to Nice, but she gave us the phone number attached to the line so that we’d be ready when the service was restored.
Days passed, still no phone. I called Madame from NYU to ask about the status, and she said it should be working. On Saturday, when getting help on our cell phones from Bernard in the France Telecom store (again, see Bill’s ‘blog on the portable issues), we asked for help with the land line as well (that’s la ligne fixe in French). Bernard wasn’t supposed to be taking such steps for us without our proper proof of address (a phone bill? Yeah right!), but since Meredith was with us, he made an exception – something the French do all the time, if they have a reason to do so – and checked in his system. After verifying our address and Madame’s full name, he indicated that there was indeed phone service in the apartment, but the phone number was different from the one Madame had given us (Bernard could also see that the old line had been shut off.).
Back at home, Bill did a thorough check of the apartment for phone jacks. He found one in Meredith’s room, which was dead, and one upstairs in our room, that had a dial tone!
Whoopee! In the mean time, I had called France Telecom directly on our gardienne’s phone (a gardienne is something between a superintendent and a busybody, more on that at some later point), and arranged to have a technician come to the house. Shockingly, our appointment was for Monday morning! Now that’s service!
And indeed, our friendly technicien arrived early during the designated time frame, verified that the downstairs lines were dead, followed all of the lines as far as he could from the apartment out to the central box, and determined that the downstairs line had been cut. He made sure to tell us that we could have France Telecom drop the working line downstairs, if we were willing to pay for it. When she heard of this, Madame justly said that the building fund (this is a co-op) or managing company (known as the syndic) would be footing that bill, since their workmen undoubtedly cut the line in error. This has little to do with us, of course, but it’s interesting to see how things work around here.
The dilemma that faced us had to do with the fact that the only phone in the house was corded and would not extend down the stairs and through Meredith’s room so that we might have access to it while she sleeps. So we went to the BHV (stands for Boutiques de l’Hôtel de Ville) and purchased a cordless phone, so we could plug the base in upstairs and use the phone downstairs. Madame kindly offered to split the cost of this phone with us. This arrangement quickly began to be a pain, so Bill bought some cable and dropped a line himself through the existing holes in the floor, ceiling, and walls, then rewired the jack downstairs with the new line. Works like a charm. We’ll uninstall it upon move-out, or in the event that Madame gets someone to pay for the official extension of the line. And so, the resolution of our ligne fixe issues becomes a loving tribute not only to my husband, but to his father, a career employee of the phone company, who taught Bill a thing or two about telephones.
Unfortunately, the phone is still in Madame’s name. This presents other problems that shall be written up on some other day. Yes, the saga continues…
Our apartment, however, came with a phone already installed; it was one of the features listed on the website and of course would be desirable, if not downright important, for us to have. When Mme Chevaillier (known to Meredith as “Madame” or “the dame”) informed us that the phone was cut off, she quickly explained that it was due to a miscommunication with France Telecom, the Ma Bell of France. Apparently, when she requested that the phone bill be forwarded to her in Nice, where she lives, they got the address wrong and the bills were returned as undeliverable, leading the nice people at France Telecom to disconnect the phone. She said she’d take care of it as soon as she returned to Nice, but she gave us the phone number attached to the line so that we’d be ready when the service was restored.
Days passed, still no phone. I called Madame from NYU to ask about the status, and she said it should be working. On Saturday, when getting help on our cell phones from Bernard in the France Telecom store (again, see Bill’s ‘blog on the portable issues), we asked for help with the land line as well (that’s la ligne fixe in French). Bernard wasn’t supposed to be taking such steps for us without our proper proof of address (a phone bill? Yeah right!), but since Meredith was with us, he made an exception – something the French do all the time, if they have a reason to do so – and checked in his system. After verifying our address and Madame’s full name, he indicated that there was indeed phone service in the apartment, but the phone number was different from the one Madame had given us (Bernard could also see that the old line had been shut off.).
Back at home, Bill did a thorough check of the apartment for phone jacks. He found one in Meredith’s room, which was dead, and one upstairs in our room, that had a dial tone!
