My sister and her friend rented an apartment for their stay in Paris. Behold the umbrella stand inside their temporary Parisian home:
Notice anything strange?
You know, given my experiences of Paris apartment owners, I don’t recommend allowing tenants access to a firearm.
This morning I enjoyed a breakfast that I will dream about for weeks, months…years. Yes, it was that good.
I became a fan of Ladurée last fall when I tasted their macarons. My sister and her friend are in Paris right now and my sister’s friend is a big Ladurée lover too. Before their arrival, I discovered that Ladurée offers breakfast that isn’t just the standard pastry, baguette and yogurt. No, Ladurée offers…French toast! With maple syrup! I have no idea if French toast is actually French in origin — perhaps like French fries, it’s a Belgian creation. They call it “le pain perdu” here — lost bread.
Since my visitors have been in town, we’ve been eating non-stop. (More photos to come!) But today is the day we’ve been waiting for, French toast day. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had French toast? Sigh. And this is no ordinary French toast. I’m no culinary expert, but it appears to be made with brioche. We each ordered our own serving and none of us could completely finish it. It was divine — but very rich and sweet, so much so that we each got a rather nasty headache-inducing sugar buzz towards the end. But who cares.
I bought a new handbag today. I could fit a toddler or a medium-sized dog in it. In other words, it’s just the right size.
I’ve been looking for a handbag for quite a while. I went to Galeries Lafayette, but found nothing I wanted that cost less than 900€. God, sometimes I wish I had a Sugar Daddy. That’s just a fleeting fantasy though, so don’t worry. Becoming a respectable sort-of prostitute doesn’t appeal to me. Plus, no Sugar Daddy would want me — I’m too combative.
So anyway, they had a sale bin at Galeries Lafayette — you know, where a bunch of purses are thrown in and you can rummage through the pile and perhaps find something that isn’t total crap? Well, at Galeries Lafayette this sale bin contained 500€ Burberry handbags. Only in Paris.
I ended up going to a neighborhood shop and buying a cheapish purse that looks expensive. If it lasts till the end of the summer, I’ll be shocked.
By Anglofille.
I’m going to share with you an old favorite. Without this gem of a dish, there are many days when yours truly might have gone hungry over the past few months. While this dish may be enjoyed by anyone, it is perfect for students, the culinary-challenged, lazy people and poor people. [If you're like me, you may in fact be a combination of all these things.]
Go to your local French supermarket, preferably FranPrix, and purchase a packet of Nouilles Orientales Saveur Poulet (Savory Chicken Oriental Noodles — also comes in beef and curry flavors).
Once at home in your kitchen, forget measuring cups, ingredients, aprons, etc. There’s no need. Drop the block of noodles into a pot of boiling water. Add the packet of dehydrated chicken-flavored powder. Boil for three minutes, stirring occasionally.
Eat.
These noodles can be enjoyed for breakfast, lunch or dinner [or possibly at all three meals during times of extreme poverty and/or laziness]. I can’t possibly convey to you how delicious they are. They taste better than meals I’ve eaten in French cafés (seriously) and at .34 centimes per packet, they are much cheaper.
I met with my lawyer today in her office off the Champs-Elysées. [That makes me sound very important, doesn't it?] She is French, but she works for an American lawyer who has a firm here in Paris. I found him via the American Embassy and I chose his firm because he’s a member of the Paris bar…and the New York bar. And you know, my former landlady really deserves a big ol’ dose of New York-style whoop ass. And now that’s what she’s gonna get.
So the reason I am relaying this anecdote is this: I met with my lawyer in the firm’s fancy schmancy conference room this afternoon and on the wall there is a giant Andy Warhol-esque painting of…John Wayne, wearing a cowboy hat and holding a gun.
It was awesome.
You know, sometimes my life in Paris just makes me laugh.
Yesterday I told someone to pardon my French. I meant it literally, of course, because my French leaves much to be desired. But still, I couldn’t help but laugh after I said it.
My dilemma of the week: To get bangs or not. I was looking at my British student visa photo in my passport and I had bangs then! I had forgotten about that. As you can see from this severely cropped photo, my bangs have grown out all the way and are no longer even bangs:
I like to let the strands of hair just sort of hang in long wisps. But now I’ve been considering giving them the chop. Decisions, decisions. What’s really stopping me is the fact that the woman who cuts my hair here doesn’t speak a word of English, so this could really be disastrous. She would most likely misinterpret my instructions. Not only does she not speak English, but she is convinced I am from Texas, no matter how many times I try to correct her. I don’t understand her fixation with Texas, but I fear her vision of the place has been shaped by Hollywood. As such, I could very well depart the salon with a giant bouffant hairdo. Shiver.
