Where The Heart Is
Two days of hard work - well, the work was done by three guys who spent two solid days running up and down the stairs in our house with boxes and furniture, but Janet and I were still exhausted at the end - and Edgewood is packed in a container for shipping to France.
Our tenant moves in on the 6th, so I'll be in and out cleaning up through the weekend; I've got a short-term furnished apartment at Bay and Bloor for the next few weeks in Toronto. Janet will return to France tonight. We have our new apartment there as of the 1st of September, but of course no furniture, so Janet rented a furnished place for the month. And since she won't be able to inspect and pick up the key to that place right away, she'll stay in a hotel tomorrow night. So on September 1st, between the two of us we will have five roofs over our heads: four residences and a hotel room.
Interregnum
While waiting in a conference room for the meeting chair to arrive, my colleagues were trying to increase the high scores on their Blackberry games, and chatting idly.
Christine glanced in my direction and affably remarked: "Everybody hates you, you know."
I blinked. "Because of Paris?"
"Yeah."
"No, it's not just that." Greg chimed in. "It's because you're going over without a job. Just to hang out."
"Well, it's not quite like that. I'll be looking for a job as soon as I get there..."
"Yeah, sure."
Sorry, guys.
La Retour
Yesterday evening Janet's colleagues assembled for a drink to look me over. I can now put faces to the names she's been using for the last month. For the most part they all seem switched-on, young and friendly, maybe even a little more normal than I'd somehow expected to be these best-and-brightest who have been assembled to guide the economic future of the globe. The exception is the tweedy, mustachioed Australian lifer, Grant, who - while I'm sure is not misplaced amongst the other bright lights - would somehow look more at home at the bar of the Bombay Sheraton than in a Paris café.
Now back to the melée at Charles de Gaulle, where the concourses are packed with vacationers tripping up the nimble business travellers. Air Canada neglects to specify the teminal on my itinerary, so I take a shot, and get close. A short trek and I'm lined up to check in. Thus ends, mourning the loss of my Aeroplan Elite privileges, this first chapter of Nos Aventures Français.
Auvers-sur-Oise
While noting that French children are, like British kids, far more presentable at dinner parties than their North American counterparts, I would still prefer to do without. Their presence places a limit on the quality of conversation. Depth is limited because the parents always have a little of their attention elsewhere, and breadth is curtailed because every few minutes the little ones need attention (and if they don't, somebody has to get up and find out why).
Friends of Janet's , T & D, have taken a summer place in a small town called Auvers-sur-Oise, which is famous as the place where Van Gogh spent his last days, and where he is buried. They invited us to come out for dinner yesterday, so we took a train around three and were there in just over an hour. We were joined by two other couples (possessed of the aforementioned charming and well-behaved children), one French and one French-Canadian.
The conversation, when the French couple arrived, was about half in English and half in French. I could follow the French about half of the time, so was able to participate in about 75% of the conversation in all - and honestly, at most dinner parties, who bothers to do better? But I'm bound to admit that the children's leavening effect on the conversation worked to my advantage. Had we delved into complex questions of French politics and culture, I might not have done so well.
Bois de Boulogne
An aggravating work day yesterday, since I spent the afternoon catching up for time lost on connecting to the office earlier in the week. After several hours preparing some paperwork to support staffing requests, I fired the completed material to my boss for his approval and was promptly told I needn't have bothered, he had it all in hand and I was only confusing the HR staff. Very efficient of him to reply so quickly on a Saturday afternoon. Pity he didn't mention any of this when I committed to doing the work.
At times like those, exercise is the best solution (violence to inanimate objects being another, but less productive), so I donned my runners and my Garmin GPS and headed out to explore the Bois de Boulogne, which is accessible through the Port Mulette a few short blocks from here. Like Hyde, Golden Gate and Central parks, the Bois de Boulogne is criss-crossed with roads, playgrounds and other facilities that interrupt the zen of a long-distance run; nonetheless, there are some good long stretches beneath the trees and plenty of potential for variety in one's route. Very nice to have a such a pleasant space in a dense metropolis.