Whoopee! In the mean time, I had called France Telecom directly on our gardienne’s phone (a gardienne is something between a superintendent and a busybody, more on that at some later point), and arranged to have a technician come to the house. Shockingly, our appointment was for Monday morning! Now that’s service!
And indeed, our friendly technicien arrived early during the designated time frame, verified that the downstairs lines were dead, followed all of the lines as far as he could from the apartment out to the central box, and determined that the downstairs line had been cut. He made sure to tell us that we could have France Telecom drop the working line downstairs, if we were willing to pay for it. When she heard of this, Madame justly said that the building fund (this is a co-op) or managing company (known as the syndic) would be footing that bill, since their workmen undoubtedly cut the line in error. This has little to do with us, of course, but it’s interesting to see how things work around here.
The dilemma that faced us had to do with the fact that the only phone in the house was corded and would not extend down the stairs and through Meredith’s room so that we might have access to it while she sleeps. So we went to the BHV (stands for Boutiques de l’Hôtel de Ville) and purchased a cordless phone, so we could plug the base in upstairs and use the phone downstairs. Madame kindly offered to split the cost of this phone with us. This arrangement quickly began to be a pain, so Bill bought some cable and dropped a line himself through the existing holes in the floor, ceiling, and walls, then rewired the jack downstairs with the new line. Works like a charm. We’ll uninstall it upon move-out, or in the event that Madame gets someone to pay for the official extension of the line. And so, the resolution of our ligne fixe issues becomes a loving tribute not only to my husband, but to his father, a career employee of the phone company, who taught Bill a thing or two about telephones.
Unfortunately, the phone is still in Madame’s name. This presents other problems that shall be written up on some other day. Yes, the saga continues…
Saturday, September 6, 2003
Domicile, Sweet Domicile
The shuttle service was ready and waiting for us when we blinked our way into the Paris sunshine on the 2nd. For a mere 10€ (euros) extra, the driver was willing to take our bags as well ourselves into the city from the Charles de Gaulle airport.
About 40 minutes later, we were unloading our baggage onto the sidewalk in front of our new home address in the diverse 9th arrondissement.
A bit of background: For administrative reasons, Napoleon divided Paris into districts, or arrondissements. There are 20 of them in all, starting with the 1st on the Ile de la Cité (the original city of Paris, where Notre-Dame is situated), and spiraling out from there. The closest American parallel I can make is a borough. [For New Yorkers and other city dwellers accustomed to an urban grid configuration, Paris is downright vexing. This snail-shell distribution of the arrondissements is only the beginning. There’s no grid at all, no uptown, no East Side. The Left Bank/Right Bank (rive gauche/rive droite) isn’t all that helpful, to me at least. Paris is a web, vaguely circular yet irregular and possessing a certain elegance in its layout. Without a detailed street map, however, most Parisians are lost in neighborhoods new to them; most Parisians carry such maps with them at all times, clever and practical folk that they are.] Our arrondissement is known for its significant landmark, the Opera House, which of course no longer has any opera performed in it (the new Opera House is in the Bastille and opened in the late 1980s; it’s an ugly, uncomfortable behemoth of a building, but I digress. The Opera House in the 9th is where Phantom of the Opera takes place, and there is a lake underneath and a huge chandelier up above just for literary accuracy’s sake. This section (or quartier) makes the 9th seem snooty and upscale, but north of the Grands Boulevards (a series of major roads that run east-west north of the Seine), where we live, is on the way to Montmartre, a more risqué and less affluent area. It looks like we are nicely situated in between these two well-known quartiers. Thank you for your attention. Now, back to our story.
So, here we are with our stuff, hunting around for some euros to pay the driver with, when I notice that – of course – there’s a numeric keypad just outside the building entrance that requires a code. This digicode system is in practice all over the city. Normally, there’s a button below the pad that allows you to open the door without a code during the day, so that deliveries and workers can easily enter the building. Our building has no such button, and I realized that we didn’t know the code. What to do? Well, knowing that our apartment was on the ground floor (that’s the rez-de-chaussée in French), we went ahead and knocked on the window to the left of the entryway. Fortunately, this worked.
