Bienvenue chez moi

Daytime was ending in a suburb northwest of Paris. 

It's a small town by the river. 

A town where nearly everyone is an immigrant. 

A town with precisely three claims to fame (that I know of). 

1. The nearby river, an old muse for France's impressionist artists of the 20th century
2. An old Catholic church
3. A bakery that, according to the Parisien magazine, won the award for the best Galette de Rois (king's cake) in all of Île de France (Paris region). 

In this town, if you take the H train — which I do almost every day — you're approximately 37 minutes from north Paris. 

This town, for the past 8-odd months, was my home. 

It's called Saint-Ouen L'Aumône. I've since learned how to pronounce it, and advise you it's phonetically pronounced like "Saun twahn low mone." 

I lived on the 12th floor of an apartment right by the train station. It's what they call in France a "colocation." That's because four other people live at the apartment. None of us come from the same country. 

Represented:  The U.S., Gambia, Algeria, France and Guadeloupe ( well, technically Guadeloupe is owned by France). 

My room was tiny, but it had a nice view from the window. The living room looked like a comfortable place to sit. I wouldn't know. I'm never home. If anything, I should have been paying rent to France train authorities. I probably spent more time on the train to Paris than at my place.

It's a 2-minute walk from my apartment to the train station. I, of course, always took this for granted. That means minutes before the Paris train arrives I'm running out of the apartment. 

My suspicion is that if there was a surveillance camera on the city streets, you would find me, once a day, weave blowing in the wind, sprinting toward the train station, a bulky gray purse slung over one shoulder. On the way to Paris.

And yet, there are a few things I can tell you about my town.

Right below my apartment is the tiny express grocery store and the bakery. Just about every employee at the bakery always has an attitude, but my craving for French pastries usually trumps my distaste for 30 seconds of unpleasant social interaction.

Here, I tried one of my favorites for the first time: pain au chocolat aux amandes. Basically a croissant with chocolate and almond paste.

When I look out the balcony from my place, I can see the little town square.

There's a farmer's market there on Wednesdays and Sundays.

Tiny little Armistice Day parade in St-Ouen L'Aumône. You can see the farmers' market in the left corner.

Walking down the main city street, there's a collection of fast-food restaurants, mainly kebab.

What is kebab, you might ask? Oh no, my American friends, I am not referring to shish kebab. My West  Coast Friends, think of kebab as the late night burrito of Europe. My East Coast friends, it is the pizza by-the-slice of the EU.

Picture a sandwich, chicken seasoned with God knows what marvellous spices, lettuce, tomato and a creamy sauce of your choice. If you want something spicy, go for Samaurai. I think the best sauce is Algerienne, the sweeter option.

There's a kebab place right by my house. They go skanty on the fries, but it's hard to go wrong with kebab. It slaps.

By the end of the main street, past all the different banks along the road, you reach the bridge. On the other side of the bridge lies Pontoise, the nicer, bigger, demographically different city.

It's called Pontoise because "pont" means bridge in France. And the river that the bridge crosses is called the Oise.

Sometimes, on a nice slow day, I like to stroll along the Oise river, listening to music. Most days I was a ghost. Running out of the door. You're always in a rush, one roommate would say. I'd say "yeah, see ya!" or "à plus!" depending on my mood. 

I'd come home on the last train or the night bus.

All that said, I still have a few nice memories of my apartment in the tiny town by the river.

There was that one time we had an impromptu rap concert from one of the roommates. Another time, we gathered around the TV to watch "Coming to America."

Perhaps a favorite memory was when one of my old roommates took me to the countryside so I could see her horse. I still remember his name. Arco.

You see, horses aren't as gentle as you might think. When Arco was the new horse at the stable,  the other ones beat him up, my roommate told me, for no reason other than he was the new guy. After a period of getting bruises, Arco finally passed the hazing period.

Life in the meadow, in the countryside, was at last calm for him. 

I guess I understand Arco, to an extent. These last few months in France have been wonderful. Still, there were moments where I was hit by intangible blows and bruises, all because I was new. I hadn't broken into the stable yet. 

But by the time I left France, it had become my home. The cheesy, cliché is true. Home is where the heart is, and my heart is still in France. I had fallen in love with Paris. Hard. 

So hard I'd sprint up stairs on my bum knee to catch the train there. So hard I became all but an immigration attorney as I tried to learn how an American can obtain a long stay work visa. 

