I learned some rather disturbing things this weekend.
But there will be time for that.
Part I: The Departure
When someone offers you tickets to Paris, you go. When that person says things such as: “You can help me pick out stuff at IKEA,” and only middle seats are left on the plane, and you have to watch, trembling, as the girl in front of you at the 3rd-Reich-inspired security checkpoint gets her Clinique taken away for being .4oz too large, you still go. And you are grateful for the opportunity.
For those of you who are being offered this trip by someone besides a significant other, solo international travel is an excellent way to meet men (so perhaps women, then, as well). In fact, based on last Thursday, I would strongly suggest that singles who do not wish to stay that way simply head out to JFK and ride around on the AirTrain between terminals for a while. If you are seeking an observant lover, perhaps you should bring a suitcase along, for show.
Disturbing Thing 1
When they tell you in 8th grade that kitchens in France don’t come with appliances, it sounds all abstract and charming. In actuality, it means you are worse off than if you were in a hotel, because you don’t even get a mini-bar. But that’s not all.
The addendum–Thing 1.5, perhaps?–is that you generally don’t get light fixtures, either. If you still think this sounds like a fun multicultural experience, you have issues.
Part II: The Apartment
You will be happy to know that Nick is now the proud tenant of a lovely, spacious, light-filled apartment in Paris’s 16th Arrondissement. You can see the Eiffel Tower from parts of his street, there are excellent restaurants, markets, bakeries, and two Metro stops right nearby, and a bustling open-air market is half a block away every morning. The place is half of the third floor of the building and has tons of windows, and the walls are this lovely subtle cream with an unusual crosshatch texture, and it glows against the white trim. Even the nubby blue carpet grows on you after a bit.
There are occasional downsides, of course. Curtains of any kind tend to render the large windows completely unopenable, for one. The bathroom appears to have been last touched in 1971, for another. The uneven wall composition that makes hanging shelves a craps shoot, the dangling wires that are too outdated, overpainted, and poorly maintained to connect to the ceiling fixtures that the crumbling plaster ceiling will not support, and the terrifyingly stained bathtub with a shower attachment that fits perfectly into the adjustable holder that won’t adjust, flooding the place every time one showers, are all part of the charm, right?
Disturbing Thing 2
IKEA is designed for people who don’t see the big picture, but rather happily putter along, one step at a time, until the thing magically appears. Nick is not capable of that. I am perfect for it. Pick whichever one you find more troubling.
To be fair, I was not entirely thrilled to be spending my short time in Paris assembling cabinetry. But Nick is a hardcore nester, and seeing him light up every time a completed piece went into place and it became a tiny bit more of a home was enough to make it a wonderful trip. The fact that I was bribed with rich and buttery dinners every night was just a bonus.
Part III: The Project
Speaking of rich and buttery, my stepbrother and his wife very thoughtfully gave me The French Chef Cookbook, for my birthday. Having been sucked into the Julia Child cult by intrepid blogger/author Julie Powell, I was blissed. So here’s my thinking, now that Nick, who likes to cook, will live in France and have a dishwasher: we should make stuff from this book. It has these crazy complicated recipes with incredibly long cooking times, tons of butter/cream, and troublingly explicit butchering instructions. It should be fun.
Disturbing Thing 3
I don’t understand French.
Oh, I know what you’re thinking: “But, Caroline, I know you! You speak lovely French!” Now, that is true. I can tell funny stories, and make fairly complex points, with a delivery that satisfies even Parisians. But, in every American apologist’s nightmare, I can speak, but not understand.
It’s not just that people don’t always go out of their way to express themselves in my eclectic vocabulary. It’s mostly that some kind of Dostoevskyan fog descends on me whenever someone actually responds to me. There is a rushing in my ears, and I can’t even think to listen for any familiar words: it’s all gibberish. So I order steak frites, and then stare blankly at the waiter who asks me how I want it cooked. Even though they all ask that. Every time. How depressing is that?
Disturbing Thing 4
I hate Americans. It is tough to say whether this is a function of being in Paris (where they do that), or of being with Nick (who does that), but the tourists who comment loudly on all things French in English, which everyone speaks, while wearing neon fanny packs…I have not the words.
We had dinner on Saturday night at a wonderful brasserie–one of those places where even the mushroom soup has sex appeal. (Incidentally, it was the 3rd restaurant we went to. At the first two, Nick announced “Two persons*,” and they announced that they were full. At the third, I elbowed him out of the way and used the expression the Parisians do: “We are two.” There is something to be said for faking native.) On the downside, we ended up next to four drunken American flight attendants, who shrieked through the whole meal, and confused the poor waitress by demanding to take home the leftover side dishes (the French do not do doggy bags). So here’s where it gets messy:
Part IV: The Messy Part
“I smell mushrooms,” squeals one of the flight attendants–actually, she was clearly French, so we had hoped that she would be a mellowing influence. It was soon clear that she was just as shrill as the other three.
They all started obsessing about mushrooms, so I quickly devised a plan to shut them up while not inviting any further conversation. “It’s me,” I say. Now, I can fool Americans into thinking I am French. I speak quickly and complexly, and I can look convincingly blank when they speak English. I cannot, however, fool French people. I give myself away whenever I say an “r,” so “Hello,” “Thank you,” “Pardon me,” and “Goodbye” all win me pitying looks. “It’s me,” however, contains no “r’s,” and so I had hope.
Until I realized that “I smell mushrooms” was in English.
They didn’t like me much after that.
Part V: The Moment
Lest you think it was all backbreaking labor and awkward faux pas, there was a very sweet moment with the couple at the table on the other side of us. It didn’t hurt that they initially asked if we were British (the best of the English-speaking hierarchy, on which “American” ranks lowest these days). We began chatting in French, and, by some miracle of wine and relaxation, I actually understood enough to hold up my end of the conversation. At one point, I spontaneously announced that I was trying to learn to cook French food (it could be true–see Part III).
The woman began lamenting the fact that young women in France didn’t cook anymore–”It’s the way to keep a husband,” she claimed.
“How on Earth do you find one?” I asked.
After a while, Nick wandered off to the restroom. The woman leaned over. “He’s a good one to learn to cook for,” she whispered. I could only agree.
*In italics=in French