A woman of a certain age, Madame Chevaillier, greeted us warmly. It was soon evident that she spoke not a word of English, meaning that I would need to take the lead on communicating with her. She thoughtfully offered us a beverage and a snack (cookies, marshmallows, and fruit), before letting us know that she had waited all day the previous day for us, since our lease began on the 1st. Just a little guilt-inducing statement, but oh well. So we begin to tour the apartment, and it becomes clear that it’s a duplex. Nothing against them, generally, but we had specified that we did not want to take a place that required our walking through one bedroom to access the other. Well, here we are on Day 1 of our Paris Adventure, and not only do we need to walk through Meredith’s room to get to ours, which is up a creaky, windy, narrow staircase, but we have to do this to get to a bathroom, as well! Nothing of the kind was mentioned in the on-line description and depiction of the apartment, but nothing could be done about it at the time and it certainly wasn’t our landlady’s fault that we didn’t know this in advance.
Apart from the layout challenges, the apartment is quite lovely and suits our needs well. The dining room is separated from the living room (salon-séjour) by an archway and the small but well-equipped kitchen is off the living room. The bathroom (salle d’eau) adjacent to Meredith’s cosy little room has (drumroll) an actual shower! Upstairs, we have a French bathroom (bathtub and sink) and a separate toilet (or WC, or water closet), and a comfortably appointed bedroom. The décor generally evokes the 18th century, with lots of drapery and curtains and hidden closets and doors. There’s an amazing amount of storage tucked behind folding doors along the staircase, for instance, and our washer and dryer (!!!!) can be found there as well.
In addition, the kitchen and dining room are well stocked with dishes, cutlery, pots and pans, etc, and there’s ample linen for the bedrooms and baths. That said, we found certain gaps in the inventory that we’ll be filling over time: wine glasses, a clock, bathmats, water pitcher, candle holders, large glasses (tough to find in France, the land of portion control), wooden spoons, and more will be on our shopping lists. Given our particular needs, we also will be stocking up on power adaptors and splitters.
Okay, back to our initial tour. Mme Chevaillier took me on a two-hour (two-hour!) detailed review of every fork, lamp, and napkin in the joint. She’s left us equipped with knick-knacks and books, records (LPs!) and doilies, a piano and lots of cleaning apparati, and we’ve signed off on every last item. [In the interest of toddler-proofing, certain objets d’art will be relegated to high shelves or closets to avoid having to pay for their possible replacement.] Once that was done, we sat down to sign the lease and fork over a few more euros (the balance between the three months’ rent due up front – two months of security plus the September rent – and what we had wired to her in advance), learn how to operate the two locks on the front door and the those on the shutters, and then she called a taxi and was gone to catch the TGV (the train de grande vitesse, or bullet train) back home to Nice. I have subsequently spoken to her a number of times, but those tales will wait for another ‘blog.
Did I mention the phone is dead?
About 40 minutes later, we were unloading our baggage onto the sidewalk in front of our new home address in the diverse 9th arrondissement.
A bit of background: For administrative reasons, Napoleon divided Paris into districts, or arrondissements. There are 20 of them in all, starting with the 1st on the Ile de la Cité (the original city of Paris, where Notre-Dame is situated), and spiraling out from there. The closest American parallel I can make is a borough. [For New Yorkers and other city dwellers accustomed to an urban grid configuration, Paris is downright vexing. This snail-shell distribution of the arrondissements is only the beginning. There’s no grid at all, no uptown, no East Side. The Left Bank/Right Bank (rive gauche/rive droite) isn’t all that helpful, to me at least. Paris is a web, vaguely circular yet irregular and possessing a certain elegance in its layout. Without a detailed street map, however, most Parisians are lost in neighborhoods new to them; most Parisians carry such maps with them at all times, clever and practical folk that they are.] Our arrondissement is known for its significant landmark, the Opera House, which of course no longer has any opera performed in it (the new Opera House is in the Bastille and opened in the late 1980s; it’s an ugly, uncomfortable behemoth of a building, but I digress. The Opera House in the 9th is where Phantom of the Opera takes place, and there is a lake underneath and a huge chandelier up above just for literary accuracy’s sake. This section (or quartier) makes the 9th seem snooty and upscale, but north of the Grands Boulevards (a series of major roads that run east-west north of the Seine), where we live, is on the way to Montmartre, a more risqué and less affluent area. It looks like we are nicely situated in between these two well-known quartiers. Thank you for your attention. Now, back to our story.
