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.

Unforseen Paris

I arrived in Paris yesterday and have been delighted by so many things. They've modernized food since I was here ten years ago and there are little lunch spots and bistros and take-away places that closely resemble the food back home. A truly intrepid traveler would be disappointed by this clear sign of globalization but to me, a weary business traveler missing her comfortable home, her friends, her dog, it's heaven on earth. I've been surprised, startled even, by the volume and quality of French that has sprung from some dormant pocket of my brain over the last 24 hours. Words I cannot remember ever learning are now, suddenly and without warning, part of my lexicon. I can conjugate irregular verbs with the best of them. The French have been incredibly gracious and complimentary about this but no one is more surprised than I. My colleagues are delightful, for the first time in my life I have my own office, and it looks out over a little cobblestone courtyard and onto the street beyond, a street that bustles with shops and restaurants and wine bars. As they say over here, je suis bien situee dans un coin tres agreeable (I'm settled into a very nice corner of the world). I feel none of the loneliness I felt during my last stay in Paris. I'm not afraid to try my French, even when I stumble. I don't look away when addressed by strangers on the street - I look them in the eye, smile, and give them my best bonjour. My last long-term stay in Paris was marked by an undercurrent of insecurity and vulnerability and I was consistently afraid to open my mouth for fear I would reveal my foreigness. But a lot has changed. For starters, Obama's imminent presidency gives me more leeway. I have more work experience under my belt and occupy a role I feel comfortable in and confident about. I'm all grown up and it's a far better life.

On the downside, Paris has proven even more dangerous than London. This morning I sustained my first injury of the trip and it's a doozy. It happened as I was rushing to get ready and meet colleagues for breakfast before an important sales meeting with a prospective customer. Not only was the meeting important to Guidewire, it was important to me personally. My first sales meeting in a foreign country, my first sales meeting conducted in French, my first sales meeting with our head of international sales and CTO. I arrived late to breakfast and tried to conceal my injury but our CTO is a pretty savvy guy and realized immediately that something was amiss. "You look different" he probed. Long ago I lost the energy to make up stories to mask my own foibles so came out with it. "I'm missing the eyelashes on my left eye." "Sure enough, you are. How the hell did that happen?" I really wished there had been a woman at the table. John and Ian watched me expectantly. "I had a little accident this morning. I was using my eyelash curler in the bathroom and my elbow was resting on a towel on the counter and the towel slipped out and I went careening into the shower" (I may have dressed it up a bit but that's the crux of the story). Who knew that an eyelash curler can double as such an effective hair removal device? I guess I had one hell of a grip on that little device because 90% of the eyelashes on my upper lid were removed, cleanly from the root, and now covered the rubber lip of the lash curler. It took a few seconds to register, a few more to assess the damage, and a full minute to determine a cover-up strategy. In the end I decided to continue with mascara application and double up on eyeliner to create the illusion of lashes. Ian and John were most concerned with the pain of yanking nearly all of one's lashes out in one fell swoop (not that painful, as it turns out) but I was far more concerned with the nakedness of my left eye. It's an incredibly bizarre feeling and if they ever grow back, I swear I will never again take them for granted. Oh beautiful lashes that protect my eyes from airborne debris, that serve as the perfect vehicle for showcasing mascara, I love you little lashes - every last hair of you. Now hurry back. Please hurry back.

The sales meeting went well and I'm back in the office enjoying takeout couscous with vegetables. No sign of lash regrowth but I'll report back tomorrow. Please keep your fingers crossed for me.

Jungle Curry

Last night I wrapped up a week and a half in London with one last Thai dinner (I have eaten Thai at least once a day every day since I arrived in the UK) and a concert at the Shephard’s Bush Hall. I had been invited out by a friend of a friend I’d met on Sunday, a lovely American guy named Kevin. We met up at the Shepherd’s Bush tube station (recently renovated to within an inch of its life and practically glistening with newness) then walked down the street for a quick bite at a reliable little Thai place Kevin knew. Kevin’s been living in London a few years so I picked his brain about the place – what it’s like for an American to live here, how cold it gets in the winter, how long it takes to get to Italy from Heathrow . . . Turns out it’s pretty easy for an American to live here, sometimes the winters get so cold that it snows in central London, and you can be in Italy inside of two hours if the tailwind’s in your favor. Right-o.

