Basic Week Two

Paris and I still have this love-hate relationship going, and because I was pretty generous with her last week, I have to air a few more grievances:

• Security guards.  Everywhere.  You walk into a store and they will "greet" you at the entrance by staring you down.  It feels a little like entering a maximum-security prison.  They fill their spare time by yelling at people for not putting their shopping baskets back in the right location.
• Cashiers.  Paris isn't known for customer service, but I actually did have some pretty good experiences this week... except at cash registers.  Every time I'm standing in one of their incredibly long lines I feel a tight knot in my stomach as my turn slowly approaches.  In the states I've experienced rude cashiers chatting with other employees while they ring me up, but here it will go on awkwardly long to the point where I almost feel the need to apologize for interrupting.  On Friday a cashier stopped ringing up a customer to reprimand me for resting a light plastic container on top of a box of wrapping paper sitting by the register as I tried to adjust the pile of items in my arms.  It took me a while to figure out what she was saying, but she wouldn't continue her work until I removed the container as everyone in the line stared at me. Cashiers are actually quite good at reprimanding customers.
• Socialism.  Everything is regulated; everything is taxed.  While I was still looking for an apartment, one landlord was trying to explain about how quickly housing goes in the city.  He said, "There is a high level of...," and I attempted to help his English by throwing out, "Competition?"  He replied, "Oh no, we can't have competition."  Later he was explaining a tax that I would have to pay for the sidewalk cleaners (trucks spray down the sidewalks every day - see previous posts about litter, urine, and dog poo) - 400 euros per building per year, a 400% increase from the year prior (my share would have been 100 euros). With the French shrug he explained, "We are just in a crisis and the government needs our money."
• Traffic.  I already said that I had no intention of driving while in Paris, but as a pedestrian I almost got run over by a motorcycle the other day.  One step to the right could have killed me because I don't often think to check behind me for motorcycles trying to bypass heavy traffic... WHEN I'M WALKING ON THE SIDEWALK.  Also, if you think that you have plenty of time to cross at an intersection, just wait for the light.  Traffic will speed up to teach you a lesson.
• Appointments.  You never know when you'll need one, so don't be surprised when you walk into the post office, bank, insurance agency, or pretty much any other business if they turn you away (but if you see a sign that says, "sans rendez-vous," you're probably safe).
• Bacon.  Or rather, the lack thereof.  Not to beat a dead horse (no French cuisine pun intended), but what civilized country doesn't understand good bacon??
• Television.  It's all in French.  What's the deal?  I mean, I know that I'm in France, but if they could just leave the English programs as they are and use subtitles... Watching well-known American movies and shows dubbed in French can provide some temporary laughs, though..

Of course, nowhere in the world are we completely safe from life's little annoyances, and although some of those things will always make us crazy we manage to come to terms with most of them.  C'est la vie.  At least I've finally begun finding enough redeeming qualities in the city to keep everything in balance.  I'll come up with some more pros of Paris next week.

Moving on to the other highlights of this week:

Monday

While the first week of school was made up mostly of introductory elements, the second week started off at 8:30 AM in the kitchen for the second cuisine practical lesson.  We were applying Friday's demonstration of fish stock, fish fillets, and a buttery sauce.  Chef Terrien, a 25-year veteran of Le Cordon Bleu with smiling eyes and a patient disposition, led the charge.

The class had a bumpy start with one girl, simply in the process of preparing for class, poking a knife between two of her fingers enough to cut a nerve and require a visit with a hand specialist and minor surgery the next day.  Filleting a fish wasn't one of my finest moments either, but at least I kept all of my fingers.  My fillets looked a little too butchered, my sauce was too runny for the chef ("This is soup, not sauce!") so I had to recook it, and I went a little too heavy on the salt (my taste buds enjoy it), but we weren't being evaluated and Terrien's unofficial verdict was, "Not too bad."  I'll take it.

Class was over by 11:00 AM and because I had nothing else scheduled for the day, I returned to my studio and stuffed as many items into one of my suitcases as I could before hauling it a half-mile down the road to the new studio.  After dropping it off I took a little tour of the street and found such delights as an Eric Kayser boulangerie, Oliviers & Co., l'Occitane en Provence, and several other places that I will never be able to afford and/or that will cause me to double in weight.  I had already introduced myself to the Amarino shop a couple of weeks prior, but I dropped in again to grab a caramel gelato as my reward for delivering the first 70-pound suitcase.

One thing that I couldn't shake all day was the smell of fish - it clung to my hands worse than onion. To make matters worse, when I arrived back at the old studio that afternoon and glanced in the mirror, I noticed brown splotches around my nose and eyes and suddenly remembered that moment in class when I dug into the fish's eye socket with a vegetable peeler and a spray of "juice" splattered my face.  The fact that I let it stay there for six hours or so made me feel oddly proud.  I had officially overcome my raw fish phobia!

Tuesday

The relaxed schedule came to an end Tuesday morning.  At 8:30 AM Chef Bogan took us through the finer points of preparing a chicken and cooking it, chicken stock, bechamel sauce, and rice (little-known fact: rice is rarely served on the same plate as the chicken in contemporary dishes).  He also whipped up an egg and cheese soufflé that was divine but sadly not one of the items that we would be preparing in our practical class, which we jumped into shortly after the demonstration ended.

Classic and contemporary chicken presentations and the soufflé

I had never before prepared or trussed a chicken.  It looked simple enough in the demonstration (as does everything), but holding the thing in my own hands was entirely different.  My eyes may have bulged a bit when Chef Cotte whipped out a flaming blowtorch for us to burn off the down, I didn't cut the leg and wing joints off correctly, and I had trouble locating the wishbone for removal, but somehow in the end it was tied.  Remembering Chef Terrien's warning, I backed off on the salt.  Chef Cotte's reaction was that it needed more salt and I learned that presented food should never, under any circumstances, touch the plate's rim.

We had only a three-hour break before the evening class, so after a quick change into my street clothes I came back to the old studio and ironed several parts of my uniform that I had washed the night before (wrinkled or stained uniforms can get one thrown out of class) before returning to school.  Washing and ironing is becoming like a second job to me, but I'm now extremely grateful that I opted for a studio with a washing machine!

Our practical class that evening was our first one in pastry and it involved making the diamants (shortbread cookies) from Saturday's demonstration... lots and lots of diamants.  While waiting for them to bake, Chef Tranchant brought in a giant bowl of butter whipped with sugar for us to practice piping techniques.  As it turns out, piping is not my strong point - nothing artistic is a strong point for me.  I fear this whole "presentation" thing could be my downfall.

Diamants galore

Dragging myself home sometime after 9 PM, I tossed my lifetime supply of diamants into the freezer for future accompaniments to my evening tea, keeping in mind that I would be adding two more pastries to my collection before the week was out.  Then I ate about five of them.

