So I’m blogging again. That’s big news for all 4 of my avid fans who’ve been waiting over a year for the next episode in this riveting saga. The bigger news is what underlies this bold move. I’m reengaging.
I’m reading a book right now that recounts one writer’s struggle to give up alcohol (“Lit” by Mary Karr). It’s so brilliant that I’m racing to the end with a sense of impending doom – how will I find pleasure like this - the pleasure of prose so well-wrought that you forget what country you live in, what responsibilities remain unattended to, the last time you ate - once I've finished? Somehow this book has inspired me to lift the stone I’ve been living under for the last 12 months and dare to step out again into the light of day. I’m thinking big thoughts again and, shall I say it . . . dreaming of the future.
The heavily abridged account of my last year goes like this:
• Moved to the suburbs of Paris to be with the man I love without once considering the possibility that this wouldn’t actually feel like living suspended in a dream.
• Learned that having step kids, even when they only share a toilet with you eight days a month, changes just about everything.
• Realized that work alone cannot fulfill you.
• Decided that other potentially fulfilling activities (making new friends, discovering things to enjoy about the place in which you live) require even more energy than work and have a spottier success rate. Abandoned them altogether.
• Devoted most of my time to work. Devoted what remained to feeling bitter about this.
• Aged. Visibly.
• Dreamed of ways to oust the socialists so that trains might run on time, hospitals would no longer shut down for strikes, my income tax rate might dip below 50%, and Sarkozy could pass his reforms so that the government wouldn’t go belly up before I collected a single retirement benefit. Recognized that a prison uniform would make me look even fatter than I feel. Abandoned plan of action (but dream of it still).
• Sulked.
• Grew tired of my own company.
• Considered the possibility that although I feel like my innards have leached out and I’m hulking a sack of skin from one day to the next, I might yet be able to resurrect my core to become human again.
• Opened my laptop and began writing.
• Started a blog entry.
• Actually felt personally engaged in something.
• Smiled.
It is a surprising moment for this new-found lust for life. I’m weeks behind on key projects at work with my annual review just a month away. My tenants in San Francisco, for the first time, have fallen behind on the rent. And to boot, Pete has not eaten a single morsel of food in the last 48 hours. I fear that something might really be wrong and I’ve morbidly, completely prematurely, considered the possibility that I might lose him. As anyone who’s even sat next to me on a public bus knows, for me, Pete is the gravitational force that keeps the earth from careening into the sun. I can’t begin to imagine how I might react to his loss. The vet will undoubtedly tell me tomorrow that he has the dog flu and I’ve been worried for nothing. At least, this is what I keep telling myself.
No matter what, the fire within me has been rekindled. The thing about Mary Karr’s story is this: she was far worse off than I. She was broke, unhappily married, addicted, and suicidal and yet she made a comeback. She rose from the ashes of the life she herself burned to the ground by making a few good decisions consistently (don’t have that drink; think about the good things; when all else fails, pray). I too will make a few good decisions as consistently as possible and see where that takes me. Write. Seek out the positive. Uphold your commitments. Reach out to people you like. Stay connected to those you love.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Il fait hopeful
What a glorious day. I'm sitting in my apartment with the windows flung open listening to the sweet sounds of life all around me. Over the last couple of weeks, realizing that my days here may be numbered, I have refocused my energy on loving Paris, on living every experience this city has to offer, on noticing and absorbing the finest detail of this most amazing place.
I spent the afternoon picnicing on the Pont des Arts with 40 people I'd never laid eyes on, the members of the Americans in Paris group I found online. The weather was perfect - clear sky, brilliant sun, and just enough of a breeze to keep you comfortable. I had never picniced on the Pont des Arts (or any other bridge in Paris for that matter) and probably would have lived a lifetime without ever doing so had I not stumbled upon this group and joined their weekly outing. It's a popular thing to do and I must have passed picnicers on various Parisian bridges a hundred times, thinking how wonderful it would be to have a group of friends with whom to picnic. And now I've done it. So they weren't actually friends - this is a minor detail. What matters is that I had a blissful afternoon and in the process, stumbled upon two very promising prospects for new girlfriends. One is a half British half French woman who is teaching law at a French university. She is restrained (her British side) and refined (her French side) and a downright good time (her wanna-be American side). Since she is the product of a cross-cultural couple I picked her brain about the pitfalls of such a union (thinking, as I am, of pursuing one myself). She gave me good perspective (turns out it's not really that big a deal to grow up with parents who speak different languages and to flip flop between countries every few years) and great advice (the American church in Paris offers all kinds of services for their displaced compatriots including free counseling for cross-cultural couples). We were all advised to bring food to share and she brought a canteloupe, which she cut into slices with a pocket knife and passed around the circle. She told me what it was like to go to British school in Paris and to French school in England. I was transfixed. When she got up to leave and handed me her card and asked me to call her I wanted hug her or cheer or do the wave. It was like being asked on a date by the boy you've had a secret crush on for months. I'm already thinking about what activity to propose when I call her next week.