So, here we are with our stuff, hunting around for some euros to pay the driver with, when I notice that – of course – there’s a numeric keypad just outside the building entrance that requires a code. This digicode system is in practice all over the city. Normally, there’s a button below the pad that allows you to open the door without a code during the day, so that deliveries and workers can easily enter the building. Our building has no such button, and I realized that we didn’t know the code. What to do? Well, knowing that our apartment was on the ground floor (that’s the rez-de-chaussée in French), we went ahead and knocked on the window to the left of the entryway. Fortunately, this worked.
A woman of a certain age, Madame Chevaillier, greeted us warmly. It was soon evident that she spoke not a word of English, meaning that I would need to take the lead on communicating with her. She thoughtfully offered us a beverage and a snack (cookies, marshmallows, and fruit), before letting us know that she had waited all day the previous day for us, since our lease began on the 1st. Just a little guilt-inducing statement, but oh well. So we begin to tour the apartment, and it becomes clear that it’s a duplex. Nothing against them, generally, but we had specified that we did not want to take a place that required our walking through one bedroom to access the other. Well, here we are on Day 1 of our Paris Adventure, and not only do we need to walk through Meredith’s room to get to ours, which is up a creaky, windy, narrow staircase, but we have to do this to get to a bathroom, as well! Nothing of the kind was mentioned in the on-line description and depiction of the apartment, but nothing could be done about it at the time and it certainly wasn’t our landlady’s fault that we didn’t know this in advance.
Apart from the layout challenges, the apartment is quite lovely and suits our needs well. The dining room is separated from the living room (salon-séjour) by an archway and the small but well-equipped kitchen is off the living room. The bathroom (salle d’eau) adjacent to Meredith’s cosy little room has (drumroll) an actual shower! Upstairs, we have a French bathroom (bathtub and sink) and a separate toilet (or WC, or water closet), and a comfortably appointed bedroom. The décor generally evokes the 18th century, with lots of drapery and curtains and hidden closets and doors. There’s an amazing amount of storage tucked behind folding doors along the staircase, for instance, and our washer and dryer (!!!!) can be found there as well.
In addition, the kitchen and dining room are well stocked with dishes, cutlery, pots and pans, etc, and there’s ample linen for the bedrooms and baths. That said, we found certain gaps in the inventory that we’ll be filling over time: wine glasses, a clock, bathmats, water pitcher, candle holders, large glasses (tough to find in France, the land of portion control), wooden spoons, and more will be on our shopping lists. Given our particular needs, we also will be stocking up on power adaptors and splitters.
Okay, back to our initial tour. Mme Chevaillier took me on a two-hour (two-hour!) detailed review of every fork, lamp, and napkin in the joint. She’s left us equipped with knick-knacks and books, records (LPs!) and doilies, a piano and lots of cleaning apparati, and we’ve signed off on every last item. [In the interest of toddler-proofing, certain objets d’art will be relegated to high shelves or closets to avoid having to pay for their possible replacement.] Once that was done, we sat down to sign the lease and fork over a few more euros (the balance between the three months’ rent due up front – two months of security plus the September rent – and what we had wired to her in advance), learn how to operate the two locks on the front door and the those on the shutters, and then she called a taxi and was gone to catch the TGV (the train de grande vitesse, or bullet train) back home to Nice. I have subsequently spoken to her a number of times, but those tales will wait for another ‘blog.
Did I mention the phone is dead?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)