So hard that when the Notre Dame was burning, my friend and I rushed to the site of the disaster, just to see it with our own eyes. 

I'm home, chez moi, for the summer. Home, this time, means Florida. For the summer means just for the summer.

In the fall, I'll be heading back to France to work for another school year. This time I won't be quite so new. I know what I want this time around. This time, I'll put the work in. And do it with a purpose. 

In Amsterdam

There were several windmills on the way to Amsterdam. I'd watch them out the window, not fascinated but interested. I'd never seen so many before. We were a small group of teaching assistants taking a bus from Paris to the Netherlands. It was the end of October.

A cheap, 7-hour bus ride. A cheap, 6 bedroom hostel. Shortly after we arrived, it was off to the first coffee shop. Barney's. A tiny, relaxed locale where locals and tourists alike casually smoked joints. 

Next, we went to a bar. It was called Wonder Bar. The place is just over a five-minute walk from the Amsterdam Centraal Station. The fluorescent lights and bright decor belied the chill, relaxed atmosphere of the place.  

I try to make a point of eating the local cuisine when I go to a new country: I ordered a gouda cheese sandwich and bitterballen, a type of Dutch meatball that's kinda gooey inside. I washed it all down with a Heineken, of course, the national — albeit overrated — beverage of the Netherlands.

We took a stroll along the redlight district that night. For the most part, we found it uncomfortable and exploitative. Rumor is some of the employees may have been trafficked.

We wandered around the city, a city packed with tourists even on a Monday evening in October.

That might have been the night a tipsy British woman handed us out free cans of Heineken on the city streets. I took one back to the hostel, where they also had Heineiken in the vending machines. The long bus ride had warn us out. We went to bed, our minds set on what we would do the next day.    

The hostel was clean enough, and breakfast the next day was free. Nothing other than milk, cereal and slices of bread, but that did the trick. 

The next morning, we toured downtown.  There were beautiful bridges above the canals.

At times, the sky was grey overhead, but the water sparkled still. At Dam Sqaure, the picturesque town plaza, a beautiful recording of Vivaldi's "Winter" blared through the speakers. Or so I thought. 

Dam Square 

I turned around and saw a small group of string players playing with the warmth and depth of sound of an orchestra. We continued to walk thought the city streets, a city wear bikes have more say than cars. Keep an eye out for them, they're everywhere and you could get hit. 

That day was the culinary highlight of the trip for me. We went to the Happy Pig Pancake Shop, where we ordered mini puff pancakes filled with gouda cheese and fig jelly. I enthusiastically recommend this place anytime Amsterdam is brought up.

If that was the highlight, the low point would be that we didn't get to visit the Anne Frank house. A warning: book months in advance...


Later that night, we went on one of the water boat criuses. I recommend doing it during the day so you can actually see the sights. I struggled in vain to snap a few photos through a murky window.

boat "sightseeing" tour 

And now the last highlight I'll mention is the Van Gogh museum.

Do visit it, if you every find yourself in Holland. It has a very nice collection of his paintings, if that's your kind of thing.

If your kind of thing is wandering around buildings looking at art, taking a moment to discover something different, then deciding it's beautiful and unique and there's nothing like it.

As my teaching assignment comes to an end, my time in Europe could be described a bit like that sentence above. I've seen amazing places, met a few special people, and enjoyed the culinary delights of the region on the days I decided to treat myself to something other than rushed bites of poor girl pasta.

I made Europe my museum. I wandered around a bit, discovered a few things here and there. And it was all very beautiful. And very unique.

There's nothing like it.

For the love of vin

It started five years ago.

The classic love story. We'd been acquainted for as long as I can remember. Then, when I first came to France in the summer of 2013, I saw our relationship in a new light. 

My amour was rich. Full-bodied. And way older than I was. 

It was, of course, the perfect glass of red wine. 

You have to realize, I was a year shy of the U.S. drinking age that summer, and even so, the college pallet consists of beer so-watered down you could probably water plants with it. 

My relationship with wine had been much different before then. I grew up drinking it every week — stiff, ceremonial sips from a glinty communion chalice on Sunday mornings. 

Needless to say, the fermented grapes of France opened up a whole new world. It was like your cliché American high school film. Wine had taken off its glasses, removed its braces and was suddenly, like, really hot.

