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.