Valued in Paris

One of the great things about living in another city is to be immersed in its rhythm and discovering how a new place infiltrates every aspect of your life. Last week marked my one-month anniversary in Paris (and it was appropriately celebrated with the arrival of all my furniture!). In just a month, I have started to notice that the things that I seek out and value in Paris (and what are sought by others) are different than the things that were highly coveted in New York.

New Yorkers often take the time to note that a place has "great outdoor space" or a dish that is "totally organic and only [X] calories." A Parisian would never think to note something so pedestrian. Every restaurant has outdoor space (for the smokers). Anything worth eating in France is totally organic. As for the low caloric content? It just means they need to add more butter.

So, what are the things that Parisians (or expats in Paris) look for? Here are some examples:

• Anything open after 8pm
• Anything open on Sunday
• Air conditioning (Fellow Parisians, this technology exists!)
• Any place with good service
• Proximity to a Monoprix (it's like a mix of Duane Reade and Whole Foods)
• A large and diverse marché (farmers' market)
• Thai food/Indian food/any food with spice
• Metro plans of one train transfer or less (okay, so this would be coveted in NYC as well)
• A view of the Eiffel Tower

Thus, it's not rare to hear, "It's a great restaurant -- and it's open on Sunday!" or "I actually found a good Thai restaurant!" By the way, I'm still looking for both, so if you know of one, please let me know!

An Honest Assessment

Recently, in a French discussion with a local, I mentioned my observation of the strong rapport I had seen between the French and the Italians. He responded as follows:

"Yes, that is very true. The French and the Italians have a strong relationship. Not so much with the Spanish. The Spanish are, I don't know, sombre and heavy. There is always a heaviness, a gravitas, about them. [He made a frowny face.] They are so.... sombre.

The Italians, like the French, have a sense of lightness and joie de vivre. The difference between them is that, although there is lightness with the Italians, they still take their work very seriously. They are great craftsmen and concentrate on every detail. Not so much with the French."

A longer post coming soon...

A "Romance" Language

French, along with Spanish, Italian and Portuguese (among others), is known as a "romance" language because it traces to its origins to Latin, the language of the Romans. Of course, French also has the reputation for being the language of romance. Thus, French is both a "romance" language and a "romantic" language. These cultural points were not lost on me when I started my journey into the French language more than half a life ago. And despite years of toiling with subjonctif vs. infinitif or masculin vs. feminin or de vs. à vs. nothing at all, the language somehow retained its romance -- spoken always in hushed whispers and never with an open jaw.

Until I moved to Paris. Living among the French has successfully excised any romance that had existed despite years of graded exams and disapproving French teachers with a belief in corporal punishment. Through the daily interactions and mis-interactions of life, the language has become, at best, quotidien, and at worse, a source of stress. A language somehow loses its sex appeal when:

• it is the language I struggle through as I try to explain to the sales people at the store that, in fact, the internet is not connected and neither is the television.

• it is the language used by the hag at the boulangerie to scream at me because I mistook a 50 centimes piece for a 1 Euro piece.

• it is the language that the salesperson at the electronics store uses to tell me that he can't refund the 40 Euros for the warranty that I never asked for simply because of the incontestable reason that "it's already done."

• it is the language used to dub over such American gems as the Simpsons, Family Guy, and South Park (you decide whether I'm being ironic here).

• it is the language you use to conduct banking -- is there anything less romantic?

• it is the language that you use to apologize and excuse yourself constantly

• it is the language used to tell you "no" in a thousand different ways in a thousand different places every day

• it is the language used on every French form to describe every French form you need but don't have

• it is a language that accompanies a body language of sighs, puffs, rolling eyes, shrugged shoulders, crossed arms, and raised eyebrows that are just as incomprehensible as the language itself

I am still in love in Paris -- and waiting for it to fall in love with me -- but I'm afraid that my romance with the French language is gone for good.