After she left, I introduced myself the girl on my other side, an actual American (turns out the Europeans outnumber the Americans in this American group) who moved here in January from San Francisco! She and her husband decided they wanted to spend a few years abroad so found jobs, picked up, and moved. She works for a Silicon Valley software company, grew up on the east coast, has a fondness for dogs, and lives just blocks from me in the Marais. I wonder if we actually knew each other in another life. We talked about the difficulty of selling software to the French, the endless charm of the Marais, how the falafel at l'As du Falafel, where you have to queue for a good 30 minutes to purchase your 5 euro sandwich, really are as good as they say. She too gave me her card and asked me to call. Two suitors in one day. I guess I still have it.
I walked home along the seine, up to Hotel de Ville, past the animal market, left on rue Saint Paul, and made a quick pit stop at Monoprix to buy groceries for dinner. I was headed toward the food section when I heard my name. I know very few people in Paris and would have assumed this "Katie" was directed at someone else except that it's a very uncommon name in these parts and I was feeling so very at home in Paris it seemed to make sense that I'd bump into someone I know at my local grocery store. I turned and found Michel, the Italian who organizes the Paris Night Life group, grinning ear to ear. We did the kiss kiss and spent a few minutes catching up. He was picking up groceries to prepare dinner for a girl he's pursuing, an adorable little Catalonian I've met a few times. I bid him good luck then turned back toward to the grocery section with a skip in my step.
I cannot possibly go home in July. All signs point toward Paris. At least for the next little while . . .
I spent the afternoon picnicing on the Pont des Arts with 40 people I'd never laid eyes on, the members of the Americans in Paris group I found online. The weather was perfect - clear sky, brilliant sun, and just enough of a breeze to keep you comfortable. I had never picniced on the Pont des Arts (or any other bridge in Paris for that matter) and probably would have lived a lifetime without ever doing so had I not stumbled upon this group and joined their weekly outing. It's a popular thing to do and I must have passed picnicers on various Parisian bridges a hundred times, thinking how wonderful it would be to have a group of friends with whom to picnic. And now I've done it. So they weren't actually friends - this is a minor detail. What matters is that I had a blissful afternoon and in the process, stumbled upon two very promising prospects for new girlfriends. One is a half British half French woman who is teaching law at a French university. She is restrained (her British side) and refined (her French side) and a downright good time (her wanna-be American side). Since she is the product of a cross-cultural couple I picked her brain about the pitfalls of such a union (thinking, as I am, of pursuing one myself). She gave me good perspective (turns out it's not really that big a deal to grow up with parents who speak different languages and to flip flop between countries every few years) and great advice (the American church in Paris offers all kinds of services for their displaced compatriots including free counseling for cross-cultural couples). We were all advised to bring food to share and she brought a canteloupe, which she cut into slices with a pocket knife and passed around the circle. She told me what it was like to go to British school in Paris and to French school in England. I was transfixed. When she got up to leave and handed me her card and asked me to call her I wanted hug her or cheer or do the wave. It was like being asked on a date by the boy you've had a secret crush on for months. I'm already thinking about what activity to propose when I call her next week.
After she left, I introduced myself the girl on my other side, an actual American (turns out the Europeans outnumber the Americans in this American group) who moved here in January from San Francisco! She and her husband decided they wanted to spend a few years abroad so found jobs, picked up, and moved. She works for a Silicon Valley software company, grew up on the east coast, has a fondness for dogs, and lives just blocks from me in the Marais. I wonder if we actually knew each other in another life. We talked about the difficulty of selling software to the French, the endless charm of the Marais, how the falafel at l'As du Falafel, where you have to queue for a good 30 minutes to purchase your 5 euro sandwich, really are as good as they say. She too gave me her card and asked me to call. Two suitors in one day. I guess I still have it.