And that was it. We'd been on again off again ever since. I'll admit, as craft beer took off in the U.S., I strayed. But now that I'm back in France, I tried to rekindle things this year. It started in the fall. 

This was a few months ago, at the end of October. We'd just gotten our first of many vacations (Vive la France education system) and I was searching for something cool to do in Paris. So I rounded up me and a few other teaching assistant friends for a wine tasting. 

Dégustation du vin, the French call it. 

The wine tasting was in the First Arrondissement, in the center of Paris. This time, I fell in love with the streets. Any local would say I'm in the shittiest part of town, but you know what? I'm not afraid to like basic things. I love listening to Drake, too. 

One of our friends were running late, so we stopped at a café to kill time. 

La Taverne de L'Arbre Sec. I remembered the name because I decided I'd take my friends there when they visit. It was nice and simple. 

We sat at a small table near the bar. I ordered a vin chaud. 

Yes, I was the only one in the group to pre-game a wine tasting with more wine. But my oh my. It was something. You see, many French specialities come in seasons. Vin chaud, or mulled wine, is usually only available in the cold months. So this was one of the places that already had it on the menu. It was the first I tasted of the season and now, months later, I can confirm it was the best I had. 

Vin chaud à la canelle. It comes in a clear glass mug, with sugar packets on the side and a cinnamon stick in the glass. I savoured it. 

At the café, we talked about our teaching jobs and our plans for the rest of the vacation, and soon, it was time to leave. In virtually every French establishment, bathrooms or "WCs" are in the basement. As we walked downstairs to find one, we learned why the café was called a tavern. The basement was an even cooler area, with all the lighting, ambiance and atmosphere you'd expect to find on a nice first date. 

And because I often forget to take pictures in the moment (and usually can't be bothered), you will be left to imagine what it looked like.

So finally, we went to the wine tasting. It was at Les Caves du Louvre. Story goes, it used to be a "royal wine cellar," established by the sommelier of King Louis XV (for my American friends, he was the last guy before they brought out the guillotines). 

Like all really old French things, it was renovated for both capitalist and cultural gain, now touted as an attraction for tourists. This time, I did take photos.

Nowadays, the old Parisian wine center is a far cry from the advent of the French Revolution. You could download an app to guide you through the tour. We all did, and it was wholly confusing so we just wandered through without a guide. 

Did you know an automated wine filling line can produce between 500 and 15,000 bottles an hour? I took a picture of some random sign at the wine tasting with that information, but the math seems off. Why does it vary literally more than 10,000 bottles? 

The sign on bottle output. 

Apparently, corks are made from cork oak trees. Every nine years, you can strip the bark to make corks. 

This sign explains the aging process. Once wine is fermented, it can age anywhere from 3 to 36 months. I learned all this in October and promptly forgot until I found these pictures on my phone. 

Soon, we got to the best part. The actual tasting. A very kind sommelier guided us through a tasting of three wines. 

First was a dry white wine — a Sauvignon Blanc from Val de Loire. It's fresh, the freshness derived from the limestone soil the vines grow in. 

The next wine, also from Val de Loire, was the Côte-roannaise. The sommelier says you're supposed to drink it in the summertime, although we were tasting it in the fall. It's usually paired with fish, and it has a "stoneish" aroma, which also reduces the level of acidity. I actually don't care about any of the sommelier talk and just like drinking wine, but I'm giving a nice little intro for anyone who's curious. 

Last but not least was a wine from the Languedcoc region in the south of France. The wine was called JMF, and it was from 2016. I think this might have been my favorite. This wine, according to the sommelier, was richer and stronger. It was aged in an oak barrel for six months. 

90 percent Cabernet Sauvignon. 10 percent Pinot Noir. 

Cabernet Sauvignon, which comes from Bordeaux, is strong. Pinot Noir, which hales from Burgundy, is light.

An illegible map with wine corresponding to France's regions

JMF — I need to find a bottle of this stuff

We left the caves, and, back out into the light of day, we were all hungry. Someone in the group suggested McDonald's and I silently fumed. No, no, no. I would not be that American who traveled all the way across the Atlantic Ocean to eat shitty American food in a culinary mecca like Paris. 

So we ended up at McDonald's. 

I told myself I wouldn't buy anything, but then I thought about it again. I thought about one of my favorite scenes from "Pulp Fiction," and I thought about the title of the first blog I ever made about France. Then I ordered a sandwich. 

