Tea and the Musee D'Orsay

I woke up yesterday not being able to speak. My throat was sore, my head ached, I was unreasonably tired. Oh dear, not today! Today I'm too busy to be sick! I've got things to do and people to see today! Alas, it couldn't be helped. I sucked down some tea after a quick shower and set off.

Item one on my to-do list was to meet V to go set up my French bank account. The paperwork involved in setting up a French bank account is not dissimilar to the paperwork involved in buying a house. That is, there's a lot. They needed my work contract, my passport, my student card, and of course V there to translate. Our banker then needed to go and fetch his associate banker friend to help. There was some discussion about whether or not I would be buying things online. I was confused. Would this change something? Does the bank not work online? Why would the bank not work online? I guess it was eventually decided that I most likely would be buying things online because I am young. Ok then. I was then given a million papers to sign and initial, wondering if any of this was going to cost me money. V then put in next week's hundred euros for me, and boom. That much closer to full on Frenchy.

My throat was still sore. I needed some tea or coffee or something. But there was no time. I had to meet my friends at the Musee D'Orsay. I lingered a bit, suspecting the others would be late. I should have lingered more as I ended up standing around in the rain alone anyway. I would have had time for that cup of tea. As I was wondering whether to go inside where it was sure to be warm but I might have to pay for something or just loiter, wet and cold, outside for free, I got a call from Bea who was also standing around outside having a similar internal debate. So we stood around together by the rhinoceros statue, and waited. We did have a good chat and it might have been nice if not for the cold and rain. "I really want some tea and cake," she said. Girl, you have no idea. Eventually the others did arrive and we got into the museum (for free! My favorite word!), and realized none of us had much time to spend there. We wondered about, Jane took some illegal pictures, and we were honestly most amused by a very intense looking conversation happening between a couple in the middle of the Impressionist gallery, because we are uncultured ruffians. 

"What do you think they're talking about?"

"He's mad at her about something."

"Maybe he thinks she's been flirting with other guys."

"Maybe we should give them some privacy..."

"If you want privacy then don't do this in the middle of the Musee D'Orsay."

"Maybe he just wants her to dye her hair back."

"I bet she's breaking up with him."

"Oh look, now they're holding hands!"

"Okay we have now officially stopped being subtle."

We sidled away and someone mentioned tea again. Oh please. Some tea. My kingdom for a cup of tea. I looked at the time. 3:20. Would have to leave soon. We passed the museum's restaurant, creatively named The Restaurant. It was expensive of course, we could tell just by the chandeliers. "Perhaps there's a cafe or something also?" We set off in search of a cafe, which turned out to be on the fifth floor, with prices identical to The Restaurant anyway. 6 euros for a cup of tea is a lot of euros. Honestly, I would have just choked it down, but I couldn't ask other people to do that, and we left a bit sadly. In any case, it was now 3:45 and I really needed to be off. "Well, see you all later tonight," I croaked, and ran to the bus.

Because God is good and really wants me to be happy, I made it home with enough time to stop by Starbucks for a latte before picking up Le Petit. Some habits never die. 

How Does the Metro Work Anyway?

Well I walked down the nearly-deserted street and wandered into a bustling intersection, a veritable hub of civilization. 

There must be a Metro around here somewhere. I wandered here and meandered there, constantly reaching for my dead-as-a-doornail Android which had no WiFi connection anyway, out of habit. Constantly living with all of the information in the world instantly available at your fingertips makes everything so easy that living without it suddenly becomes so difficult. And then I feel like a brat because some girls don't get to go to school or have to walk seven miles uphill just to get clean water. 

Anyway.

I circle around the rather fabulous entrance to Gare St. Lazare and wander down a street, whose name I don't know, praying very hard in French for a Metro. I watch several busses pass by, and I think sadly that one of those could probably take me where I need to go, but I'll never know because I have no internet here to tell me. Aha! There it is! A Metro station. I eagerly thunder down the steps and look around for a sign directing me to line 8. There is no such sign. Line 8 does not go to Gare St. Lazare. I know now that what I should have done was take a metro anywhere and then just transferred to line 8. But I didn't know how to do that and had a vision of myself waking up on a train in Budapest with no notion of how I got there. I left the station, hoping to ask someone for directions.

Quite nonchalantly I approached a friendly taxi-driver.

"Pardon, ah, je cherches le Metro Grands-Boulevards... Vous pouvez m'aider?" God, my French is atrocious.

The taxi driver made a tssshhh sort of noise as though to say "Well, damn lady, how the hell did you get way over here?"

I responded with a sheepish shrug. He told me in French, which I understood by some miracle, that the place I was trying to get to was basically at the other end of the city, and that it was going to be quite the journey back. 

"Or you could take a taxi," he added. "Would cost 6,40 euros." Done. I got into a different taxi (My taxi driver was off-duty or something so it's not like he was being self-serving) and sped off on my way. 

