All Saints' Day Weekend
We're now nervously counting down the days until we receive our first guests. My friend Aaron and his wife will arrive on the 11th of November, so we aim to have the apartment completely ready for visitors then - but will certainly at least have to have moved ourselves out of the guest room and into the master bedroom.
Since Tuesday the 1st is a statutory holiday,
Toussaint, and Janet is taking Monday off, we have a four-day weekend to devote to our home. With the kitchen, bedroom and hallway painted, we are now tackling the living room. It's the most imposing task yet and visitors are well advised to say nothing about the ceiling. (There are limits to how much we're willing to put into this place; it is rented after all.) A large boost to our progress was received when our landlord finally cleaned out the
cave. I spent a good part of the day ferrying discarded packing materials and North American-voltage appliances into it, leaving a lot more space to work up here.
The master bedroom is finally ready for us, all except curtains - a crucial detail in this city, where neighbours are so close. In fact, with our dining table (actually Janet's desk) of necessity shoved up against the window, we often entertain ourselves by keeping track of a couple in the building across the street who are likewise curtain-challenged. We have dubbed them Guillaume and Genevieve, and have formed detailed (if very poorly-informed) opinions about their relationship, social life, dress, etc.
Why So Few?
There are some questions for which you assume you have the answer, until someone goes and asks. It's the last day of this French class, and the Italian guy turns to me in the midst of another discussion and says there's something he's always wondered. I'd kind of written him off as a slacker, but today he had launched into an informed and logical defence of nuclear power, and now we're going around the room talking about birth rates, maternity leave and daycare in our respective countries, and he wants to know: why are there so few people in Canada? His figure for the population of Canada is accurate and he's curious why there are so few in in such a large space - and the way he asks, not impolite, but it's like we've been careless. I launch into an explanation of how much of the land to the North isn't really habitable and I allude to historical factors, but I realize I don't really have a good answer. After all, even where we're concentrated in the South, compared to European densities there really aren't that many of us.
It's always seemed like we've got the right number. But how do you explain it to Europe, with Japan and Korea looking on? Sorry Italy, I guess we've been kind of wasteful...? The teacher sums up with something along the lines of it's nice to live in a big natural park, and I shrug, yeah.
L'Atchoo
Painting is on hold today, while I make chicken soup and irritate the neighbours with my nose-blowing.
No Noos Is Bad Noos
Another technician from our putative internet/cable/phone provider, Noos, came today. He looked like a thief and roamed about like he was casing the joint; but he explained himself in slow and simple French, which endeared him considerably. All the same, we’re no more wired now than we were this morning. Apparently there is an organization, which he referred to simply as the syndicate, which dictates the external appearance of buildings in Paris. It is especially touchy in the 16th arrondissement, and if they see a cable on the outside of a building they don’t like, they’ll cut it, and the customer still has to pay for the service. Consequently it’s necessary to contact them and secure written permission to have a cable brought in.
This requirement is surely understandable in such an ancient city where the beautiful facades and architectural culture contribute so integrally to the historic ambience. These things could easily be lost, paved over, in the rush to join a technological new Europe. What’s not so clear is how this critical necessity could have been overlooked when we requested the service, and again when the first technician came. Why, only now, when a time had been booked to do the necessary work, it comes to light that there is more red tape to untangle.
On the silver-lining side, I have discovered a neighbour with an unsecured wireless connection, and am having some luck getting on-line as a cyber-parasite.
Le Weekend Domestique
A wonderful weekend in coupledom, but nothing too exciting to report for those expecting tales of Parisian romance, art and culture. The hallway was finished at the end of last week, a pleasant white (actually "Blanc Lumineux") which nicely opens up the narrow space. Over the weekend we prepped the master bedroom and completed painting the trim, so that today I can put a coat on the walls.
We did a little shopping on Saturday. Some of "les grands magasins" (department stores) are having sales, a less common occurrence than at home, and we were able to find curtains for the den substantially reduced, and a lamp for the living room also on sale. Lamps are one of the things we have to replace, owing to the different voltage used. We have transformers for some things, but one needs so many lamps (no overhead fixtures in this apartment) that it's not practical to use our own from home.
We rewarded ourselves for our deco and shopping successes with dinner at a Thai restaurant called Baan-Boran, across from the Palais Royale. The food was excellent, and the atmosphere, service and value very good as well. Except for prices, it seems one doesn't have to compromise on one aspect or the other. One can expect all of food, service and atmosphere to be good in Paris - and the cost is always high (but if the bill in Euros comes to what you'd be happy to pay in CDN$, you've done all right). Not that there aren't places where one or other of these things aren't poor or indifferent, but the standard is generally higher, and one needn't sacrifice one for another.
We are getting into a routine of shopping at the open air market on rue de Versailles on Sunday mornings. Another important purchase in our transformation to Parisians was the "chariot", or grocery cart, with which we set off after breakfast to load with wine, cheese, and fresh veg. It's still a novelty to wend our way through the crush and see piles up pigs ears, skinned rabbits and dozens of different shapes, sizes and colours of goat cheese.
Newspapers
We miss our daily Globe & Mail. We pick up a weekend Figaro, but I’m not sure if it isn’t just fond habit. Whenever I think I’m making progress reading French, I am quickly humbled by Le Figaro. There is a free Metro just like the paper at home (same logo, must be a chain), and I can tackle their articles and get the gist without much difficulty; but the broadsheets are another matter.
Not long ago Emma did the typical feline trick of jumping on the paper I was trying to read. I went to shoo her off as usual, but stopped, figuring she understands about as much of it as I do.
I may be improving somewhat, however, as I now find I can puzzle out the headlines with a little effort.