Just Missed Marlene
A frustrating day at work - it has been tediously difficult trying to work remotely - and I made us late to meet Janet's colleagues. Another international meeting of regulators is in town, so we had plans to have dinner with a couple who I met at the last of Janet's meetings that I was around for, the one in Amsterdam that kicked off our honeymoon.
Joining us too were a couple of other ladies, one of whom was staying at her sister's boutique hotel,
the Lancaster, just off the Champs Elysees. We met them all there and the bellman gave us an effusive tour of the place. Marlene Deitrich was a regular guest, and there was a room named after her; unfortunately it was occupied, so we couldn't see it. It's neighbour, the Emily Wolfe room, was large and lavishly appointed with antiques. The suite on the top floor had its own terrace with views of the Eiffel tower and Sacre Coeur. Both contained paintings by a portraitist to the czar who had left them in payment.
Dinner was at the bellman's recommendation, one of a chain called Les Bouchons de François Clerc. Chain restaurants in France clearly don't have the same quality connotations. We waddled home on foot, happy to be within walking distance for the welcome exerise.
House-Hunting
Janet and I saw two places yesterday and one this morning, all of which she'd seen once already. The first was in the sixth arrondissement, and really was a terrific location: just South of the Boulevard Saint Germain, near but not in the tourist hurly-burly around the river. It had oodles of charm and enough space - but an impossible kitchen. At the very top of our budget range, we decided to let it go.
The next was in the 16th, close to the Bois de Boulogne. Fourth floor, spacious and also possessed of some charm. The woman who showed it to us was the daughter of the owners, so we were diplomatic in our tour, not peering into every closet and trying the all taps as one would at home. The landlords hold all the cards, at this point in the relationship, so we were on our best behaviour. Once a tenant is in, they can't be gotten rid of, so landlord's are very picky at the outset. Janet had cautioned me to dress nicely, to ooh and ah, but say as little as possible.
Then this morning, we saw one more, in the 17th. With a false start, as we were shown another place on the first floor of a building at the right address - but without realizing we were on the wrong block. The landlady didn't seem to be expecting us, but the apartment was for rent, so she obliged. Inside, Janet realized it wasn't the same as she'd seen before. Perhaps now she'll let me handle the map from time to time.
The correct place was spacious, and except for a wall of aged mirrors in the living room, was attractive and practical. Compellingly, it has plenty of storage, including a "cave" (storage locker) in the building and another room upstairs.
The one in the 16th had a little more space, is walking distance to Janet's work, shopping and the Bois. We decided to pursue it. The paperwork that landlords require is daunting and sometime's difficult for a foreigner to obtain, so we've got our fingers crossed that the package Janet has assembled will suffice. We could lose our other options while we go after this one. It's like dating.
Riding In the Back
On our honeymoon, we were able to treat ourselves to business class for most of the flights. This time it's back to normal, my knees jammed against the seat in front or awkwardly splayed one way or another - and I tried every which way over the seven hours to try to get comfortable. There was a family of young children on my left and a chatty, snapping gum-chewer my seatmate on the right. The Russian gentleman behind me couldn't get out of his chair without hanging on to my seat back and catapulting my head forward - and when the fellow in the row in front of me tipped his seat back, I could have eaten off his bald spot.
And the movie? That classic of western cinema, Miss Congeniality 2. Oh, Captain Kirk, how are the mighty fallen.
Preface To Paris
Ever since I met Janet, my life has been on a trajectory that doesn't seem to be bending to its apex any time soon. Then, I was unemployed and living in my friend Aaron's guest room. Within a few months, my career was back on track, and I was settling into downtown condo living; and before I could get used to that, we were engaged and looking for digs together. In the ensuing year and a half, we went traveling in Germany, bought a beautiful house in the Beaches, were married, travelled some more on our honeymoon, and just when I thought I might finally catch a breath, Janet was offered a job in Paris.
Barely unpacked from the honeymoon, Janet took up her new position at the OECD. I stayed behind to get things organized. But newlyweds don't like to be separated for weeks, so this journal of our Paris sojourn will start with a one-week trip to renew my acquaintance with my wife and take a break from disposing of our residence in Toronto by helping to find another in Paris.