Exactly 6 euros and 40 centimes later, I got out at the correct Metro station, where I found Eloise after a brief encounter with a Welshman (W: "Guess where I'm from! Don't say England!" W's Friend: "He's from Wales. Ignore him"). Eloise took me into a bar so loud and dark I would have sworn I was in Wrigleyville if not for all the French people. She directed me to a small table where her two friends were sitting. Johannes immediately stood and kissed me on both cheeks with the greatest of fervor, so it seemed to follow that I should do the same to Ellie, which I did, although now I wonder. 

It would be a lie to say that I was immediately comfortable (how can one be?) but it certainly didn't take long. Eloise, Ellie, and Johannes were friendly and talkative (despite the deafening House music), and I was pretty soon at ease. It soon became evident that Johannes loved to dance. I returned from a trip to the bar to find him swinging Ellie, the trained ballet dancer, wildly around. They dipped, spun, turned, jumped, hilariously at odds with the awkward, sexual gyrations of the other, more reserved, dancers. When Ellie finally sat down, Johannes begged me to dance, and I was peer-pressured by the others as well. Even though I told them that I was world famous for being a terrible dancer. Well anyway, Johannes swung me about a bit, while I laughed hysterically and tried not to fall or to hit anyone. I didn't thank God, and was deemed a success. By the end of the night we were all awkwardly shaking our groove things. We weren't very graceful, but it was fun.

To catch the Metro we left at around one, and I found, to my surprise, that it was an incredibly easy train ride back to my apartment. I even got on the same train as my new friends. 

"We're going ice skating tomorrow if you'd like to join," Eloise told me. 

In my mind: ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME! TWO FRIEND DATES IN TWO DAYS! GOD I JUST WANT TO MARRY YOU OF COURSE I WANT TO GO ICE SKATING! 

What I said: "That sounds fun! Yeah, text me."

I DONT EVEN LIKE ICE SKATING!! 

"Ellie and I probably aren't going to skate. Just get some lunch."

"Oh good, me neither."

In the end, nobody went ice skating, since it didn't look like the rink was actually open. But I was introduced to Eloise and Ellie's other friends, Astral and Jane who were both very nice. We had a lovely lunch and then some hot chocolate, and admired the frankly terrifying Christmas window displays at Galleries Lafayettes. Perfectly spherical white heads vaguely attached to their couture-clad bodies by long, meandering wires covered in ribbon, were surrounded by teddy bears or dolls moving with horror-movie slowness. I thought this was Christmas! 

I also learned that in Britain, "pants" means "underpants" not "trousers." Don't make my mistake, friends.

All in all, it was an excellent day. 

In Search of Amis

Always trying to make me more comfortable, on Friday V introduced me to the chic and statuesque Fiona, who works in her office and is about my age. She hoped we could be friends. Perhaps it was my fault and I was too intimidated by her Parisian je ne sais quoi, but we didn't really click. Fiona looks like a model, with that intangible air of "Oh, I didn't even look in the mirror this morning, I just happen to look perfect." She really did seem quite friendly, and offered to meet me on New Years Eve, warning me, with expressions of distaste, against exactly the cheap options I had been considering, like going to Montmartre to watch the fireworks. 

"Fiona's very posh,"V said. I looked down at my rubber boots and bare fingernails. Um, considering my Hemingway budget, I just don't think Fiona and I would be attracted to the same atmospheres. 

Luckily, I had other options in the works. I had joined the Au Pair in Paris group on Facebook, and there met Eloise. Eloise told me she had plans to go out that night with some friends and invited me along. I accepted with alacrity. 

"Meet us at Grands Boulevards," she texted. I searched it on Google maps, found a bus route, and set off. Upon reaching the bus stop, I realized that I had completely forgotten the bus number. Was this even the right stop? I think so, it has to be. I studied the map. I didn't see Grands Boulevards listed on the stops, but it looks like it's nearby. What if it's not? Maybe I should just go home, and tell Eloise I'll see her later...

A bus arrived. I got on.

I began to get increasingly nervous as nothing on the route map posted on the wall of the bus matched what was on the map in my hands. Oh God. Wrong bus. I got off at Gare St. Lazare. This was wrong. So, so wrong. The street I found myself on was dark and relatively lifeless. I looked at the map in my hands again. What I wouldn't give for the internet! This map didn't reach Gare St. Lazare. I had no idea where I was. Well, I had to get home somehow. I started walking in the opposite direction that the bus was going. This seemed like a good start. I got another text from Eloise.

"We're at James Hetfeeld bar. Please come! Line 8 :)"

How could I say no to a smiley face? To a "please come"? Friends! So close to friends! With a renewed sense of purpose I strode towards what looked like civilization. In search of a Metro...