Wednesday

 My first class of the day wasn't until until 3:30 PM, so I set out to explore the wild and wacky world of renter's insurance.  It is required by French law, of course, and my landlord was asking me quite frequently if I had it yet even though I had just signed the lease on Friday and hadn't moved in.  I knew that several banks provide this insurance if you have an account with them, but one of my goals has been to avoid opening a French bank account if at all possible.  Unfortunately, applying for insurance online also required a French account, but I wasn't going to be that easily defeated.

My landlord had provided the name of her insurance company and although it was almost two miles from me and I would pass approximately 87 agencies on the way, I decided to give it a shot.  My fear was that I would need an appointment or that I would get in and not understand for what I was signing.  As usual, the Lord had control of the situation and a very friendly receptionist directed me to an even friendlier agent, a Ukrainian girl who spoke enough English to help me through some of the technical jargon.  They were going to let me pay in cash, too, except that I had to make the payment through the post office.

The post office...  Up to this point I had avoided it as well, primarily because I remembered trying to mail some letters while in Nice one summer.  It was very similar to a trip to the DMV where I had to take a number and sit in a waiting area for a postal worker to call me.  Of course, I discovered this protocol only after several customers and one angry worker glared at me for attempting to "cut in line."  [By the way, for any of you who are waiting for a postcard, cowardice is my only excuse.]

Nevertheless, deciding to get the payment processed right away, I marched boldly inside and looked around.  This French post office had multiple stations - two or three sort of free-standing podiums that sometimes had workers standing behind them, a closed-off counter in the corner with a lady sitting behind it, and an area hidden by screens with a sign saying "sans rendez-vous," which automatically made me wonder if everything else DID require a "rendez-vous."  The confusing part is that the post office also serves as a bank, and the signs are only slightly instructional.

I chose a podium with a worker and got behind one woman in line, apparently leaving too much space because another woman cut in between the two of us.  Normally I would find such behavior rude, but I actually appreciated the extra time to see what other people were doing.  When my turn arrived, I used the five magic words from French or Foe, "Excusez-moi de vous deranger," ("Excuse me for bothering you,") and it worked like a charm.  The worker interrupted me with, "It is no trouble; we are the post office."

From there he led me to the lady at the corner counter and he began to fill out the paperwork for me.  He was also anxious to show off his English skills, so while she processed my payment, he introduced himself and I responded with, "Enchantée."  He in turn said, "Nice to meet you."  The lady at the counter repeated, "Nice to mees you?"  He corrected her, and then attempted to explain the expression to her in French, which produced only a blank stare, which made him further try to explain "nice."  The French don't really have a translation for "nice" except for "gentil," which didn't work in this context (compare "He's a nice (Fr., gentil) guy," to "It's a nice (Fr., ??) day").  "Friendly" also doesn't translate well (surprise!).

Friendly Postal Worker (FPW) then asked if I danced, "You know, tango, salsa..." as he wiggled his hips and waved his arms, and for a moment I thought that he was asking me to dance right then.  Instead I just laughed and said that I couldn't dance.  Fortunately for all of us another customer interrupted our conversation that was quickly descending into awkwardness and FPW had to go.  My payment being successfully processed, I made a quick exit as well but gave a final wave and another "Merci beaucoup!" to FPW who shouted back, "Good-bye!  I know where you are now!"

At 3:30 PM I joined the other Basic Patisserie students to watch Chef Tranchant demonstrate the art of French tarts.  While we were required only to create a classic apple tart, within three hours he had whipped up an additional tarte tatin (a sort of upside-down apple tart) and tarte normande (apples and custard filling) with amazing speed and alacrity.  We also learned how to fraisager, which is simply smearing dough across a counter with our palms until all of the butter lumps disappear and it coheres.  I really appreciate how much we get to work with dough directly with our hands in pastry classes - it's almost like play-doh.

Classic apple tarts, Tarte tatin, and Tarte Normande

The demonstration ended just before 6:30 PM so we had to rush to grab our aprons, hairnets, hats, and knife kits to get to our practical class on time.  Making the crust was interesting - unlike a regular pie it doesn't use a pie pan, only a bottomless ring mold.  Of course my crimping skills for the crust edge needed work, and being the slowest student in the class I was rushing to place my top apple slices at the end, leaving gaping holes and uneven circles.  The taste, however, was good enough for me to eat the entire thing (over four nights, of course).  Always the presentation...

Nailed it... or not.

Thursday

Chef Vaca introduced us to savory dough recipes.  It was the first cuisine demonstration in which I felt some level of knowledge because I had worked with yeast doughs a good bit already.  I even felt so bold as to raise my hand and ask why we didn't need to proof the yeast before making the dough.  The translator in turn asked the chef who gave an explanation (he said that with more time it would actually be better to proof it), then he said, "That's a very good question! Who asked it?" I beamed like a 5-year-old who was just given a gold star.  I can play this Survivor game, too.

He then proceeded to make an onion, anchovies, and olive pizza.  Anchovies were not in my list of of favorite ingredients; as a matter of fact, I had managed to avoid eating them for 40 years because they reminded me of the house centipedes which used to infest my garage (I do like Caesar salad dressing, though).  But we have to try everything in demonstration that we're making in practical, and although his spinach and ham cannelloni made with homemade pasta sounded like a much better option, I hesitantly took a bite.  It was... delicious, and now I love anchovies (although when I don't get a clean bite and they slide off the pizza and hit my chin I freak out a little).

Onion, anchovy, and olive pizza and Spinach and ham cannelloni

The good-question glow faded three hours later in the practical class as we reproduced the recipe.  In the demonstration Chef Vaca had placed the bowl of dough on a pot of water warming on the stove to make it rise faster.  While the thought did cross my mind that the metal bowl could get pretty hot sitting on steaming water, I did likewise.  Chef Caals, who was leading the class, raised an eyebrow and asked me why I was doing it that way, then simply shrugged when I told him the reason.  Sure enough, the bottom of my dough started drying so that when I rolled it out, small hard chunks began to appear.  At some point I also cut myself again, and found myself once more the last student to complete her dish, so I ran out of time to let the top brown very well.  Nonetheless, it provided a very tasty dinner for two nights.

What it should NOT look like

Friday

We started the morning with back-to-back demonstration and practical classes in choux pastries.  For most of us, it was also our first introduction to Chef Quéré.  Unlike the previous chefs, he seemed to lack a sense of humor, methodically going through the steps and looking slightly peeved when students asked questions.  He made some really beautiful pastries, though, and only broke a smile when we applauded him at the end.

Paris Brest, four variations of Saint-Honoré, and the chef's own special creation

In practical class we were assigned the Saint-Honoré, a cream-filled pastry with a bottom tart crust and the puffed choux pastries around the edge.  Chef Quéré was in charge of this class as well.  We were already starting late because his previous class went over, and things went quickly downhill from there.