I walked home along the seine, up to Hotel de Ville, past the animal market, left on rue Saint Paul, and made a quick pit stop at Monoprix to buy groceries for dinner. I was headed toward the food section when I heard my name. I know very few people in Paris and would have assumed this "Katie" was directed at someone else except that it's a very uncommon name in these parts and I was feeling so very at home in Paris it seemed to make sense that I'd bump into someone I know at my local grocery store. I turned and found Michel, the Italian who organizes the Paris Night Life group, grinning ear to ear. We did the kiss kiss and spent a few minutes catching up. He was picking up groceries to prepare dinner for a girl he's pursuing, an adorable little Catalonian I've met a few times. I bid him good luck then turned back toward to the grocery section with a skip in my step.
I cannot possibly go home in July. All signs point toward Paris. At least for the next little while . . .
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Do I look French in this photo?
The strangest thing happened today. I was sitting at my desk reviewing an analyst report while mindlessly listening to my iTunes library when, for the first time since my arrival in France four months ago, I had a pang of homesickness. It hit me hard, out of nowhere, and my stomach dropped the way it does when you’re flying down the back side of a roller coaster. I lost my breath. My mind flashed to my bedroom in San Francisco and I was there, my feet on that densely-woven circular rug next to my bed, Pete standing by my side, the sounds and sights and smells of home all around me. It lasted a split second but when I turned and looked out the window and saw Paris, well, I wanted to cry.
A lot has changed in the last few weeks. The company has finally recognized that my initial six month assignment will soon be drawing to a close and they’re eager to make less expensive arrangements for my next six months. They’ve been dancing around this for a while but yesterday they laid it on the line – transfer permanently to the Paris office or come home. This had the predictable effect of sending me into a tailspin. I expected to have a year of this expat life, so pleasantly suspended above reality. I expected to have a year to travel around the continent, bring friends over, galavant. I expected to have a year to evaluate my relationship with Cyril and decide if this is something I wanted to pursue long-term. I no longer have the luxury of time so will have to make some pretty big decisions pretty quickly, definitely not a strong suit of mine.
It’s ironic, really. Just last week I was walking on air because I received my Carte de Sejour from La Republique francaise. Getting work authorization in this country, despite the help of the lawyer we hired to expedite the process, has meant months of useless exams and the frequent filing of paperwork in triplicate. I had given up hope of ever obtaining legal status. But last Thursday, with far too little fanfare, it was delivered in a plain white envelope wedged between an electricity bill and a bank statement. I expected the Carte de Sejour to be some sticker I'd affix to my passport. Imagine my surprise when I opened that envelope and found it to be a French ID card, valid for three years. It looks just like the ID cards of all the frenchies around me and when I held it in my hand in all of its laminated glory, well, I almost broke into the Marseillaise.
That ecstatic moment seems an eternity ago. I'm sitting in my apartment thinking of all the things I haven't yet done in Paris, all of the museums I've been meaning to check out, the cafes I've been meaning to experience, the streets I've been wanted to explore, and I'm downright sad. I'm not ready to leave but I'm not ready to commit. Unfortunately, those are the only two options available and if I don't choose one then one will be chosen for me.
A lot has changed in the last few weeks. The company has finally recognized that my initial six month assignment will soon be drawing to a close and they’re eager to make less expensive arrangements for my next six months. They’ve been dancing around this for a while but yesterday they laid it on the line – transfer permanently to the Paris office or come home. This had the predictable effect of sending me into a tailspin. I expected to have a year of this expat life, so pleasantly suspended above reality. I expected to have a year to travel around the continent, bring friends over, galavant. I expected to have a year to evaluate my relationship with Cyril and decide if this is something I wanted to pursue long-term. I no longer have the luxury of time so will have to make some pretty big decisions pretty quickly, definitely not a strong suit of mine.
It’s ironic, really. Just last week I was walking on air because I received my Carte de Sejour from La Republique francaise. Getting work authorization in this country, despite the help of the lawyer we hired to expedite the process, has meant months of useless exams and the frequent filing of paperwork in triplicate. I had given up hope of ever obtaining legal status. But last Thursday, with far too little fanfare, it was delivered in a plain white envelope wedged between an electricity bill and a bank statement. I expected the Carte de Sejour to be some sticker I'd affix to my passport. Imagine my surprise when I opened that envelope and found it to be a French ID card, valid for three years. It looks just like the ID cards of all the frenchies around me and when I held it in my hand in all of its laminated glory, well, I almost broke into the Marseillaise.