"You know what they call a quarter pounder with cheese in Paris?"

Now that I think about it, I haven't had much wine since that tasting. Nowadays when I go out, my friends and I are so broke we look for the cheapest beer on the menu and just go with that.  And now that I inspect the situation further, I guess, if I really loved wine as much as I said I did I would make more of an effort to drink it. But maybe I like it so much, I'm trying not to overdo it.  

It's like that line from my favorite book of short stories. 

"If you love something, let it go. If you don't love something definitely let it go. Basically, drop everything, who cares." 

Mr. Coates in Paris

October continued. I went around the city nonstop. There was always something to see. Something to do. It was a month of exploration and curiosity.

One of my roommates lent me a copy of "Between the World and Me." By Ta-Nehisi Coates. I still haven't finished it, months later. I savor books, dissecting every word, every sentence, every paragraph for the precise meaning, on a quest to know the exact intention of the words, to learn all I can. 

It's like taking the time to get to know a new friend. Being patient to try to understand someone who might not be...well...an open book. 

The words would hit me. I'd have to stop while reading and marvel at them. When he wrote that race is the child, not the father, of racism, I had to take a step back. Take a step back and think about everything I thought I knew, and then realize everything that actually is. 

I'd gather myself, and start reading again. A week or two later, I heard Mr. Coates would be doing a Q-and-A in Paris, at Musée du quai Branly. What are the odds? I wanted to go. 

I kept reading the book, thinking in vain I would finish it before his talk. One day I sat on the couch reading "Between the World and Me" in the living room. I stopped at page 26. 

"I remember sitting in my seventh-grade French class and not having any idea why I was there. I did not know any French people, and nothing around me suggested I ever would. France was a rock rotating in another galaxy around another sun in another sky that I would not cross. Why, precisely, was I sitting in this classroom?" 

This was a section where he criticized the school system. A school system that, admittedly, was not the factor that ultimately led him to France. And still, the irony was too much. I could barely process it all.

I ended up going to see Mr. Coates speak. It was October 14. I don't remember much, but there was one thing he said that I wrote down. One thing I wanted to make sure I remembered. 

"If you're going to write. Write true. You have to write from the perspective you came up in." 

He signed book copies and talked to attendees after. There was a long line. I had a question to ask him, and had told my roommate I'd try to get the copy of "Between the World and Me" signed. 

The museum closed before I even neared the front of the line. I went back home, only slightly disappointed.

But I had learned one thing that night. That was enough, I think. 

Two fleeting weeks

Now time blends and swirls together, and I struggle to remember what happened at the beginning of October. I look at my notes.

I took notes whenever something "of note" happened. 

On Oct. 2., a Tuesday., I left my bag on a train. I was coming from orientation, where me and the other English language assistants in my zip code learned the ins and outs of our assignments. (Actually, I was coming from the bar we all went to afterward). It was a purple laptop bag I lost. My laptop wasn't inside. Instead, it was filled with copies of important documents, except one original document that I later found was easier to replace than I expected. Life was not over. But I learned my lesson. 

On a Sunday in October, I heard church bells ringing from my room. I'm a short walk away from the Église Saint-Ouen — an old Catholic church famous for something. You can always find an old Catholic church here famous for something. I remember checking my phone to see what time it was. 10:20. I wondered why the bells wouldn't ring on the hour. It was a foggy, overcast day, and it looked like it had just rained. New friends who I would later lose touch with were already in Paris at Centre Georges Pompidou — museums are free the first Sunday of every month. 

I knew I wouldn't get out of bed early enough to meet them. 

On a Friday night in October — it was Oct. 9, actually — I checked out bars in Paris, the Ninth Arrondissement, with other assistants.  One was called La Comète, on Rue Fauborg Monmartre. I ordered a drink called the AK 47. But when you order, you have to ask for an "ah kah quarante sept."

It was so good I took a picture: Zubrówka, mango, and passion fruit. 

The other bar is called Syphax. It's cheap, and I got a great lime drink called a Caïpirinha. There were bright read tables and black chairs. We sat outside, and, at a nearby table, a man sitting with his friends smoked a cigarette. He politely turned away from his friends when he had to blow out the smoke, blowing it in my direction instead. I remember hearing French trap music coming from the speakers. 

