An American in Paris

{Saturday, September 6}

I am officially settled in in Paris. Surprisingly, I haven’t gotten lost yet, either, which is a good sign. I also promise that there will be fewer pictures clogging up your bandwidth, as I’m trying to look as little like a tourist as possible.

During my first day here, by contrast, there was no way to avoid looking completely inept. I played it pretty cool on the train – writing, listening to music, and not smiling at anyone because “ça ne se fait pas” - “it is not done”. When the ticket control guy came around, I handed him my ticket and prepared to excuse myself for being in the wrong place, but I was lost and I’ve never taken the train and maybe if I speak French perfectly he’ll help me move my suitcases to the right car and he said “Merci” and handed back the ticket. Huh? For the second time that morning, I felt an immense sense of relief, despite also being confused. I knew I wasn’t in the right car, because my ticket said Seat 23, and there was a woman sitting in 23, next to her husband. Ah, well. Enjoy the good fortune.

As the train pulled into Gare de Lyon, I stood up to get my suitcases, noting a plaque above the exit that said “1^er classe” and smiling to myself. This good feeling, however, was not to last, for when I pulled my suitcases down from the shelf, one of them fell squarely and painfully onto my left knee.

It's even nastier than it looks; trust me.

I grimaced and limped off the train, hoping that it wasn’t too far to the taxis. First, though, I had to exchange my money. I hobbled down the stairs, probably looking incredibly pathetic and definitely blocking everyone’s way, so when a nice man offered to carry one of my suitcases, I accepted without hesitation, my knee and fatigue overwhelming my sense of pride.

At the bottom of the stairs, there was a sign for taxis – bingo. But where do I exchange my money? I looked left and right and found escalators, advertisements, machines for purchasing tickets, and hurried travelers, but no money exchange. Fabulous. I started toward the exit, hoping to find one along my way, and saw a map. Ah, how useful. At least, it would have been, if it hadn’t been a map of the neighborhood and not the station. Crap. Still, I contemplated it for a minute or two, hoping no one noticed that I had absolutely no idea where I was going. Since this was really doing me no good, I decided to walk the extra hundred feet to the taxis, hoping the magazine stand wasn’t the only thing between.

Yet again, I must have looked enough like a tourist that a man came up to me and said, “Vous cherchez?” I stared blankly at him. I know that with the inflection, it can mean “What are you looking for?”, but quite literally it just means, “You are searching?” I thought, “Yes, duh, of course I’m searching; thanks a lot.” I blinked. He repeated his question two or three times, and I opened my mouth to stutter a reply, but nothing came out. He began to look both amused and impatient: “Dites!” {“Say it!”}. “Uh…je dois…changer…m-mon argent” {“Uh…I have to…change…m-my money”} I muttered awkwardly. He looked confused for a second, then said, “Ah, un ‘change’”, pronouncing ‘change’ just like in English. Stupid borrowed words. I nodded and he told me it was back the other way, in the middle of the station. Oh, I thought. The place where I just was, and couldn’t find anything. How helpful. I meandered back in that direction, feeling a bit like a salmon swimming against the current. A dumb, American salmon.

But sure enough, the booth was there, and I gave the guy the $70 I had in cash for a grand total of 35 €. Stupid commission, stupid U.S. dollars diminishing in value by the second. Ah, well. The taxis were right where I’d left them, and the driver even put my bags in the trunk and didn’t try to scam me. I did, of course, wait to give him the address until we were already in Levallois-Perret {the suburb directly NW of Paris where I live}, because he seemed impatient when I got in the cab. Despite sounding slightly irritated when I did tell him the address, he pulled out his map and found the apartment building and dropped me off and took my 20 € {almost as much as I paid for a four-hour train ride} without complaint.

I punched in the door code my host mother, Bénédicte, had e-mailed me, and dragged my suitcases into the tiled hallway. This apparently made a lot of noise, because the superintendent came out of her apartment and said, “Ah! Famille Dufournier?” {“Ah! Dufournier family?”} I indicated that yes, that was my host family and I needed to find their apartment. As soon as we opened the door to the stairs, Bénédicte appeared. “Ma petite Caroline!” she said warmly, greeting me and helping me put my suitcases into the tiny elevator before leading me up the stairs.

The lovely front door

The intercom {duh}

The aforementioned elevator

Just leaving the apartment was her eldest son, Romain {c. 30 years old}, who had stopped by for lunch. Bénédicte showed me my very comfortable room,

Yeah, I know there's a wall there. It's weirdly-shaped, so it's hard to get a good picture of it. More attempts available upon request.

as well as the rest of the apartment, then said that I spoke very well, and asked me if I wanted to eat something. Did I ever. “J’ai su que vous étiez intelligente” {“I knew that you were smart”}, I told her. She laughed and said, “Non, tu sais ce que c’est? C’est que je suis maman” {“No, you know what it is? It’s because I’m a mom”}. We’re off to a great start. She had to leave to go to school {to teach}, so I was left with Rosa, who kindly showed me to the phone store to buy a SIM card and minutes for my {obligatory} cell phone. I kind of miss not having one. I walked back alone, deciding to stop at the nearest pharmacy to find some deodorant that doesn’t ruin my clothes {thanks a lot, Secret}. I listened to the salesman’s diatribe, understanding about half of what he said, because he spoke so rapidly. Nodding and pretending to understand completely, I bought the cheapest one, thanked him, and left.

It was then that I realized that I had paid $15 for deodorant. Oops.

I was hanging around the apartment, unpacking my suitcases, and generally settling in, when I heard a noise that sounded like someone had come in, but no one was supposed to be there till 7 PM. I tiptoed to the kitchen…and met Laure-Hélène {pronounced “Lor-ay-len”; prettiest French name ever}, the other older sibling who doesn’t live here, but stopped by to see if anyone was in. Shortly after she left, Cyprien {the one who does live here} showed up, so I was not alone after all. He kindly offered to help me connect to the wireless network here, so I followed him down the hall toward the router. Physical discomfort being a common theme on this particular day, I slipped and fell on the wooden floor, but did manage to save my computer.

When Bénédicte and her husband Benoît came home, she prepared a lovely dinner of turkey with potatoes and onions, and I partook of the French custom of drinking wine at dinner. Then, Bénédicte showed me how to take the metro to IES, actually walking me to the station and pointing out my route. When I mentioned that I’d taken the T in Boston, she was thunderstruck; I am apparently the first American of the dozen or so that they’ve hosted to have already taken the metro. Back in the apartment, I watched “The Naked Gun” dubbed into French with Cyprien. There is much more…er, adult humor in it than I realized as a kid.

Bénédicte came into my room to see pictures of my family, and I gave her the calendar, blueberry jam, and Swiss chocolate that I’d bought for everyone, which absolutely delighted her. We actually walked through the apartment, making Cyprien and Benoît taste the chocolate and jam. Then it was bedtime, because I was exhausted. Hooray for sleep.