That ecstatic moment seems an eternity ago. I'm sitting in my apartment thinking of all the things I haven't yet done in Paris, all of the museums I've been meaning to check out, the cafes I've been meaning to experience, the streets I've been wanted to explore, and I'm downright sad. I'm not ready to leave but I'm not ready to commit. Unfortunately, those are the only two options available and if I don't choose one then one will be chosen for me.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
The Wonderous Cat of 48 rue de Turenne
I'm sitting at my corner bistro enjoying a glass of sancerre at a sidewalk table. It's February 28th and spring has officially sprung. I really don't need the jacket I'm wearing and the rhythm of Paris has changed, seemingly overnight. Outdoor tables are packed and pedestrians crowd this quiet little street, even at 8pm when they should be home preparing dinner or primping for a Saturday night on the town.
I recognize a neighbor approaching, a middle-aged man, badly in need of a haircut, who I've bumped into a few times coming and going. He smiles and mumbles bonsoir then looks over his shoulder and calls for someone. There is no one following. Aha, I think. He is every bit as crazy as he looks. I knew it - this guy has looney toon written all over him. But then I notice a cat, the cat who hangs out in our courtyard and sometimes follows me out the gate and into the street when I leave the building. I've often wondered if this little cat is abandoned, living on the cruel streets of the Marais, but he looks so well-fed and carefully groomed. The cat has stopped to sniff something but responds to the man's calls. He looks up and pauses a second before trotting dutifully behind my neighbor. I watch as this pair continue down the block and disappear around a corner. I cannot believe my eyes. This man is walking his cat.
I can hardly contain my glee. I have a new-found respect for my neighbor. What a magnificent animal trainer he must be. I think about all of the cats I've had and have known over the years and wonder if a single one of them would have followed me down a busy city street so full of distraction. I wonder if my own well-trained dog would be up to the challenge. I'm bowled over. Then I remember something else I've noticed in Paris - every dog is calm and well behaved, the portrait of a fine canine citizen. I have not seen a single dog, large or small, so much as strain against his leash as he's walked. How do they do it? What secret Parisian training method are they using on their pets? And why are there not more famous French animal trainers in the world? Why is there no Monsieur Thierry LeBlanc whom the world holds in the same regard as Cesar Millan?
I decide to order another glass. It's Saturday night and I have no plans. Cyril is with his daughters tonight and I'm not in the mood to chat up strangers at a bar. I will stroll to the video store and rent Le Diner des Cons, a French classic I've been meaning to see again. I'll make myself some tikka masala, will study a little French, and will paint my toenails while watching the movie. It could be my age or the fact that I'm fairly overworked at the moment, or it could be that I've finally succeeded at managing my own expectations - in a town where I know just a handful of people days and nights alone are a regular occurrence - but I feel blissful about the night I've planned. This is a divine life. I want for nothing. I learn and experience new things every day. And I have just seen a man out taking his cat for a walk. I wish that things could stay this way forever.
I recognize a neighbor approaching, a middle-aged man, badly in need of a haircut, who I've bumped into a few times coming and going. He smiles and mumbles bonsoir then looks over his shoulder and calls for someone. There is no one following. Aha, I think. He is every bit as crazy as he looks. I knew it - this guy has looney toon written all over him. But then I notice a cat, the cat who hangs out in our courtyard and sometimes follows me out the gate and into the street when I leave the building. I've often wondered if this little cat is abandoned, living on the cruel streets of the Marais, but he looks so well-fed and carefully groomed. The cat has stopped to sniff something but responds to the man's calls. He looks up and pauses a second before trotting dutifully behind my neighbor. I watch as this pair continue down the block and disappear around a corner. I cannot believe my eyes. This man is walking his cat.
I can hardly contain my glee. I have a new-found respect for my neighbor. What a magnificent animal trainer he must be. I think about all of the cats I've had and have known over the years and wonder if a single one of them would have followed me down a busy city street so full of distraction. I wonder if my own well-trained dog would be up to the challenge. I'm bowled over. Then I remember something else I've noticed in Paris - every dog is calm and well behaved, the portrait of a fine canine citizen. I have not seen a single dog, large or small, so much as strain against his leash as he's walked. How do they do it? What secret Parisian training method are they using on their pets? And why are there not more famous French animal trainers in the world? Why is there no Monsieur Thierry LeBlanc whom the world holds in the same regard as Cesar Millan?