As I mentioned once before, I now have to go through legal channels to get back the deposit and guarantie I paid to the first incredibly dishonest apartment owner I rented from here in Paris. This should not be confused with the second incredibly dishonest apartment owner I rented from. You see, many people here suffer from a serious disease. It’s called — Screw-Over-Foreigners-itis. I hear it’s rather painful, but given the prevalence of this condition, it can be treated with readily available over-the-counter drugs.
So I was speaking to the owner of the agency I rented the first apartment from. He is a complete sniveling weasel. He is like a cartoon version of a haughty French person, except he’s 100 percent real. I told him about my desire to sue this first apartment owner not only for my money, but also for slander, emotional distress and harassment. He exclaimed into the phone:
“Mademoiselle, this is not USA! You cannot sue people for all these things!”
Lucky for him, ‘cuz he’s next.
In the Jardin du Luxembourg. I went there on Saturday for the first time in months. Since my classes at the Sorbonne ended, I’m not in that area as much anymore. I miss it so. Once spring arrives, I plan to spend as many of the afternoons I have left to me in Paris sitting in one of the chairs, reading a book or writing in a journal. Heaven.
The other night I was walking home around midnight. I crossed the Champs-Elysées — on a green pedestrian light, for once. I wasn’t listening to music, but must have been lost in thought nonetheless. All of a sudden I heard a man scream “Attention!” He then threw half of his body in front of me to stop me from walking. As he did this, a car zoomed through the crosswalk.
Who says chivalry is dead?
![Last Night’s Sunset [Again]](http://www.anglofille.com/wp-content/image-headlines/3a0d4ad04e0a6341ddda80f85499c826.png){kind=small}
I’ve seen many fabulous sunsets since being in Paris, but last night’s was truly spectacular. You know it’s special when locals with camera phones are trying to elbow the tourists out of the way. And I just happened to be in a prime spot on the Seine — lucky me! Watching this scene filled me with such intense feeling that I felt slightly woozy afterwards. I’m serious. To live in Paris is to be reminded that the world is a beautiful place, if only you take the time to look.
I’m so glad that all this visa nonsense is now behind me. It’s so very scary sometimes to realize that you’re not in control of something as basic as where you live. My British visa doesn’t need to be renewed until October 2008, so unless I commit a felony between now and then, I should be okay. [I normally keep my nose clean, but if anyone in London tries to unlawfully evict me from an apartment or steal my deposit, I may actually commit murder.]
While the British student visa is usually valid for the entire length of your stay, I’ve had to renew the French visa twice in six months, not counting my initial appointment at the French consulate in London. And then there was the costly and intrusive medical exam. For each appointment, I had to compile a huge stack of documents — my birth certificate, bank statements, apartment contracts, etc. — and when I presented them to the officials, they checked off that I brought them but never even glanced at them. It’s bureaucracy for the sake of bureaucracy. I could have brought in Osama bin Laden’s birth certificate and they never would have noticed.
I’ve heard so many horror stories about French immigration officials, that they’re heartless bureaucrats who gleefully ruin lives with one swirl of a pen. I feel it’s my duty to point out that they’ve all been extremely nice to me. Of course, I’m sure this has a lot to do with the fact that I’m just a student, that I’m American and maybe that I’m white. A French friend told me if I were Moroccan or Chinese, I would have been on the first plane home. In fact, the sole reason I am being allowed to overstay my visa by a little bit is because I am American. That’s the reason the policewoman I met with gave me. Parce que vous êtes Américaine, ce n’est pas un problème, she said. I swear I’m not making this up. See, French people like Americans. At one point when we were talking, she said a word that I could not understand. It was an important word, but I had forgotten my dictionary and couldn’t look it up. She apologized because it was a word she didn’t know in English and thus couldn’t translate! Very strange indeed.
So now I have seven weeks and two days left in Paris. I have been freed from the bonds of daily French class (hurrah!) so each day after I do my work (yes, I do work and seven days a week at that), I am free to explore the city. For seven whole weeks! I have a list of things I want to see, but my main goal is to just wander around Paris, an activity that has brought me so much joy over the past few months. My sister and her friend will be here for a week at the end of March, so I will be in full tourist throttle then. [There's even talk of Disneyland.]