Be Brave, Little Piglet

"You're going on a grand adventure," my dad tells me. It is. It is a grand adventure, but I started to get the feeling that I used up all the bravery I had in just coming here. The actual adventure part is more difficult. 

It's just so safe and familiar in my apartment! And I can't get lost in my neighborhood anymore! Hey, I found the Eiffel Tower didn't I! But the Metro is scary! 

Excuses, excuses. So today I decided to be brave. I decided to actually leave the 7th Arrondissement and do a little exploring. Obviously, the first thing I wanted to do was go to Shakespeare and Company. This is the little English bookstore that looks like it was decorated according to designs laid out in my diary. I'd been here once before and have been dreaming of it since.

On entering, you walk into a small room crowded by books. The lighting is low, warm. Awkwardly arranged bookcases divide the shop into little sections to wander in and out of, and lending it a whimsical, labyrinthine feel, like a literary fun-house. At the back, to the right, there is a staircase leading to a reading room,  as well as rare books and young adult fiction. I love the randomness of that. A note stuck to the wall advises me that there's a piano to play if I wish, but I can already hear the music floating back down to me. The reading room is furnished by repurposed church pews and theater seats. A book of 19th century magazines rests on a stand in a corner. I take a seat. Yep, this is home.

When I'd finally tired of heaven, I looked across the street at Notre Dame. Lovely. I snapped a picture and set about wandering the Latin Quarter's narrow cobbled streets, finally stopping at a cafe to sit with my book and a cafe creme. 

It's lovely to be in Paris. Even alone. 

Noteworthy

Having spent a week and a half in Paris, I feel at liberty to shed light on some stereotypes of the French.

1. French kids are better behaved than American kids.

Yeah right. I'd like a word with the woman who wrote Bringing up Bebe. Rest assured, French kids are just as difficult to get into the bath as American kids. I would know.

2. French kids eat everything.

Le Petit eats nothing but chocolate and hates fruit. So.

3. French women don't get fat.

They do.

4. Parisians are always chic.

Not all Parisians. Just most Parisians.

5. All Parisians smoke.

Okay this one might be true.

And there you have it folks, the truth about the French. Parisians! They're just like us!

In Which I Brave the Elementary School Alone

Today I picked up Le Petit from school without his mother with me for the first time. Though the tears I expected did happen (I am, after all, a frightful American) it, like Wednesday, went better than expected. 

Picking up a child from school, at least at this particular school, is not for the faint of heart. The teachers neatly arrange the children on little benches along the wall, and try (with some success) to keep them still. And then at 4:30 the doors open and all the mamans stampede into the vestibule to collect their kids. Giant swinging handbags knock into children's heads, strollers swerve violently while their passengers shriek, little ones are almost trampled entirely. Socks, pacifiers, mittens, teddy bears are swallowed up and lost amidst a steady, high-pitched din. The teachers' "bonsoir"s are barely audible. V says it makes her lose faith in humanity. 

I approached Le Petit with an intrepid smile and a bonjour. He industriously sucked on his pacifier without saying a word and stayed put, waiting patiently for Maman. As I held out my hand, grin still in place, the truth dawned on him and he began to cry. Loudly of course. Not feeling particularly inclined to indulge a long dispute I explained (in very poor French) that Maman was at work and we had to go. Since he would not move, I plucked him up and carried him waling, "Je ne veux pas!" out of the building. He continued to scream for his mother for about a minute, but by the end of our very slow walk home, he'd forgotten about Maman apparently, and was ready for his snack. So yeah, not too bad.

A Gift from Home

V and I were walking to her office the other day (she forgot to lock the door), and we passed The Real McCoy.

"That's an American grocery store," she told me. But I was distracted.

"Oh my God, Pop Tarts!"

"Oh, I hate Pop Tarts!" she replied, with admittedly well-applied French distaste. (In her defense, she tells me she loves Krispy Kreme Doughnuts).

"I love them. That's all I ate as a teenager," I informed her.

"There's just nothing in them."

"Oh, I know. They're gross. But I just love them."

"Sure. You like it even though it's bad because it's something from your childhood?"

"Like my mom and HoHos."I don't think she knows what HoHos are. But we then reached her office and changed the subject because there's really not much more to be said about Pop Tarts.

Now while I'm here surrounded by arguably the best cuisine in the world and missing American junk food, my family in Michigan is grieving a very great loss. I have never felt so disconnected from them. I've been pretty good, so far, at keeping myself from missing everyone too much and falling apart. But for just a second today, I lost it a bit. I was standing in V's kitchen, looking for something for lunch and seeing nothing but French graham crackers and apple sauce, when I suddenly felt very, very lost.

V caught me staring into her cupboard.

"Are you okay, Kate?"

"Oh, I'm fine! I just had a moment..."

I don't think I fooled her though, because when she came back from work she had with her "un petit cadeau pour Kate." It was a box of cherry Pop Tarts.