I decide to order another glass. It's Saturday night and I have no plans. Cyril is with his daughters tonight and I'm not in the mood to chat up strangers at a bar. I will stroll to the video store and rent Le Diner des Cons, a French classic I've been meaning to see again. I'll make myself some tikka masala, will study a little French, and will paint my toenails while watching the movie. It could be my age or the fact that I'm fairly overworked at the moment, or it could be that I've finally succeeded at managing my own expectations - in a town where I know just a handful of people days and nights alone are a regular occurrence - but I feel blissful about the night I've planned. This is a divine life. I want for nothing. I learn and experience new things every day. And I have just seen a man out taking his cat for a walk. I wish that things could stay this way forever.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Bye bye month 1
It's hard to believe that I've just passed my one month anniversary in Paris and haven't had a chance to blog about it yet. It's been hectic. At work, I got sucked into supporting a big deal we're desperately trying to close. It was grueling but rewarding and in about four weeks we should find out if we've landed the largest multi-national insurer in France. Outside of work I'm practically giddy with happiness. Paris is just what I needed. It's just foreign enough that I feel distanced from reality but not so foreign that it's hard to live here. I wouldn't say my social life is booming but I'm seldom bored and never lonely. I spend a lot
of time with my friend Cyril, who has been charming, adorable, and supportive, and I've joined a few expat clubs. These are pretty interesting affairs. Basically, a bunch of people who moved here from other countries get together once a week for drinks or a meal. It's nice, and international, but pretty consistently odd. A bunch of people with little more in common than the fact that we all yield from elsewhere . . . it's a mixed bag for sure. Anyhow, I plan to share stories more regularly but here are a few of the things I've found interesting so far.
Interesting things about Paris
The garbage is collected twice a day. Twice a day! Every morning and every evening those trucks blow by and empty the cans in front of my house. Do Parisians really produce that much garbage or is this yet another example of government spending run amok?
Large companies have cafeterias on-site where employees can eat complete meals – starter, hot entrée, bread, dessert, and beverage of choice – for 2 Euros. My company does not have one of these cafeterias so I go out to lunch. That usually runs about 20 Euros.
Sending your clothes to be dry-cleaned or your pants to be hemmed are luxuries you really ought to learn to live without. Doing these things on a regular basis will jeopardize your retirement plans.
Sales at French clothing stores happen twice a year – for one month in the winter and one month in the summer. You can find clothing at 40, 50 or 60% off. It’s still expensive but palatable. The dates of the sales are government sanctioned so finding discounts outside of these periods will require you to lobby with the French government. Good luck with that.
The French have the same fascination with cute American things that we have with cute French things. All the boutiques in my neighborhood sell tee shirts, soap dishes, fluffy bath towels and door mats with English phrases emblazoned on them.
The French have tired of talking about Obama. I guess he’ll have to actually do something to make headlines again.
Interesting news about my apartment
I have a heated towel rack in the bathroom and a dishwasher with a shelf designed for wine glasses but I do not have an oven. I guess this isn’t the year I’ll learn to bake.
There is a consistent knocking sound coming from the back wall of my bathroom. The first few days I was here I thought my neighbor was hanging pictures but seeing that’s it’s now been a month and the knocking hasn’t stopped, I’m starting to wonder if there isn’t someone behind that wall knocking to be let out. I may have to excavate.
I’m a half block from a sushi place that delivers. Cute little Frenchmen ride around on motorbikes equipped with refrigerated boxes on the back that read “I heart sushi.” Feels like home.
The amount of voltage running into my apartment is sufficient to run the TV, lights and heat at the same time but if I want to run the washing machine or the microwave I have to make some tough choices. Should I turn off the heat for an hour and put on a coat or turn off the TV and read a book? I forgot this a couple of weeks ago and blew out the electricity. It was a Sunday and I had to call an electrician. He replaced three fuses and charged me – are you sitting down? - $1,110.
Tips for speaking French
Affect your best French accent and punctuate long pauses and “uuuuuuh’s” with the phrase “comment dit-on” (how do you say . . .). French men find this irresistible.
When you’re presenting to a very important prospective client, throw out a bunch of words you remember hearing somewhere but whose meanings you’re uncertain of. When you accidentally ask the project sponsor out on a date, the comic relief will work in your favor. I promise.