Because the practicals have no translator, most of us have to rely on our limited knowledge of French and the chef's limited knowledge of English.  Chef Quéré's English was particularly limited, and when his instructions weren't properly followed he began to slam the counter and scream obscenities at us in whatever 4-letter English words he did know quite well.  The faster students had started heating the milk and water for the choux pastry which sent him completely over the edge, and for once I found that my slowness gave me an advantage.

At one point we were expected to have all of our ingredients for the choux pastries measured out, but only about half the class caught this instruction (and I was not one of them).  Chef began yelling at students to put the flour, sugar, and eggs back in storage, so I found myself trying to inconspicuously grab what I needed before he saw me.  I proceeded to burn my fingertips in boiling caramelized sugar and I had blood coming from somewhere on my hand or wrist, but being too afraid to let him know, I continued working. Our caramel was also hardening faster than we could dip the pastries, but his screams to go faster  prevented us from trying to reheat it and soon I was haphazardly throwing the torn and half-dipped balls into place.

Then came the moment for the cream filling.  For one thing, I had never whipped cream by hand without a mixer - I wasn't even aware that it was possible.  The sound of 14 students frantically hand-whipping cream in metal bowls did actually make us laugh (because the chef was out of the room).  But then we had to pipe the cream onto our pastry, and I still hadn't quite mastered the technique, so when I saw Chef Quéré approaching me my blood ran cold.  He took the bag from my hands and did a row for me, then took the bag again when I still wasn't doing it correctly and showed me again, but surprisingly he was very calm about it.

My Saint-Honoré, or as I like to call it, my Dishonoré

The honeymoon ended about five minutes later when he said, "Clean up your stuff off the counter!  I'm pouring the water on in 5... 4... 3... 2... 1" and he proceeded to dump a bucket of water down the length of the table as we scrambled to box our pastries and grab our knife kits.  Most of us had lost items (e.g., my paring knife, measuring bowls, and scraper) in the chaos but we took everything down to the winter garden to sort things out because nobody was staying in the kitchen.  We exited in stunned silence as if we had all just witnessed a massacre.

To prevent myself from eating the entire pastry as a source of comfort, I stuck it in the fridge at the new apartment and headed off in search of bed linens, towels, a pillow, and a hair dryer.  A friend told me about a store called Tati, a lower-priced place that carries a wide range of products (by Paris standards), and they did indeed carry all of the linens that I needed.  My color choices for sheets were red, orange, brown, black, and a bluish-gray (no white).  The last choice was the least offensive to my senses and I began searching for a bed pillow.  But of course, this is Paris.  Why would I expect a store that sells sheets, pillow cases, duvets, duvet covers, and mattress covers to carry anything other than decorative pillows?

My shopping list still incomplete, I wasn't quite ready to move into the new studio so instead I returned to the old one and called my bank to set up a wire transfer for the remainder of the nine-months' rent payment (if you'll recall, I had to pay the full amount because I have no guarantor or proof of income).  At least this part of the day was successful despite the bank's criminally high exchange rate.

Saturday

Still recovering from Friday's hilarity, I was quite happy that Saturday contained no practical classes.  We were back to one of the more personable instructors, Chef Jordan, who walked us through pound cakes and madeleines, the small shell-shaped cakes that are so popular in France (and after tasting one, I understood the reason).  That class was followed by a theory class in which we learned everything that we could ever hope or want to know about dairy products and sugars.  It was also when I realized that I'm going to need to bring coffee back into my diet if I don't want to sleep through anymore classes.

Lemon pound cakes, fruit pound cakes, and madelines

Sunday

After trying out the church near Montparnasse last Sunday, I decided to stick with the Saint Denis church for the present and I spent the morning there.  When I got back to the studio, I packed up whatever remaining items that I could find into my second suitcase, my backpack, my satchel, and my purse and headed to the new studio, determined to spend the night there even without a pillow.  Ecstatic to finally have a place to call my own, I unpacked everything, hanging up or shelving all of my clothes and finding places to stow away all of my toiletries and other small items.  For the first time in almost a month I was able to shove my now-empty luggage into a corner and stop living out of a suitcase.  It felt really, really good.

School Days

I know, I know... Last week I was a bit of a Debbie Downer with "Paris stinks" this and "I hate Paris" that (although, for the record, I never actually said that I hated Paris - just that I didn't like living here).

Paris still does stink, literally, but in a strange way I hardly notice it anymore.  Instead I can now better appreciate the aromas wafting from the boulangeries (bakeries) that keep me perpetually supplied with baguettes, or the rotisseries that sit outside so many boucheries (butcher shops), just daring you not to buy a hot, juicy chicken.  Even I purchased one and I don't normally like chicken (unless it's cut into small, batter-covered strips that are deep fried).

Shopping has also become easier.  Hardly a day goes by that I'm not popping into at least one store to grab an item, and I've quickly learned the value of carrying a tote or grocery bags with me (because you never assume that the store will provide them).  Cafés and restaurants are still intimidating, but I mark this issue up as a bonus because I save a great deal of money by not frequenting them.

Sunday I was able to attend my first church service just on the outskirts of Paris in Saint Denis.  My spirits felt lifted after not only being in the fellowship of other believers, but also having conversations in my native tongue with other American expats.  Any foreigner alone in a country that doesn't speak his or her language can probably attest to the often overwhelming loneliness that comes when one doesn't have "real" face-to-face conversations for days or weeks at a time.

The service was conducted entirely in French but I found myself understanding the sermon almost completely thanks to a preacher with an American accent (it was also at this point when I realized the reason that one can take four years of college French and still be unable to communicate in France). The congregants were as diverse as Paris itself, a rare treat for someone from a country where churches have a natural tendency to be monochromatic, and they were as friendly as they were diverse, another welcome surprise.

The real turning point in my attitude, though - the whole point of this blog - didn't occur until the start of my classes at Le Cordon Bleu.

Monday

My apprehension was high as I made my way to the school, worried that I would get lost or be hit by a car or have the wrong time or date in my head even though I had checked the map route and orientation email announcement approximately 487 times.

Despite my fears, I reached the school ten minutes early and joined the line leading outside the door as we waited to be given an identity badge, folder, number, locker key, and directions to the orientation room.  This group contained only the Basic Cuisine and Grande Diplome students (Basic Patisserie's orientation was later in the week).  As the French and English translators spoke, four things initially struck me:

• Everyone looked really young.  I wasn't the oldest but definitely in the top five, or possibly even the top two, in a room full of of about fifty people.  Maybe the bullies would start referring to me as "Grams."

• There were several Asians, mostly from China - maybe 50% of a class of around 50 students.  I'm not sure that Le Cordon Bleu in Bangkok or Tokyo would have as many.  The rest of the class contained a mixture of such nationalities as Brazilians, Russians, Africans, and Americans, but surprisingly few French and only one British.