So I’ll be writing a ton about Paris and taking lots of photos. I hope you’ll come along with me.
But not till May 1st. HA!
You know, these French immigration officials are putty in my hands.
So I’ll write more about this later, but I need to crash now. I’m exhausted.
But before I go, big kisses! [Sorry for all the kissing, but my Frenchness now has an expiration date so I need to use it up.] And also, here’s some music to celebrate. Turn it up loud!
Je viens, Londres!
I went to the salon today to get my hair cut, which means that for one glorious day I get to have perfectly straight hair. [It took two women, each with a giant brush and a blow-drier, to achieve this. My poor aching scalp.]
The freaky Parisian water has done a number on my hair, making it wavy and frizzy and just a giant mess. I was in a bookstore a few months ago, flipping through a book for expats to France. It said the water here is full of calcium deposits and other minerals that aren’t kind to your hair, but that after three months or so your tresses should adjust. Pshaw! The book suggested washing your hair with vinegar. I couldn’t be bothered.
The book also said that the water in France is widely regarded as the tastiest in Western Europe, but then everyone here drinks bottled water so it doesn’t matter.
The best thing about going to the salon, besides getting to have straight hair, is that I read a bunch of trashy French celebrity magazines. Because these ’zines are written for people with poor reading skills, I was actually able to understand most of the articles. It was funny to see the way these magazines have adopted certain English-language words. For example, I was reading an article about Anna Nicole Smith and it referred to her repeatedly as “la bimbo” in a very matter-of-fact way, as if this is a standard description, not a disparaging term. “Avocat de la bimbo…” [“The bimbo’s lawyer…”], etc. And my favorite: “La mort de l’ icône trash…” [“The death of the trash icon…”]. I guess the notion of not kicking someone while she’s down has yet to reach French shores.
I just ended a phone call with one of my French friends who always signs off with me by saying, in English:
“Big kiss, pretty girl.”
Every single time we talk. I am always completely charmed by this.
An arc-en-ciel spanning the sky above Paris, from the Ile de la Cité, above the Louvre and the Tuileries and the Place de la Concorde, touching down behind La Madeleine. It was so enormous that it couldn’t be photographed as a whole. The left half faded quickly, but the right side, pictured here, was intense and bright and lasted for so long that it defied belief.
A few weeks ago I was looking for a sign. I rounded a corner and I saw a rainbow appear and then vanish very quickly. Rather unbelievably, once again this evening I was looking for a sign. And I think I found it.
That’s Paris, full of surprises.
I never thought I’d stay away from the blog for so long. I have a lot to say, but for now I’ll just stick with photos. The words will come, eventually, in their own time.
[Video]
I had a sandwich with peanut butter, honey and slices of banana. Bliss.
My French friends, croissants, brioche and coq au vin are all fine and dandy, but America has mighty fine cuisine too. Le Cordon Bleu, take note.
To be fair in my reporting, I think many Americans reading this have never eaten such a sandwich and cringe at the thought. I think this particular delicacy is Southern in origin. I’m not a Southerner, but I was raised by one. This particular sandwich tastes even better grilled. Sadly, my frying pan is in storage at the nightclub singer’s place.
Now, if the French could just reduce the outrageous price of peanut butter, that’d be great. I mean, it’s just crushed peanuts and oil. It’s not some exotic delicacy. Get real. Today I saw snails in the frozen food section of Monoprix! And they were much cheaper than peanut butter. That’s f’ed up.
I promise I’ll post photos of my new apartment once I have everything set up – it’s a bit of a mess right now. (Those of you who know me are probably rolling your eyes because you know it’ll stay a mess.) I am now living on the top floor of a grand bourgeois Haussmann-era building, in what used to be the servants’ quarters. My apartment is a former “chambre de bonne” – a maid’s room. Actually, my place is two maids’ rooms that have been combined into one bigger (yet still very small) apartment. These places are quite sought after in Paris and unlike many chambre de bonne, mine has its own toilette as well as a little kitchen.
Here are two views from my window:
Soon I will make a video of what it looks like on my floor at the very top of this building – the halls are very dark and narrow, a marked difference from the bright airiness of the rest of the building. I find all of this to be very romantic and the ideal place for a writer. And of course I can’t help wondering about the people who lived in these rooms during the 19th century and what their lives were like (probably not pleasant). The family who owns my apartment lives just two floors below and they are very helpful and have gone out of their way to help me and make me feel at home.