Learn to get by without ever mentioning yogurt or eggs. These words were designed to trip up foreigners. If you want to order these things, look for restaurants with pictures on the menu.
Things I miss about home:
Pete, my friends, my family, online access to Pandora and Netflix (turns out that 99% of the digital content I like is protected against access outside of the US), In & Out Burger, my oven.
of time with my friend Cyril, who has been charming, adorable, and supportive, and I've joined a few expat clubs. These are pretty interesting affairs. Basically, a bunch of people who moved here from other countries get together once a week for drinks or a meal. It's nice, and international, but pretty consistently odd. A bunch of people with little more in common than the fact that we all yield from elsewhere . . . it's a mixed bag for sure. Anyhow, I plan to share stories more regularly but here are a few of the things I've found interesting so far.
Interesting things about Paris
The garbage is collected twice a day. Twice a day! Every morning and every evening those trucks blow by and empty the cans in front of my house. Do Parisians really produce that much garbage or is this yet another example of government spending run amok?
Large companies have cafeterias on-site where employees can eat complete meals – starter, hot entrée, bread, dessert, and beverage of choice – for 2 Euros. My company does not have one of these cafeterias so I go out to lunch. That usually runs about 20 Euros.
Sending your clothes to be dry-cleaned or your pants to be hemmed are luxuries you really ought to learn to live without. Doing these things on a regular basis will jeopardize your retirement plans.
Sales at French clothing stores happen twice a year – for one month in the winter and one month in the summer. You can find clothing at 40, 50 or 60% off. It’s still expensive but palatable. The dates of the sales are government sanctioned so finding discounts outside of these periods will require you to lobby with the French government. Good luck with that.
The French have the same fascination with cute American things that we have with cute French things. All the boutiques in my neighborhood sell tee shirts, soap dishes, fluffy bath towels and door mats with English phrases emblazoned on them.
The French have tired of talking about Obama. I guess he’ll have to actually do something to make headlines again.
Interesting news about my apartment
I have a heated towel rack in the bathroom and a dishwasher with a shelf designed for wine glasses but I do not have an oven. I guess this isn’t the year I’ll learn to bake.
There is a consistent knocking sound coming from the back wall of my bathroom. The first few days I was here I thought my neighbor was hanging pictures but seeing that’s it’s now been a month and the knocking hasn’t stopped, I’m starting to wonder if there isn’t someone behind that wall knocking to be let out. I may have to excavate.
I’m a half block from a sushi place that delivers. Cute little Frenchmen ride around on motorbikes equipped with refrigerated boxes on the back that read “I heart sushi.” Feels like home.
The amount of voltage running into my apartment is sufficient to run the TV, lights and heat at the same time but if I want to run the washing machine or the microwave I have to make some tough choices. Should I turn off the heat for an hour and put on a coat or turn off the TV and read a book? I forgot this a couple of weeks ago and blew out the electricity. It was a Sunday and I had to call an electrician. He replaced three fuses and charged me – are you sitting down? - $1,110.
Tips for speaking French
Affect your best French accent and punctuate long pauses and “uuuuuuh’s” with the phrase “comment dit-on” (how do you say . . .). French men find this irresistible.
When you’re presenting to a very important prospective client, throw out a bunch of words you remember hearing somewhere but whose meanings you’re uncertain of. When you accidentally ask the project sponsor out on a date, the comic relief will work in your favor. I promise.
Learn to get by without ever mentioning yogurt or eggs. These words were designed to trip up foreigners. If you want to order these things, look for restaurants with pictures on the menu.
Things I miss about home:
Pete, my friends, my family, online access to Pandora and Netflix (turns out that 99% of the digital content I like is protected against access outside of the US), In & Out Burger, my oven.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Don't read this if you're French
As it turns out, the French are afraid of me. I must admit, this fear is prudent but I haven't yet given them a glimpse of the veritable cyclone I can become when angered so this development is a mystery to me. At any rate, they've gotten my Irish up now so I fear they'll soon find out that their fears are well-founded if bizarrely ignited.
The French are afraid of me because I'm American. America, a nation they have never liked although today they remain independent from Germany thanks to our heroics, a nation that they have determined to be going out of business in one fell swoop, to be sinking so quickly into the morass of our own greed and self-satisfaction that they expect to turn on the TV before the year is through and see bread lines forming on Madison Avenue. The *&$#ing French. The is the country I'm moving to in less than a week, the one so many Americans associate with romance, the home of Paris, a city so beautiful that even Hitler spared it. I have news for you about France.