The Apartment

Last Saturday, I signed the lease for an apartment. While in most cities, including New York, this event would not warrant any fanfare, everyone in Paris to whom I reported this fact has exclaimed, "Congratulations!" In Paris, you see, getting an apartment does not merely indicate that you are able to afford an apartment, but also that someone (i.e., a Parisian) has adjudged you worthy to live in theirs.

The beginning of the end of my search began on Friday afternoon at 1pm as a small crowd gathered in front of an immeuble ancien (i.e., old building, which is more desirable) in the 15th arrondissement to see a one bedroom apartment. Nothing in the ad had suggested anything out of the ordinary: one bedroom, one living room, one kitchen, one bathroom, and there weren't even pictures. I knew before I even entered the apartment, however, that if I could imagine living there, I had to put in my dossier or it would be gone.

After the broker showed up, a contingent of us climbed the stairs to the second floor and searched for the apartment "on the right hand side to the left side of the elevator." (Apartments in Paris do not have apartment numbers and are designated by their position in relation to the staircase.) We entered the apartment and it was in most respects, well, typique:

• Double vitrage French windows, so the movers could fit my things through the window
• Shutters, so I could keep out the light while leaving the windows open during the hot summers
• A kitchen that fit more than one person
• A bathroom I could actually walk into
• And, the pièce de la résistance, MOULURES (French moldings)

In other words, I had to get it, and I had to move fast. My relocation expert handed over my dossier to the broker and began explaining the "eccentricities" in my file. Upon seeing my passport, the broker asked, "So... is he American? Or Malaysian?"

"I am completely American," I interjected. It seemed like everyone (including the occupants' dog) was looking at me skeptically. "I grew up in San Francisco and worked in New York as an attorney," I explained.

The broker nodded knowingly. "So you were just born in Malaysia..."

"Yes," I answered, setting aside my complex multiculturalism in the hopes of getting the apartment.

"And you worked at a firm in New York?" he asked, flipping through my file.

"Yes, in fact, an international law firm with a branch office in Paris right on the Champs Élysées," I shot back.

He nodded again, figuring out his next move. "And now you work in Paris?"

"Yes, as an attorney," I said matter-of-factly.

My relocation expert could not decide whether she believed half of what I said. The broker seemed satisfied, for the moment. "Very well, we will let you know. Should be tonight or tomorrow morning."

We showed ourselves out. Upon exiting the building, my relocation expert observed, "See how differently the French treat you when you're in a suit and tie!" That was not what I took away from that interaction, but I'm sure it didn't hurt.

Around 11pm that evening, while processing several bottles of wine and frites, I received the following text message (translated from French): "Sir, you have been chosen for the apartment on [address omitted]. Please come to my office at 11:45 am tomorrow morning [Saturday] to sign the lease. Bring your checks." I was ecstatic -- my new friends and I ordered a round of drinks to celebrate.

The next day, I showed up at the broker's office, checks in hand. He spent the next two hours discussing all manner of French culture, my personal history, and his love of Asian culture and language. He asked, for instance, how I ended up with a French name -- "Clément." When I mentioned that the etymology of my "French" name was connected to the specific dialect of my family, he proceeded to discuss his admittedly extensive knowledge of Chinese history. At the end of the lease signing, he explained the following to me:

"You should understand that, for foreigners, usually we require a security deposit equal to 6 times the monthly rent. There are three reasons that I am not requiring such a security deposit in this case: (1) I have had excellent experiences with people from Malaysia and Singapore, (2) your represented by a respected relocation expert, and (3) I am interested in economics and you work for an organization that studies economics."

Then, he gave me a bottle of wine.

* * * *

At the end of the day, did it bother me that two of the three reasons he gave were actually based on false premises? Or, did it bother me that I had betrayed my self-assured multiculturalism only to have my protestations of Americanism ignored anyways? What about the fact that I wasn't crazy about the apartment anyways?

Hey, we all do what we have to do to get an apartment in Paris.