…or…
The Third Time’s the Charm
I found out at 11:00 p.m. on Sunday – New Year’s Eve – that I was being evicted from my apartment after only living there for one day. The guy who owns the apartment, the fashion model, henceforth referred to as Model Boy, left a long rambling message on my mobile phone, suggesting that I go move into a “cheap” hotel.
Happy 2007!
And then on the 2nd, I had to officially “check out” of my former apartment, the one owned by the great-great-granddaughter of Dr. Jekyll. She showed up with an independent member of the judiciary (or some such) and she informed me they were going over “every inch” of the apartment. To make a long story short, the judicial guy completed his inspection of every spoon, every towel and every crevice and declared, “C’est parfait!” [“It’s perfect!”] Everything was there in perfect condition, the apartment was spotless. It was a beautiful moment. I wanted to turn to my landlady and say the French equivalent of “Suck on it,” but my vocabulary isn’t that good.
I should point out that for every evil person I’ve had to deal with this week, I’ve encountered even more people who are decent, kind and thoughtful. And not only that, but the comments you’ve left on my blog and the e-mails I have received and the offers of help have meant so much to me. Thank you. Very sincerely, thank you.
The kindness of so many people prevented me from sinking into “I hate the world” mode. Case in point: Model Boy’s best friend, a nightclub singer my age, was to be my contact in Paris while he was working in New York. After this whole arrangement to sublet the apartment blew up, she vociferously came to my defense. She and her boyfriend have had numerous heated exchanges with Model Boy regarding his treatment of me. They are both appalled that he would conduct himself this way. To help me out, this woman arranged for me to leave many of my belongings – boxes of books, extra luggage, a chair – in the storage room of her apartment building. There was no point moving it into the sublet. [And I can leave my extra stuff there for as long as I want!] Such space in any apartment building is at a premium, yet she arranged this for me, doing something most people wouldn’t even do for a friend. I’m astounded by her kindness. [So is Model Boy. He accused her of taking my side and wondered if we were having a “relationship.” Yes, that’s his mentality.] This woman has taken me out for tea, given me hugs, offered to let me sleep on her sofa. [And she confided in me that after my confrontation with Model Boy on New Year’s Day, during which I told him off in delicious fashion, he came back to her place and cried for two hours. Bwahahahaha! He whined, “She was so rude to me! She said I’m a horrible person!” Boo hoo hoo I want my maman!] This woman has done so much for me and she doesn’t even know me, not really. As a result of all this, I have a lot of karmic debts to repay.
So after all this drama and upheaval, I still needed to find a place to call home. I wasn’t afraid that I would literally become homeless – and that’s not something to even joke about. But I was afraid. I didn’t know what would happen. I knew I could crash with people I know here if needed [although most of them barely have enough room for themselves], or I could find temporary accommodation, but I wanted my own home. I wanted a place to call mine, a fixed address. The thought of being a complete vagabond for weeks on end was not something I thought I could handle after what I’ve been through over the past few months. I could have done it, but it wouldn’t have been easy. And I feared that if I did find something, it would be a dump and that I’d have French mice for roommates.
Despite this anxiety – or perhaps because of it – I wasn’t making much of an effort to find a new place. I was in denial about my situation, I think. I spent a lot of time sitting on the sofa, staring into space. I looked on Craigslist mostly, because I wanted to rent from someone who spoke English and liked Americans (and anyone advertising on Craigslist probably fits this description). I did look on some French websites, but the few people I called sounded irritated when I asked them to repeat things or speak more slowly. So I lost my confidence.
And then on Wednesday an ad appeared on Craigslist that looked good – studio apartment, nice neighborhood, great price. And it had an actual phone number, not just an e-mail address, so I called. And I spoke to a very nice guy who said I could come over and look at the apartment if I wanted to. I learned my apartment-seeking skills in New York, where finding an apartment is a blood sport. And I knew from all the apartment-looking I did in the Apple that you gotta get there first. So I hopped right over, fell in love with the apartment and that was it. Within an hour, I had a new home. (Things can often be done very informally in this city. In New York I would have needed references, a credit check…an application.) I moved in the next day, dragging my tattered and worn suitcases behind me. And they had a pot of fresh flowers waiting for me in the apartment. How sweet!