• The school has a lot of rules, and they are very serious about the enforcement.  For example, there are to be no watches or jewelry (except wedding bands), no makeup, hair pulled back, clean and pressed uniforms with properly hemmed trousers, safety shoes, no excused tardiness or absences even for illness, no phones or photos in class except at specified times, and no leaving class without permission.  On the positive side, it appeared that I wouldn't be fixing my hair or face for nine months (except Sundays).

• Only nine of us in the room were working towards the Grande Diplome (the Basic, Intermediate, and Superior certificates in both cuisine and pastry), which suddenly made sense.  A quick perusal of the Basic schedule hammered home the insanity of it.  Classes are in three-hour blocks starting at 8:30 AM, 12:30 PM, 3:30 PM, and 6:30 PM from Monday to Saturday, with each day's schedule being different.  While week one started fairly easily with only 24 hours of classes (all in cuisine until Saturday), the ensuing weeks often show nine to twelve hours of classes in one day with the heaviest week having a total of 42 hours of classes.

But as the administrators continued walking through the rules, the realization gradually washed over me of what was finally happening - the culmination of twelve months of planning and praying and saving, of highs and lows, of tough good-byes and life upheavals.  A stupid smile crept onto my face in a completely un-French manner, but I gave up trying to suppress it once the speakers began to pull out our "gifts" - white jackets, blue checkered trousers, neckerchiefs, hats, aprons, and towels, all emblazoned with the royal blue "Le Cordon Bleu" logo, instructional and recipe books for cuisine and pastry, a mesh bag (the only item allowed in class) holding storage containers, a digital kitchen scale, bowls, and a nail brush, and the pièce de résistance...

... A giant bag of Wüsthof knives and other kitchen utensils - six panels full!  I already knew about most of the other items from reading the school handbook, but this bag filled with well over $1000 of, although not the best in the world, certainly some of the finest kitchen items that I had ever owned was almost too much to comprehend.  For a moment I thought that maybe they were just loaner bags - something that we would return at the end of our schooling - but when they encouraged us to label the items with our names it was all I could do not to cheer.

After orientation we were ushered into the Jardin d'Hiver (Winter Garden), the "social" area of the school consisting of several small tables and chairs and a large refrigerator for storing our lunches or leftovers from class.  Divided by the numbers we were given upon entering the school, we received our uniforms and instructions to try on our jackets, trousers, and hats in the locker rooms.

The locker room is, like everything in Paris, extremely cramped and, for lack of a better term, a nightmare.  Lockers are stacked two high and are about one-foot wide by two-feet high by one-foot deep with the aisles between the lockers facing each other being only about 18 inches wide.  My locker is number five, right next to the room's door which opens directly to the Winter Garden - no hallway or curtain or any sort of buffer zone - and with 99 women's lockers, the door opens quite frequently.  Because we are allowed to wear our uniforms only inside the school, changing inside the locker room is mandatory.

Having survived my first experience in the locker room (everything fit but the hat... because my head is huge), I rejoined my group for a quick tour of the rest of the school where we were introduced to the demonstration and practical classrooms, loaded with more information, and ushered into the registration office to complete some paperwork.

By 1:00 PM we were finished for the day.  The wiser students among us left everything in their lockers except the cookbooks and uniform trousers (they all needed hemming), but I decided to take everything home.  I wanted to take out all of the uniform and investigate the contents of the bags personally, particularly the Wüsthof bag.  The walk to my current studio is about 17 minutes (just under a mile), which doesn't sound too bad... unless you're carrying approximately 50 pounds of items.  About five minutes into the walk I started to feel a nice, sharp pain through my neck and shoulder muscles and knew that I was in for a world of regret.

Spilling out the contents of my burden when I stumbled through the door, though, made the whole ordeal worth it.  Like a child tearing through her birthday presents, I emptied every panel of the knife bag, gasping in wonder at each little item as I spread them out before me, conscientiously grouping them by their panel sections and order before carefully replacing them back into their slots.  Well, not too carefully - one finger quickly learned just how sharp a serrated knife can be.

I spent the rest of the evening hemming both pairs of trousers with hem tape, pressing the whole uniform, and trying it on again before going to bed (yes, I did change into my pajamas first).

Tuesday

Class didn't begin until 12:30 so I slept in and made it to school with plenty of time to spare.  Although it was only a class on hygiene, we were from that point forward required to wear our uniforms to every class.  In demonstration classes only the jacket, trousers, neckerchief, and shoes are required.

Another student quickly showed me how to tie my neckerchief, but as we stood by the door waiting to be admitted into the classroom, one of the school administrators came to look at our uniforms.  She approved of my trouser hem but upon seeing my neckerchief exclaimed, "What is that? That looks horrible - like a boy scout!"  I quickly removed it and stuffed it in my pocket, making a mental note to find an instructional video online that evening.

Most of the hygiene class was spent discussing microbes and types of food poisoning before moving on to dress code requirements.  Slight tension arose when a student began to question the necessity of removing her nose ring, but the instructor killed the debate quickly with a reply of, "It's just a rule."  The old lady in me inwardly rolled her eyes at the young whippersnapper who was already challenging authority on only our second day and I admittedly felt smug at the instructor's response.

We were done with hygiene class by 2:00 PM, so I quickly changed and contacted an apartment owner whom I was scheduled to meet at 4:00 to see if she could meet me earlier.  The apartment was only a three-minute walk from the school, and because she lived in the same building she was able to let me in right away.

This studio was the smallest one yet that I had looked at - 14 m² (150 ft²).  The proximity to the school was a plus, as was the low price.  As usual, though, the pictures did the studio way more justice than it deserved.  The current tenant was staying in it until the end of June, but no effort had been made even to tidy it.  I climbed up on the mezzanine bed ladder, almost slipping to my death twice, and noticed that the distance between the mattress and the ceiling was about one foot.  The bathroom was a sink piled on top of a toilet with a tiny shower crammed in a corner with the shower curtain bar propped up to one side.  I already knew that it had no washer, and I could deal with the mini fridge that at least had a freezer box.

Being on the ground floor did bother me a bit - one window opened directly onto the street and open windows are frequently a necessity in the summer - but the other window looked out over a quiet courtyard.  It still couldn't be safely left open at night or while I was away, and keeping the shutters closed for privacy made it feel a bit like a tomb, but Paris summer evenings are usually mild.

The owner, Ghislaine, and I had some confused contractual talk before I told her that I thought I'd take it but that I'd email her when I got home (I understand written French much better than spoken).  By the time that I got back to my current studio an uneasy resolve had settled over me, but I was tired of looking and ready to be finished with it.

Let me back up a bit.  A week earlier I had fallen in love with a much nicer studio.  Everything was clean, the furniture and decor looked fresh and modern, the bathroom was comparatively huge with space all around the sink and toilet, and it had a large shower-tub, not some 2x2 stall that left the bathroom soaked after each shower or nearly drowned you if you turned around.