France is the land of fear. There's a reason the French army surrendered at the Marginau line (twice) without so much as a pistol discharge. There's a reason France is not known for innovation. Who's your favorite French inventor? Which French entrepreneur do you most admire? Coming up dry? There's a reason for that. The French people who might otherwise put themselves to productive use are busy quaking in their boots and running for cover. Insulation is their protection strategy and bureaucracy is their tactic of choice. They build bunkers of paperwork and jump inside. Paperwork creates an effective barrier spiritual, emotional and physical. Bureaucracy is their fortress. But I digress . . .
I've been negotiating the rental apartment for the last 3 weeks. Every few days they've asked for more paperwork - pay stubs for the last 2 months, checking and savings account statements, company financial statements for the last 2 years. I fully expected to receive a polite email request for a blood sample and a copy of my family tree. I have called on two native French speakers to plead my case more eloquently than I can and still the uncertainty drags on. Yesterday one of them emailed to let me know that they'd agreed to rent me the apartment if I paid all 6 months of rent upfront. I ran this by our CFO (one of many recent requests) and after an adequate period of venting, he conceded. I emailed the agent back and asked her to prepare the contract. My other French friend called me tonight to let me know that I'd misunderstood their offer. Yes, they wanted 6 months of rent upfront but they also required a security deposit equal to 6 months rent. There's a fancy word for this in French (applied only to the highest risk applicants) but in the US they call this an interest-free loan. I tried to explain this to the agent while she tried to explain with equal insistence just what a significant risk they would be taking in renting this apartment to me. As someone who once owned a rental property and has been on the wrong end of missed payments, theft and willful destruction of property, I tried my best to sympathize. Then I put my brain back on.
I started wondering if this was a case of discrimination. Could someone refuse to rent me an apartment simply because I am American? Is that even legal in France? Then I started to think bigger picture. Am I going to survive in this country for six months? Scratch that - I'm a survivor. More realistically, I wonder if the French stand a chance against my hot headed temper and willingness, make that eagerness, to fight the good fight?
The French are afraid of me because I'm American. America, a nation they have never liked although today they remain independent from Germany thanks to our heroics, a nation that they have determined to be going out of business in one fell swoop, to be sinking so quickly into the morass of our own greed and self-satisfaction that they expect to turn on the TV before the year is through and see bread lines forming on Madison Avenue. The *&$#ing French. The is the country I'm moving to in less than a week, the one so many Americans associate with romance, the home of Paris, a city so beautiful that even Hitler spared it. I have news for you about France.
France is the land of fear. There's a reason the French army surrendered at the Marginau line (twice) without so much as a pistol discharge. There's a reason France is not known for innovation. Who's your favorite French inventor? Which French entrepreneur do you most admire? Coming up dry? There's a reason for that. The French people who might otherwise put themselves to productive use are busy quaking in their boots and running for cover. Insulation is their protection strategy and bureaucracy is their tactic of choice. They build bunkers of paperwork and jump inside. Paperwork creates an effective barrier spiritual, emotional and physical. Bureaucracy is their fortress. But I digress . . .
I've been negotiating the rental apartment for the last 3 weeks. Every few days they've asked for more paperwork - pay stubs for the last 2 months, checking and savings account statements, company financial statements for the last 2 years. I fully expected to receive a polite email request for a blood sample and a copy of my family tree. I have called on two native French speakers to plead my case more eloquently than I can and still the uncertainty drags on. Yesterday one of them emailed to let me know that they'd agreed to rent me the apartment if I paid all 6 months of rent upfront. I ran this by our CFO (one of many recent requests) and after an adequate period of venting, he conceded. I emailed the agent back and asked her to prepare the contract. My other French friend called me tonight to let me know that I'd misunderstood their offer. Yes, they wanted 6 months of rent upfront but they also required a security deposit equal to 6 months rent. There's a fancy word for this in French (applied only to the highest risk applicants) but in the US they call this an interest-free loan. I tried to explain this to the agent while she tried to explain with equal insistence just what a significant risk they would be taking in renting this apartment to me. As someone who once owned a rental property and has been on the wrong end of missed payments, theft and willful destruction of property, I tried my best to sympathize. Then I put my brain back on.