A day later, I went out for "Nuit Blanche," a hyped up night of illuminated art installations around Paris. We actually ended up not really seeing anything, ending the night sitting along the Seine instead. Still, I snapped a few pics though. 

   

       

Some time during these two weeks, I learned euphemisms for curse words. 

In English, it's shoot instead of shit. But in French, it's merrrrcredi (Wednesday) instead of merde (shit).

"Danneuse" is like saying dang instead of damn.

I spend my weekends in Paris. The next weekend, I believe, a group of us were out again, hopping from place to place. We decided we'd try to check out a gay bar, Le Raidd. 

It's in the popular Marais neighborhood. 

The same people who decided Brooklyn was the place to be in New York and the Mission District was the cool part of San Francisco decided the Marais is the new hip neighborhood of Paris. 

The bouncer wouldn't let us in. 

"Trop de filles," he said. Too many girls.  

I live so far away, if I stay out past 12:20, I can't take trains back. Instead, I hop on a night bus I can catch from Saint Lazare. 

That night, I took the night bus back home. Right before the second bus stop in the commune of Pierrelaye, a guy in a red hoodie started falling asleep on the shoulder of the man next to him.  My headphones were in, but, judging by the gestures, it looked like the man offered to switch seats so the sleepy hoodie guy could lean on the window instead. It was 3 a.m.

The hoodie guy declined. Within a few minutes, he was sleeping on the man's shoulder again. Some girls across from him giggled. 

I thought it was sweet. 

Now, looking back, I think of all the strangers' shoulders I've leaned on since arriving. People who might have helped me out, in ways large and small. 

The proprietor's daughter, who brought me the chocolate cake. 

The family friend, who offered me her home when I didn't have one. 

The stranger I haven't met yet, who will help me some time soon. 

It's February, now, as I reflect on all of this. I'm already trying to prepare for the months ahead. My next steps. 

It's winter, but I'm thinking about the summer. And I'm writing about fall. 

My mind split between present, future and past.  

All at once

The next day, the day after I saw Paris again, I was certain I would leave the town of Herblay.

The cold, the dirt, the lack of adequate public transportation. I took a step back and thought about why I'd come to France. To live in a basement in the middle of the woods?

I had just gotten in touch with a family friend, someone who is proof angels exist. She has treated me better than people I've known for years. Friday night She picked me up and I stayed with her in the city of Argenteuil, a bigger town closer to Paris, closer to the train. For the first time since I arrived, I slept somewhere clean and somewhere warm.

I hadn't started work yet, so I had a few more days to look for housing. It was stressful to say the least. It seemed at the time like everything took so long, but my life changed drastically within days. Six days living in Herblay, Two days staying with a family friend in Argenteuil.

In the middle of this transition, I got to visit one of the schools I was working at for the first time. It went well. Things were looking up.

I hate to impose, so I was searching like crazy. Housing Facebook groups. All the online housing sites. leboncoin, lacartedescolocs, appartager.

And suddenly — like my least favorite Drake album — nothing was the same.

But in a good way.

The last place I looked at — an apartment in Saint-Ouen L'Aumône, worked out. I moved in on a Sunday, I remember because directly afterward I hopped on a train. Back to Paris. This time, I headed out to a picnic for all of the other language assistants doing my program.

There, the tribes were formed. Young 20 and 30 something expats, all new to Paris, all trying to make friends before it was too late. Winter was coming, which meant you had to form your social circle before it got so cold no one wanted to go outside.

I hopped from one circle of talking adolescents to the other. I say adolescents because none of us seemed mature just yet, almost like we were all back in college, forming cliques. I ended up going off with a group who tried to find a good Mexican restaurant in Paris.

I ordered a drink while a few of them tried to convince themselves the tacos were not too bad for France. As the night went on, the group thinned out. Soon, four of us found ourselves at a random bar somewhere in Paris.

We got drinks and we all just talked. Edith Piaf played over the speakers. My favorite. A tipsy older man approached our table and I started to sing along to the song.

I can't remember what he said now, I think it might have been some variation of, "Oh shit."

It felt good to sing in public.

At the time, I thought that was one of my best nights in Paris, something I'd hardly forget. Now, I can't nearly recall it as well as I used to. It was the first of many moments I would have in that city.

I took the train back home. Just a week earlier, I was in a basement. Now, in the elevator, I ascended to the 12th floor.

It's been more than four months since then. But now, in Saint-Ouen L'Aumône, the 12th floor is starting to feel like the ground floor.