It was larger than any other studio that I had seen at 30 m², it had a full-sized refrigerator/freezer and a washer/dryer, and most importantly, two large glass doors opened onto a quiet and private 25 m² terrace filled with potted bamboo, olive trees, herbs, flowers, and a lovely large table and chair set.  Everything was also included in the price - taxes, utilities bills, and the internet.

The owner, Iphigénie, spoke English well but lived in Belgium so her mother, Emma, who spoke no English, was showing me around. She began to talk patiently about the finer contract details but the words that I understood the most were about the price.  It was listed on the website, but for some reason I thought that it was lower - it wasn't even in the range that I had set for myself.  I had at one point, though, raised the price on my search filter a little to see what other options came up.  I left Emma with an "I'll think about it," but the next day when I went online to look at it again it was gone.  Instead of feeling relief that it had already been rented and I didn't have to make the decision myself, I felt a little sad.  Nonetheless I decided to go back to my lower price range.

But on Sunday Iphigénie wrote to ask me if I had made a decision on the apartment because her mother was "keen" on me and thought that I would be a good tenant.  If I wasn't interested she would repost the listing on the website.  My heart leapt a little - the apartment was still available, reserved just for me!  And not all French people hated me!  By then, though, I had my appointment to see the other studio and I was resolved to stay in the lower price range, so I wrote back to tell her as much.

Returning to my studio Tuesday night, I wrote an email to Ghislaine to get some clarification on the terms of the contract.  Her reply was helpful enough but I started to feel almost a sense of animosity from her. She then stated that she needed to know my decision that night because she had to decide which tenant would get the apartment.  Perhaps it was pride, but that statement rubbed me the wrong way so I hesitated to respond.  Shortly afterwards Iphigénie wrote me to say that she would lower the price on the studio if I really wanted it, but she would need to know by morning.

One of my daily prayers not only since I arrived in Paris but also for many months prior was that I would find the right apartment.  I wasn't sure how I would know what "right" was, though. Were my expectations too high?  Was my price range right? Would I just know it when I saw it?  At the moment that I got her email, though, "right" seemed suddenly very clear.  Yes, the price of this studio would be 30% more than the other one.  Yes, it was farther away (only a ten-minute walk, though).  But my spreadsheets told me that I could still afford it.  It might mean that I make a few more cuts here and there or that I don't have as much of a nest egg when I return home, but then again, about a year ago I quit planning my life around nest eggs.  It was almost as if the studio had chosen me.

I wrote Iphigénie back and said that I'd take it and wrote Ghislaine back and told her that it would be much easier for her to choose a tenant now that I was out of the race.  That night I went to bed feeling as if a huge burden had been lifted off of my shoulders.  I hadn't simply found an apartment; I found an apartment that I really loved.

Wednesday

The only class of the day didn't begin until 6:30 PM, and it was the one to which I looked forward the most - the first demonstration class and our first time with a chef.  I arrived early and added a fork and spoon to my jacket sleeve pocket for tasting along with a pen for notes.  Our notebooks contained a list of ingredients for the recipe, but we were responsible to write down the steps for putting everything together, and we would use only that paper in the practical class.

Doors to the classroom don't open usually until about five minutes before start, so the tiny hallway was soon filled with about 30 students, all jockeying for a position by the door so that they could get front-row seats when it opened.

In an odd way this experience has started to feel like an episode of Survivor minus the overacting.  We aren't in a competition as far as I know, yet I wonder...  Are we evaluated relative to each other?  Perhaps if a chef notices a student asking good questions or answering his questions quickly it affects the grade?  Students will shout out answers over other students, and I have to believe that some of their questions are simply fabricated for attention - rhetorical questions by students who have either worked in kitchens before or who have studied ahead of time.  I may need to form an alliance.

Chef Varca, a pleasant man with a dry sense of humor (unless you're talking in class) spent the beginning of our session discussing different cuts of vegetables.  I kind of already knew about julienne (thin sticks), but other than that I understood "coarse" and "fine," which weren't even in the list.  Bâtonnet (sticks), brunoise (cubes), ciseler (finely minced), and mirepoix (big chunks?) are just a few of the cuts, but uniformity is key in all chopping for even cooking and sometimes for presentation.  They're REALLY big on uniformity.  My method of "just chop it up without hurting myself" isn't going to fly.

Chef's chopping samples

Chef was making potage cultivateur, a garden vegetable soup with bacon.  I use the term "bacon" very liberally because there are at least three foods that the French don't seem to understand: cottage cheese, barbecue, and bacon (at least these are the three basic food groups over which I get the most outraged).  I've tried frying cuts of pork belly from the charcuterie but it ends up tasting like pork chops.  Gross.

Nonetheless, chef added pork belly cut into lardons (cubes) that tasted like ham but that were referred to as bacon into the mix.  A few more chops here, some sweating of vegetables there, lots of boiling and simmering, and voilà - we had our soup.  My notes were disorganized - he would jump from the soup to more of a theory lesson and back to the soup - and often as I was looking down to write I would miss a cutting demonstration entirely because he moves quite quickly.  After we sampled the final product the class clambered to the front to snap photos of the dish and ask questions.

The potage with toasted baguettes and gruyere cheese

I rolled back into my studio around 9:30 PM that evening feeling a bit exhausted despite my lack of any actual work while the "kids" in the class, apparently overloaded with vegetable cut information, spent the evening doing tequila shots at one of their apartments.

Thursday

Thursday was the first two-class day of the week.  Our practical class in which we were to make the soup from the demonstration started at 12:30. Incidentally, it was the first full-uniform class as well, requiring the addition of our hairnets, hats, aprons, and towels.  Only the nine Grand Diplome students were in this class, half of them with a hangover, and our chef was not Chef Varca, but rather a tall Asian who taught the whole class in broken English because our translator didn't show up.

In this class we were each given the set of ingredients, a cutting board, and a metal tray.  In the tray we laid out the knives and any other utensils from our bag that we would need before storing the bag in a cubby hole.  Every student had a designated stove and oven and free access to such things as pots, pans, bowls, and ladles.  Sticking our class notes to the oven hoods with magnets, we began three hours of madness.

I forgot many things from the demonstration at that point, but it didn't matter because this chef was telling us to do things differently than what Chef Varca had told us.  An onion, leek, carrot, potato, celery stick, and cabbage leaf sat in our "dirty vegetable" bowl, all waiting to be peeled, washed, placed in the clean vegetable bowl or water, and chopped in nice, uniform paysanne (thin squares or triangles) style before being blanched or sweated or simmered or all three in some order that went completely over my head.