A Free Man In Paris
My day has developed a routine: the first part I spend in class, learning French at the Alliance Francaise. The class is too large and proceeds too slowly, but my classmates are diverting (with the last two additions, there are 14 nations represented). The afternoon is spent painting the apartment, which likewise proceeds too slowly but also has its rewards.
The best part of my day is the middle, where I run errands or do chores. Whether the hardware store or a street market, I'm out and about in the city of light. Everything is novel, and a bit of an adventure.
There is a market that sets up twice a week down the median of Boulevard Raspail, where I take my class. I walk down the middle of it on my way home, perhaps purchasing a loaf of bread, or some cheese I've never heard of before. I was there on Tuesday, and paused at a display of slaugthered ducks, their heads and feathers still on. Another passerby followed my gaze and remarked "Grippe aviaire?" How gratifying: not only can I run errands in French, I can sometimes get the jokes. (The avian flu is very topical in France at the moment as infected birds have just been discovered in the EU area.)
The Cable Company
Alas, no internet connection at home yet. The technician couldn't find the old cable, so declared that a new one would have to be brought in from the junction box in the building, and - apparently it hadn't occurred to the cable company that some wires might need to be pulled here and there - this was not a job he was prepared for, so a new appointment had to be made. This isn't what I have in mind when I advocate international standards in computer systems, but it does seem that some things are universal.
Connectivity
The blog has been a little spotty over the last while, due to lack of time and internet connectivity. I was delighted to discover that the Alliance Francaise offers free wi-fi in the cafeteria; unfortunately, my laptop battery seems to last just long enough for me to check email and little else.
We have an appointment with the ISP technician today, and while there's many a slip 'tween cup and lip especially in France, we have high hopes that we will shortly be on-line chez nous.
Teaching Children To Drink
There was a notice posted at the Alliance Francaise this morning, requesting volunteers to do something that I translated as "assurance of the studios" at the Musée du Vin. I wasn't sure what it meant but I signed up and headed over anyway, based on the intriguing venue.
The Musée turned out to be half restaurant, half museum. It's tucked in a hillside by the Seine, was once the site of a monastery and latterly served as the cellar for the restaurant of the Eiffel Tower. As part of something called La Semaine du Gout (the week of taste?), they had a string of tables set up with aspects of wine-making explained at each: the grapes, the sounds, the smells, the corks.
After being shown each of these stations and having them explained to me, it eventually transpired that each of the volunteers was to pick a table and manage it while several school groups trooped through. I took the smells table, which had a dozen jars with a little sponge in each that emitted the odour of a common wine nose, like cherries, lemon, vanilla and... burnt toast? At two o'clock, about twenty eight-year-olds descended. At my station they had to match the numbers on the jars to the smells in their list. Chaos, but they were for the most part well-behaved, so it was altogether pretty cute.
After they'd completed the exercises at each station, they were given a drink of grape juice, being permitted to choose red or white. The teachers made very clear that there was no alcohol, that alcohol is never for children. This statement was greeted with scepticism. One precocious brat attempted to persuade me to make an exception, pleading implausibly that it was his birthday.
I've always said that alcohol isn't a problem if one learns to drink properly and moderately when one it growing up, as opposed to all of a sudden being presented with it in quantity at university. Clearly the French embrace my point of view.
First Day of Class
I had my first French class this morning. It was supposed to be Tuesday, but instead of my first class, there was my first transit strike. Many of the Alliance Française staff couldn't make it or were late. My teacher was sick, and although all the students made it to class, the school couldn't find a substitute until Thursday.
The students are mostly young, and are very diverse. For the purposes of an exercise the teacher sought to separate people of like nationality. She went around the room and found she didn't need to move anyone.
Home Is A Castle
When we were house-hunting, and I was fresh from our three-bedroom townhouse in Toronto, the apartments we were looking at seemed ridiculously small; the one we eventually secured barely adequate. Now, having acclimatized a little, it seems positively palatial. I almost feel guilty, two people occupying so much space by themselves. Notwithstanding we're still going to have trouble finding places for all out stuff (and I swear this has nothing to do with the amount of painting I've discovered I'll be doing in our little pied à terre).
Bricolage
The apartment was stripped to the walls when we arrived, as I gather is customary here. Having decorated our new house a year ago, picking light fixtures, towel rods, and so on, we are repeating the process in Paris. We have kitchen cupboards, sinks, toilets and counter tops, but everything else we have to select and install ourselves. Fortunately there seems to be at least as much selection, and we've found a departement store in the 4me, BHV, that fills most of our needs in one place - a big improvement on the trek to the boutiques at Dufferin and Lawrence, even without a car.
We obtained a couple of quotes to have the apartment painted, since its previous tenants lived there for many years and left the walls dingy and in need of some repair. Since the best quote we got was for upwards of €5000 (cash, and cutting a few corners), about $8000, we opted instead to look upon it as my employment for October. It's going to be a huge job, since the ceilings are high and there is a great deal of detail: built in cupboards, paneled walls, crown mouldings, radiators (I hate radiators), ornate window frames and the like. For some reason, the baseboards are very plain.
Gratifyingly, we are conducting all of our transactions, including having paint mixed, without reverting to English, or charades. Even when the woman at the grocery checkout tried to close her cash in front of me (and the half a dozen customers in line behind me), I was able to kick up a fuss entirely in French. (I don't know that I made sense, but the cry was taken up by others and the cash didn't close.)
Chez Nous, Enfin
We are at last both (plus Emma) in our new Parisian home. I know most of my readers are imagining me gallavanting about the rive gauche, sporting a beret and sipping an espresso. In reality, my Parisian experience is likely to be focussed within the home for a while, as we move in, decorate and upack. Even so, I am so often struck by the little differences to life here. I miss ready internet access, which would allow me to post things as they occur to me. By the time we are set up, much of what I thought remarkable at the outset will probably have come to seem normal.