I really love this apartment. I’m not settling for it because I’m desperate, not at all. It suits me in so many ways. I can stay here until I return to London (Model Boy’s place was only until April). And I have a legal contract this time. I feel in my gut that this is where I should be, that this is supposed to be my Paris apartment, that I finally landed in the right place. I could be wrong, but this is what my instincts tell me. I have no idea how I got so lucky as to find a nice apartment within mere days. A lot of luck, I guess, and good wishes from so many people. And this apartment is so much nicer than the sublet I got kicked out of. And its 40€ less a month to boot. When I last saw Model Boy, I wanted to give him a big hug for being such a grand prick. Because his jerkiness ended up benefiting me in the long run, there’s no doubt.
I’ll write more about the apartment and my new neighborhood in my next post. But I’m not finished telling you about this crazy week yet, no. It ended with a bang. This morning I had to be examined by a government doctor as the last step in the process to get my permanent carte de séjour (residence permit). There were mobs of [irritated] people there going through the same process. I had to be weighed and measured and have my eyes checked. A giant needle was jabbed into my middle finger and drops of blood were literally squeezed out so they could check my blood sugar. I had to have a chest x-ray, which involved walking around topless in front of a roomful of technicians. I’ve heard that you can’t be shy at a French doctor and now I know that’s true. After all these tests, I went into the doctor’s office and sat at a chair next to her desk. She demanded that I take my shirt off! So I sat there in a bra talking with her. It was very strange, bordering on humiliating. [I remember last winter in London, I had a nasty chest cold and went to the doctor. He examined me without making me take anything off – not even my coat!] And for the pleasure of this whole process, I got to pay 55€. But at the end, I got a certificate stating that I meet the health and sanitary requirements for living in France. Whew. So I get my permanent carte, but not too “permanent” – it expires in March, at which time I’ll have to apply again.
Sigh.
You know, I thought living in New York was tough. Frank Sinatra sang about New York, “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere.” I used to believe that was true, but then I moved to Paris.
I really hate Paris right now.
You won’t be hearing from me for a few days. I moved into a new apartment on Saturday and now I have to find a new place and move again. That’s a record even for me. This is soooo not how I wanted to start the New Year. I’m thisclose to buying a Eurostar ticket to London and getting the hell out of here. Perhaps I should just take a hint — I’m not wanted here in Paris. I wonder if there are apartment owners in this city who do not engage in: screaming, tantrums, threats, crying in my presence, acting hysterical and most of all, behaving in a dishonest fashion. I’m sure there are such apartment owners in Paris. I hope I meet one.
So what happened is that the moron I sublet the apartment from returned to the US for his modeling work, but upon his arrival at the airport in Dallas he was interrogated by custom’s officials for ten hours, put in jail for two days and deported. He claims this is because he overstayed his visa last time. I find it hard to believe that such draconian measures would be taken for this kind of offense, but who knows. I have a feeling there’s more to the story. I found out about this from the guy’s friend when I returned from Italy (the apartment owner was still in jail at this point). I knew this was going to be a bad situation and that it wasn’t going to end well, but I had to move because I gave up my other place. And now that the owner is back in Paris, he’s practically homeless and needs his apartment back within the next few days, despite the fact that we agreed I could live there until the end of April. Apparently, this doesn’t matter to him. Tonight we met face to face (in the lobby — I refused to let him into the apartment. He said, “Don’t be afraid of me, I’m not going to beat you up and throw you out.” Gee, thanks.) I told him he was not a man of his word. He said this made him feel bad. Good! I have spent too much time talking to this guy while he cries (literally) about his life. What about my life? I have nowhere to live now. Soon I’ll be homeless.
And you know, it’s a bit scary being in a foreign country, not speaking the language very well and feeling afraid that you may end up thrown out into the street on a moment’s notice. I’ve never felt so vulnerable. And we’re still on break from school, so friends aren’t back in the city yet, making me feel even more alone. One friend might be back in town tonight and if so, I can stay with her. Fingers crossed.
My greatest hope for the New Year was to get off the roller coaster ride of drama and emotion that I’ve been on. Guess I’ll have to keep waiting for that to happen. So as you can see, I can’t focus on blogging right now. I’ll write once I’ve found a new “home.” Until then…
But I could never see the point of tuna and sweet corn...
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