I'm not exactly sure how I did that day because the class wasn't being evaluated, except that the chef informed me that if we were being evaluated I would get deductions on my organization and work station cleanliness (surprise!).  Then after surviving the onions, leeks, carrots, and celery, I chopped off a little corner of my finger while working on the cabbage.

The boy working across from me, noticing the blood and my "Owie, owie," dance and obviously having taken studious notes in Tuesday's hygiene class, shot on the faucet and yelled, "Cold water!" to me.  After a quick rinse of my finger, Chef patched it up with a bandage and rubber covering and I returned to my station to chop the potato, green beans, and  lardons, catching my rubber finger guard awkwardly and frequently in the knife blade.

Somehow in the end all of my ingredients were in the soup pot and simmering.  We cleaned our work stations and stowed away our knives. Chef didn't taste our soups unless we asked, and although I thought that mine wasn't too bad I wasn't in the mood to be critiqued, so I dumped it in my storage container and stuck it in the refrigerator before shedding my hat and hairnet and making my way to the cuisine theory class.  At least I had dinner prepared for the next three evenings.

Chef Varca was again our instructor, this time going over more safety tips and just about every type of kitchen utensil, pot, pan, and appliance in existence.  After the prior three hours in our practical class, I felt myself starting to fade into a coma by the second hour.  We finished about an hour early, though, so I headed to the studio toting an awkwardly large box of soup and stopped off at the boulangerie to grab a fresh baguette to go with my dinner.  And yes, my soup was just fine, thank you very much.

Friday

Any fears that I had about oversleeping and being late to the first 8:30 AM class were quelled when I woke up a half hour before my alarm went off.  Arriving at the school early, I chatted with the one student who I knew was older than me, a nurse from Texas whose husband was letting her take a three-month break to get the Basic Cuisine Certificate.  I'll have to ask her to join my alliance when the time comes.

Friday's lesson covered fish and veal stocks in addition to a lesson on how to filet a fish that would be served with some sauce made from the fish stock.  A moment of queasiness gripped me as Chef Varca removed the fish's scales and gills before popping out its eyes with a vegetable peeler and scissors, but it soon passed while I watched with wonder his deft movements during the filleting.  Stock made from fish carcasses sounded less than appetizing to me, but the surprisingly simple buttery sauce that he made from it looked quite lovely and tasted even better.

My school day was finished by noon and I was scheduled to meet Emma at the new studio at 2:00 PM to sign the papers.  Although she seemed very trustworthy, I was slightly concerned about the process.  French law is very strict with rental contracts, making them almost as detailed as American documents when one buys a home, and they must be written entirely in French to be valid.  It turned out that Iphigénie is an attorney, though, and wrote up quite a good document for her mother to give me.  True, I could have been signing away my first-born child and not realizing it, but then the joke would be on them, wouldn't it?

Emma gave me another little tour of the place which I hadn't seen since the first showing.  The fact that I had visited half a dozen deplorable studios between those two times made it seem all the nicer, and I fell in love all over again.  She handed me the keys, telling me that I could move in at any time even though my contract agreement didn't begin until July 1.  I left with a little spring in my step, taking in the bustling but quaint street on which it sat next to a little park with a large pavilion.

Saturday

My first patisserie classes of the week began at 12:30.  The anticipation of these classes was even greater than it was for the cuisine because baking was my first love.  We were to have two back-to-back demonstrations for a total of six class hours.

Aside from the nine Grand Diplome students, a whole new group of people filled the room.  Because the first hour of class was somewhat a repeat of the cuisine orientation, I began counting heads for entertainment.  The Chinese population won out at 70% and I identified another American student older than me, or at least she had two children who were already out of the home.  Maybe she can join my alliance as well.

Chef Terrien stood in for our usual pastry chef who moonlights as a DJ and who was preparing for the Fêtes de la Musique, the annual music festival in France on the first day of each summer.  The demonstrations felt deceptively simple compared to the cuisine classes, and I felt a tinge of excitement when I knew the answers to most of the questions that students were asking.  One look at the glossary of terms that we would need to know by exam time dampened my confidence, though.

The first demonstration class centered around bases that used water and various stages of cooked sugar, and in under two hours the chef had whipped up fondant, coffee extract, raw almond paste, praliné, and apricot glaze.  The aroma in the room was divine.

From top to bottom: Praliné, fondant, apricot glaze, and almond paste

After a quick ten-minute break, we moved on to the second demonstration where we focused on five different shortbread recipes, an essential element to French cuisine for such things as macarons and petits fours (small round cookies).  Each recipe varied only slightly, but the magic happened in the way that the chef rolled and shaped and designed each treat.  Our assignment for the first practical class would be the diamant, a simple white shortbread cookie rolled in granulated sugar.

Multiple uses for shortbread

When the class was dismissed and given the go-ahead to take photos and sample the goods, ravenous students nearly trampled each other to grab the little cookies whose smell had been taunting us for hours.  I sampled three (they're tiny - don't judge) and refrained from hoarding more for later when I remembered that we would each be making approximately 20 servings in a few days.  With 20 practical patisserie classes in the next three months just for the basic certificate, hoarding desserts will grow old very quickly.

On my walk home that evening I noticed several musicians setting up stands along the way for the music festival.  After the last six hours, though, my focus was primarily on getting home and eating the rest of my soup with a baguette that I grabbed on the way.

Around 8:00 PM as I was feeling fat and comfortable and talking about my day on Facebook, Gretchen, an American originally from Greenville who now lives in Paris, jumped on my page and like some sort of music siren convinced me that I needed to meet her for the festival.  Although hesitant at first (once the PJ's are on the day is officially over), it ended up being a great evening.  We chose to meet at Les Invalides and explore the 7th and 8th arrondissements, some of the swankier and more beautiful areas in Paris.

View from the Pont Royal at sunset

Many of the musicians were in a more techno/strobe-light mood, but after enough wandering we happened upon a few classically French musicians - the "La Vie en Rose" types with berets and accordions - and found ourselves in the midst of a sort of singspiration.

It was then that Paris started to grow on me, or I at least felt the slightest bit of connection to it inside.  For one thing, I can't fathom anywhere in the States where masses of people would stand in the streets singing sweet little traditional tunes, even if they were about guillotines removing heads.  My dad's side of the family loves to sing - it's some of my best memories from every family gathering that I can remember - and fewer things make me happier.

But more than the singing, I finally experienced the warmth that exists among the Parisians, something that you miss out on when your only interaction is through French "customer service" (or the lack thereof).  As we joined the crowd, a smiling Frenchman held out his songbook for us to see, pointing to the song and explaining words from it, and another woman reached back and handed us a songbook.  Nobody was embarrassed by how they sounded and nobody made fun of anyone's singing.  They were just like one big, happy family on a beautiful summer evening.