The Thai place was unassuming and poorly decorated – just the way I like ‘em. The menu was full of little treasures I’d never heard of and I was eager to try something new. I’d already discovered the many varieties of Thai eggplant (some that look and taste remarkably similar to limes, others that look like oversized green peppercorns with the same little kick) but I wanted to go further afield. I asked about a few things on the menu then noticed the “Jungle Curry.” I love that ethnic restaurants often describe ten or twenty dishes identically. Jungle Curry, like most of the other chicken dishes on the menu, is chicken and mixed vegetables in a spicy sauce with chiles and basil. The one kicker – the waiter told me it was really spicy. Hot. He would say this then fan his mouth with his hand. “I don’t want to scare you” he said “it’s just really hot. You will see the stars.” I wasn’t really sure what that meant but it sounded so much like that a dare that I simply couldn’t back down. Bring on the Jungle Curry I said.

The curry showed up and I gingerly scooped a small portion onto a large mound of rice. I was careful not to take too much of the sauce, fearing this is where the real heat was stored. A few bites in I was fine, laughing at the silly waiter for warning me so urgently against such a lovely little dish. Did I mention that the waiter stood next to me while I ate? For a good five minutes. At first I was reassured by this, thinking he was positioning himself to call an ambulance should I not survive the Jungle Curry. But when the curry failed to pack a punch, he was truly disappointed, crestfallen. I felt kind of sorry for him as he ambled back to the kitchen, presumably to have some terse words with the sloppy chef who obviously forgot the key ingredient, the one that knocks uniformed American girls out of their chairs at the mere sight of Jungle Curry.

After he was gone, for reasons I cannot describe, the full flavor of the dish suddenly opened up. It opened up and bit me. Sweat appeared on my brow, my lips began to burn, and the back of my throat began to swell. I downed what was left of my wine but it did little good. I ate some rice, also to no avail. A few minutes went by and it kept getting worse. I was desperate for relief, so desperate that I dug back into it. Fight fire with fire, I reasoned. I ate voraciously and in a few minutes the burn subsided. I was restored to my natural state. I finished the rest of the curry with a smile on my face. I'm not sure if my mouth simply went numb or my body adapted to it or if all the heat was in the middle. These mysteries are far too vaguefor me to contemplate. I do know that when the waiter came back and found me smiling with a bite of curry in my mouth he was shocked. And congratulatory. He told me that he'd never seen anyone finish a plate of Jungle Curry. That if I could survive that I could eat anything on the menu and could probably do many things I hadn't even dreamt of.

On the walk to the concert Kevin told me he thought I should have been awarded a certificate, given a tee-shirt, had my signed photo posted on the wall. I concurred. I was robbed. Thankfully, I didn't have much time to labor the point as the concert was getting underway. Some crazy band from Austin - Okkervil River. They were indescribable. Beatles meets Mamas and Papas meets Coldplay. They were cool and Kevin was cool and London was cool and I just sat there enjoying the show and turning the waiter's words over in my mind like a prophecy. I wonder what else I can do? I hope I have the chance to find out.

The many perils of life in London

I've been in London for just a few days and already I'm running scared. It's not the kind of place that seems dangerous on the surface - not the neighborhoods I'm frequenting. In fact, on the surface it seems pretty cosmopolitan, rich and reserved. But there are serious dangers lurking beneath this veneer of civility and all you have to do is read the signs in your hotel room or ride the tube to expose them. Case in point. I've stayed in many hotels in many cities around the world and other than a stray papercut here and there, I can honestly say I have never sustained a serious injury at the hand of my hotel. However, this hotel has a heated towel rack and the sign above it that warns "caution: hot towel rack can cause serious burns and other damage" has me taking note. I'm fairly certain I'm safe from this peril since I have never figured out how to turn a towel rack on. Thank goodness for my ineptitude - I may not have lasted this long without it.

The tube is another story. How many underground trains in how many countries have I successfully navigated? Enough to be caught off guard by the looping recording of "mind the gap" that drones on in most stations as you wait for the train to arrive. Is this a warning against hurling myself onto the tracks in front of an oncoming train? Surely every one of us knows that this would result in serious injury or death. Is this a warning against slipping and inadvertently wedging a foot between the edge of the platform and the train? This seemed more likely but after due consideration I decided that it would take considerable effort to achieve this kind of wedging. It would require assistance from one or more parties. It can't happen often. But clearly there's a reason for the warning, something that makes this underground train system more perilous than all others, some lurking danger just waiting for an unsuspecting victim. Still, I think the British transit authority should take the opportunity to warn people of real dangers. "Lack of proper dental care will result in loss of teeth."