I started wondering if this was a case of discrimination. Could someone refuse to rent me an apartment simply because I am American? Is that even legal in France? Then I started to think bigger picture. Am I going to survive in this country for six months? Scratch that - I'm a survivor. More realistically, I wonder if the French stand a chance against my hot headed temper and willingness, make that eagerness, to fight the good fight?
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Love is sweet
What is it about real estate transactions that makes me feel so alive? Maybe that it feels like falling in love, so replete with possibility. Buying or renting, it makes no difference. To me, it’s an opportunity to start over, to try something new, to wake up every morning to a different way of life.
This all sounds like a very hopeful beginning but I assure you, the apartment search in Paris didn’t begin that way. This story started where so many good ones do – on the internet. I’d scanned hundreds of listings and had identified a handful I wanted to see, those that fell both within the boundaries of my desired neighborhood (the Marais) and within my budget (the ultimate deciding factor in such a sought-after neighborhood). For those of you who don’t know the Marais, it’s charming little neighborhood contained from the hustle and bustle of so much of Paris. Victor Hugh, ironically, wrote Les Miserables while living in a large apartment overlooking the Place des Vosges, a picture perfect park, in the center of the Marais, bordered on all sides by identical, belle époque buildings. Today, the Marais is known for 2 things: gays and Orthodox Jews. I love that these two populations have chosen to share a neighborhood that consists of roughly four square blocks. Rainbow flags and Stars of David as far as the eye can see. But I digress . . .
I sent inquiries to the agents representing these properties and the phone started ringing off the hook. They wanted my business. Well, sort of. The first agent told me he couldn’t help me because with such a budget it really didn’t make sense to rent – I should buy. When I explained that my company would be paying the rent and really had no need for residential property in Paris, he agreed, begrudgingly, to help me. I haven’t heard from him since. The next agent said he would show me his apartment but if I didn’t end up signing the lease, for any reason, I would pay him 50 Euros for his trouble. For the first time in my adult life I wished I knew how to swear in French. There was the agent who clearly explained that I was to meet him in front of a property at 13:30 (1:30pm) then left me a voicemail at 1:15 to tell me he’d grown tired of waiting for me to show up and was throwing in the towel.
There was the agent who’d gushed about how perfect his apartment was for me – a 2 bedroom in the Marais, completely remodeled, within my price range, and available for the 6 month lease I sought. I’ve said it before but it bears repeating – if something seems too good to be true, it is. Without exception. Still, I went. I can’t say why. It was almost the worst apartment I’ve ever seen, a close second to the subterranean place I saw in New York when I moved there so many years ago. The only thing that made that NY apartment worse was the patio that was directly below a street grate. I imagined sitting there with a glass of wine, enjoying the evening as passers by dropped cigarette butts on me. Again, I digress . . . This was a corner unit, he’d made a big point of this on the phone. It was at the intersection of two alleys. Picture Chinatown alleys – chipping paint, constant streams of unidentifiable liquid pooling into puddles, laundry hung out windows to dry. Two bedrooms, yes - that I can’t deny. I tried to remember how I’d described to this man what I was looking for and how he might have misinterpreted that to mean this. Dark, dirty, noisy, chaotic, wretched – I don’t recall having used any of those words, in English or French, so I chalked it up to his mistake.
Then there was the last agent. I arrived at the place with low expectations. I’d been through the ringer. I overlooked the fact that he was twenty minutes late and made no apologies. After all, this street was perfect, exactly where I wanted to be. Two blocks from the Place des Vosges, walking distance to the action but a few blocks removed. Quiet, insulated, but close enough. The building stands behind a gate and a courtyard. It has an elevator. The unit has six huge windows, six or seven feet tall, and dramatic striped curtains framing each. The bathroom has been remodeled with a pedestal sink and wall to wall glass subway tile. It has more closets than I could possibly fill; new appliances and streamlined cabinetry in the kitchen. And above it, it just feels right. On the logical side, it’s all wrong. There is only a partial wall between the living room and bedroom, which will make hosting overnight guests more intimate than I’d anticipated. There is no second bedroom, something I had really hoped to find. There is no bonafide dining area – just a tall bar table and stools in the “kitchen,” which is really part of the living room. But I just felt good in there. It felt like home. In love and real estate you have to trust your instincts. Your head doesn’t know how to make you happy, it only knows how to make you rational, and rationality is too often at odds with happiness.
I took an application and will drop it off tomorrow. If they approve me, this will be my new home, at least for 6 months or so. The adventure is becoming real and I couldn't be happier.
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