We found a little restaurant to stop in for some dessert.  Gretchen has mastered restaurants and already connected with the server before, so I was able to order a delicious tarte fraise (strawberry tart) and café with complete ease.  We had a perfectly good dining experience before I headed home to my slightly scarier neighborhood where the techno beats down the road continued long into the night.  Sleep came easily, though, with the thought that although we may have our differences, Paris and I are going to get along just fine.

Period of Adjustment

I have a little confession to make: I don't like living in Paris.

[Wait for collective gasp to end.]

Don't take that to mean that I hate Paris, but as the saying goes, "It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there."  When I see tourists (and there are a LOT of tourists), I sort of envy them -- comfy hotels, daily itineraries, the company of friends and/or family, and a return ticket.  Some of them have already been here a week or two and they're starting to think that although it's been fun, it sure will be nice to get back to their own homes (at least that's my normal thought process towards the end of most vacations).

Therein is where my struggle resides -- not in enjoying the things that make Paris a fun place to visit, but in figuring out how to survive in the city when you remove the touristy fun stuff and get down to the day-to-day living, particularly when that living is on a dime.  Throw into the mix a language that you can barely comprehend despite a bachelor's degree that testifies otherwise and you start to understand the problem.

I'm just not a big-city kind of girl.  I hate shopping and crowds.  I like cozy houses in quiet neighborhoods with big yards and green grass and trees, combined with the freedom to jump in my car to head to the peace of the mountains or the bustle of town, all within a few minutes.  The smells of summer make me giddy, like freshly-cut grass, the ground after rain, honeysuckle bushes, and outdoor grilling.  The nighttime sounds -- bullfrogs and crickets, wind rustling leaves, distant train whistles -- lull me to sleep.

"Homesick" is probably the word that best describes this condition, because if this last week had simply been a vacation then I wouldn't even think of such things.  The feeling didn't come as a surprise, though -- I've been through it before and I predicted just as much in one of my previous posts -- and the past experiences do help me handle it better.  For example, I know that I will eventually develop a routine, settle into an apartment where I can finally unpack my suitcases, and make some new friends.  Until then, I just remind myself to give it some time.

Stress from the chaos and culture shock of the first week was undoubtedly a contributor to my feelings.  I arrived here a day later than planned because I was flying standby and my original departure date coincided with 99% of the rest of America who were heading to France with reserved seats to commemorate the 70th anniversary of D-Day.  I had avoided reserving any hotel because of the uncertainty of getting on a flight, which meant that I was feverishly nailing down a hotel reservation and airport shuttle once I got my confirmed seat between boarding and takeoff.  I succeeded in doing only the first one, but finally knew that I had a place to stay at least from Thursday until Sunday.

We touched down in Paris around 7:00 AM.  I grabbed a bench in the terminal and bought some WiFi time in order to reserve a shuttle to the hotel (it had to be done online, but I highly recommend SuperShuttle if you ever have to do it).  A few hours later I was in a van with four other Americans.  It was at this point that I knew I would never, ever be driving a car here.  They're crazy.  On long stretches of highway it's not much worse than say, Atlanta, but something happens when vehicles have to turn or merge, like all lanes disappear and cars just vie for a position at the front.  Motorcyclists use the road shoulders and lane dividers as actual lanes themselves, somehow squeezing between vehicles that already appear to be touching.

In 2007 I totaled my Highlander in a one-person crash.  I once drove away from a gas station with the gas nozzle still in my tank.  At another gas station I took a side panel off of my Grand Am on one of those concrete posts that protect the pumps from people like me.  I blew out both passenger tires running over the sidewalk at Kohl's one Christmas.  I got a D- in Driver's Ed in high school (Mr. Sabbadino didn't want to fail anyone for the first time).  The Friday before I left Greenville I knocked the front bumper off of a car... parked in a parking lot.  Like I said, I will not be driving in Paris.

My going-away present

Despite the hilarity, we did arrive at my hotel all in one piece.  I reserved three nights at the Best Western Bretagne Montparnasse because it was relatively close to where I would be looking for apartments and it was free (paying all of my tuition on my Capital One card finally rewarded me!).  After stuffing two giant suitcases totaling about 130 pounds into an elevator approximately 3'x3' along with me, my backpack, and my satchel, I made it up to a room that was just slightly larger than the the double bed that it contained, but at least it looked cozy.

Except that there was no top sheet on the bed. Apparently that's common in France -- duvet covers are considered sufficient.  But when it's summer and your room has no air conditioning and it's too noisy outside to leave the windows open, the last thing that you want is a poly-fill comforter covered in a duvet, and you can't just sleep without any covering, right?

It was still late morning but I needed to begin the quest to find permanent lodgings -- no time for sightseeing yet.  While waiting at the airport in D.C. I had sent a few email requests for appointments to see some apartments once I had a better idea of my arrival time.  My first showing was that afternoon.  No longer able to use my smartphone and unsure of how to work my new handheld Garmin (turns out it was designed for hiking and sailing, not road directions), I mapped out the directions on my computer, copied them to paper, and headed out get my bearings.

Paris is divided into "arrondissements" numbered one to twenty, with the lower numbers around the center -- the glitzier, more well-known areas of Paris where you find such things as the Louvre, Notre Dame Cathedral, and the Eiffel Tower -- and the larger numbers border the "Périphérique" (the boulevard that circles the city) and contain far fewer tourist attractions and a lot more "ghetto," but also cheaper housing.  Fortunately, Le Cordon Bleu is located in the 15th arr. on the southwest corner of Paris, a lower-rent area with fewer tourists but not as sketchy as, say, 18, 19, and 20.

I knew that the studios in my budget were going to be small -- I had spent many, many months on housing sites looking at my options, and they always list square footage and usually show photos -- but it wasn't until I stepped into that first one that the reality of it hit me.  The first place was 17 m², which sounded pretty big because several places were listed as 13 or 14 m², but apparently I can't properly conceptualize metric units yet.  It was like a dirty walk-in closet with a shoddy-looking sofa bed and a funny smell and very little of anything else.

Everything in Paris smells... funny.  Men wear too much cologne, cigarette smoke hangs in the air like a cloud, and the streets smell of dog poo, garbage, urine, and exhaust.  Pass by the poissonerie (fish shop) or fromagerie (cheese shop) and it just adds to the effect. Even things like laundry detergent and hand soap are over scented -- the smell of my freshly washed clothes right now is giving me a headache -- and scented pink toilet paper... Really??

The studio didn't strike me as somewhere that I wanted to live for ten months.  I had more appointments lined up over the next two days, so I went back to the hotel a little deflated and wondering how much I would need to lower my expectations.  The next couple of apartments weren't much better, and time was running out.  I made the last-minute decision to hop on VRBO and rent a studio for one month to give myself more time to hunt, hoping that better options would soon become available.

That Saturday I also decided to try out the Metro for the first time.  I figured that a trip to the Eiffel Tower and back would be good practice.  Google maps will also tell you which Metro lines to take, where to change trains, how many stops are between your departure and arrival points, and how far you'll need to walk to or from the Metro stations.

Even with such help, I hopped on a train going in the opposite direction of the Eiffel Tower.  About six stops into the ride my mistake finally clicked and I nonchalantly switched trains.  The ride was hot and crowded, standing room only, and at one point I was pressed against the back of the train so tightly that I couldn't move my elbows sideways.  The horrifying thought struck me that I was about to get sick down the back of whoever was standing in front of me, but then I remembered that I only throw up once every 15 years -- I have another 4 to go.

Getting off of the train wasn't much better.  Any idea that I had of riding the tower elevator or even taking the stairs was squelched when I saw the lines... or at least the seas of people standing in clumps where lines should have been.  Instead I snapped a few photos and hopped back on the train.  The good news is that after my one mistake I figured out the system pretty quickly and the trip back went much more smoothly.

Sunday morning I repacked my overloaded suitcases and went downstairs to wait for my taxi to take me to my new temporary home.  Two things to note if you rent a studio in Paris: never get it on a Sunday because they will add 50 extra euros to the charge, and try to get one that already has reviews.  My cab driver dropped me and my belongs off about 15 minutes before I was scheduled to meet the renting agent, looked at the wino camped out on the front step of the building, and asked if I wanted him to wait.  Against my better judgment I told him that he could leave.  My presence must have bothered the wino anyhow because eventually he got up and went across the street to a high locked gate, rang a bell, and disappeared inside of what appears to be a sort of soup kitchen.

To my relief, the agent finally arrived and took me inside a dark, grungy hallway that smelled of stale cigarette smoke and mildew, and up to my studio.  I was prepared for the size this time, and it was actually nicer inside than some of the ones that I had visited previously... except that there were clothes hanging in the kitchen and on the drying rack and dirty towels on the floor and bathroom towel rack.

The agent shrugged it off with, "I'm sure the owner knows it is being rented.  It looks like they cleaned it; otherwise there would be more stuff on the kitchen counter."  When I asked what I should do with the clothes he replied, "Just put them in the closet."

[The owners did actually show up about two days later because they were not aware that the studio had been rented.  But you also can't complain to the French because the customer is never right.]

After he left I opened the windows (air conditioning is very rare in France) and gazed at my view of the French "projects" across the street as the smell of cigarettes wafted through the air.  Very little was tempting me to hang out inside the studio and I was starving, so I studied the local map and went for a walk in search of food.

Paris has a few American-born fast food restaurants -- McDonald's, Subway, and KFC are the ones that I've seen the most, but I would hardly venture into any of them in the States, much less in France -- and a few of the specialty shops have ready-made sandwiches or salads, but you won't find many equivalents to the inexpensive sort-of fast food places like Panera or Five Guys or Henry's Smokehouse (who I wouldn't kill for some good burgers or barbecue right about now).  Even the cafés require that you plan on sitting and staying for a while, and the bill adds up quickly if you're there for anything more than coffee or a snack.

The French love and celebrate dining -- they don't have 40 Le Cordon Bleu schools around the world for nothing.  For the student on a limited budget, however, "French dining" looks mostly like cold ham sandwiches from the boulangerie (bakery).  Prices aside, I fear eating in the restaurants.  They have unwritten rules that can make the difference between a good and a bad experience.  Most tourists don't worry about such things as there is strength in numbers, but for the single foreigner, braving just a café for the first time alone can be daunting.  Several times I had walked by one and considered just sitting at one of the tables, but they're so close together that it's hard to tell if you're sitting alone or accidentally joining a group of people.

My first attempt at a café wasn't until four days after I arrived -- I was about to get caught in a rainstorm and the place wasn't busy because it was around 3:00 PM.  My diet of pain au chocolat, cold ham sandwiches, and gelato also wasn't cutting it anymore and I still hadn't figured out the grocery thing.

To demonstrate my level of anxiety, I actually went online beforehand and researched how to eat in a Paris café.  Do I seat myself or wait to be seated? How do I address the server?  What do I have to request and what will they automatically give me?  How do I pay when I'm finished?  How will they know that I'm finished?  One of my former French professors had also loaned me a book, French or Foe, that gave several helpful tips on living among the French, but I couldn't remember all of the rules; nonetheless, in the end I successfully received a delicious omelet and carafe of water and even tried a little coffee.  My confidence was bolstered until I asked for my check.

I had already been there for about an hour and needed to use the restroom which isn't always an option in cafés.  Nor could I easily get out -- three noisy, chain-smoking teens had squeezed into a two-top table beside me in the otherwise empty restaurant.  Thirty minutes later when I caught the server's eye I tried to wave him over but he stared right at me and just walked away.  After another 15 minutes I was getting that wild feeling of desperation like an animal trapped in a cage when he finally brought me the bill.  I paid, then stood and moved both my chair and table so that I could get around the immobile teens blocking my exit.

The next two days were filled with apartment visits and getting a SIM card for my phone, but Wednesday was completely free so I put on my walking shoes and headed to the center of Paris.  I had mapped out several points of interest between my studio in the 15th arr. and the 1st arr. -- Luxembourg Gardens, Pantheon, Middle Ages National Museum, Shakespeare & Company bookstore, Notre Dame Cathedral, Pont Neuf -- about 4.5 miles (or more if you count the several detours that I took while getting lost).  Again, the crowds prevented me from desiring to go inside any of the buildings, so I headed home with the idea that I'd come back in the off-season.  I do, after all, have at least nine more months of opportunities.

Notre Dame from the Seine River

My first week here felt like a lot of work despite very little productivity.  It has been spent in hours of apartment research online and in checking off a series of self-assigned challenges -- mostly little things that we usually take for granted but that feel like a much bigger deal when doing it in a foreign country.  With each success -- eating, eating out, riding the metro, buying groceries, getting a phone number -- I feel a little better about the next several months.  I really can survive.

Beyond just surviving, though, I think that I will be able to enjoy myself once I get past the acclimation stage.  Just last night I bought my first baguette and strolled home with the long loaf in hand (no, not under my armpit).  I made myself an omelette and slathered the crusty bread in French butter -- possibly the best butter that I've ever tasted -- and felt just the slightest bit French.  I made a connection with someone from a church in Saint-Denis this week and I'll actually be able to attend a service Sunday morning and get some much-needed Christian fellowship.

Then after visiting another studio this morning, I passed Le Cordon Bleu again because it was close by, and I lingered outside a moment simply to smell the glorious aromas coming from the open door.  For the first time since my arrival I began to feel the old excitement bubbling back up inside of me.  Yes, the start of classes Monday morning will add a whole new dimension of challenges, but that was my purpose in coming here -- to be challenged and to change my whole course in life.

But for now I need to fill today's assignment of finding a SIM card for my Garmin.