I'm trying to go higher still.

To see Paris again

The first time I saw Paris, it was July 2013, and I had just turned 20 a few months earlier. I was still very much an impressionable college student. Barely customed to going through customs. You ain't been nowhere, huh? 

Since then, whenever anyone asked me about my time abroad, the same phrase would come to mind. C'était comme un rêve. It was like a dream. 

Like a dream, maybe I couldn't exactly recall everything. Because when I got back to France this time around, it seemed as though I didn't remember how special Paris was to me. I knew it was there. I would get to it. Eventually. 

My first few days in France, I didn't set foot in Paris, even though I was so close. 

Those days had been taxing. I had tunnel vision. Find housing, contact my schools, clean, clean, clean that dank and dusty basement house. Try not to get hypothermia.

That first night, I was not shaking with excitement like I initially thought. I was cold. So, so, so, so cold. I recalled one of the few science facts I know: warm air rises. I was in a basement. 

The next few nights, I slept with two socks on. I didn't have a thick blanket, yet. The pillow that was already at the house looked so gross I balled up my clothing to try to use as a pillow instead. The pillow lobby will be glad to know that doesn't work. Buy pillows. 

The days had drained me: Getting lost in the woods. Scrubbing unidentified brown sludge off a toilet. Using a vacuum to emancipate a kitchen cabinet from its giant spider overlords. 

If I really was going through a tunnel that first week, perhaps a trip to Paris was the light at the end of it. That Thursday, my roommate and I made the journey there. We took the bus,*** then the train, then transferred to another train, and soon we were at Châtelet — Les Halles.

It was my sixth day in France — five years after my first visit — and I was back. 

To see Paris again. 

So, we arrived at Châtelet — Les Halles. There's basically like an underground mall in the train station called Forum des Halles. Shop after shop after shop. Bright fluorescent lights. It was not what I remembered about the city. 

Then we got above ground and started doing one of the best things there is to do in Paris: take a walk. We went past the cafés, down streets in the First Arrondissement. Some quaint. Most touristy. 

We took pictures outside the Louvre. I silently judged tourists attempting the "I'm-touching-the-top-of-the-pyramid illusion." I opted for the only slightly less touristy open arms pose. 

 

            I technically have resident status, but taking pictures outside the Louvre is not helping my resident street cred. 




We stood on the Pont du Carousel and I passively glimpsed the Eiffel Tower in the distance. It's an icon, but other scenes in the city always tend to catch my eye, instead. This time, it was a boat going down the Seine. 

Soon, we were walking on the Passerelle Léopold-Sédar-Senghor footbridge — one of the ones with the love padlocks. I was excited. For one, I thought all the locks had been taken off recently. But no, this was a bridge that still had them. 

I knew I had to recreate a picture from five years ago. I don't know which bridge I was on in 2013, but I'd like to think it's the same one. 

                       2013                                                                              2018
 
Walking down the streets of Paris, some stereotypes are true. They are quite fashionable. 

Striped shirts, of course. Someone wearing boots, a long pea coat and a beret. A short girl pulling off a long trench coat.

Soon, we were looking for food. We were hungry and on a budget, so we found a small stand where we got a "hot dog" and a beer. 

I put hot dog in quotation marks because it was the Frenchest hot dog I've ever seen. It was in a huge baguette, so long I struggled to include the whole thing in a photo. The mustard was strong, so strong it reminded me of wasabi but without the spice. 

The beer, a German lager called Kanterbrau, was as nice as the weather was that day. Sun out. Hardly a cloud. We sat down in chairs overlooking the Jardin des Tuileries. 

We ended the day with a walk to the Arc de Triomphe. I posed as a big tour bus that said Best of Paris in 2 Hours drove past. 

Funny thing is, that's kind of what we did.

That day, it all came back to me. I remembered how Paris had grabbed hold of me the first time. 

The city had charmed me once more, five years later. It's an enchanting place, if nothing else. 

And the spell never quite wears off. 











*** On the way to Paris, I came across this written at a bus stop...

It's calling for the resignation of French president Emmanuel Macron.



Reminded me of home. 

In Herblay (Part II)

The train is rushing past. I live so close to it, I can see (and hear it) outside of my window. One of my roommates is in the living room watching a "football" match, intermittently shouting phrases like "Oui!" and "Ouh là là!" at the television. ***

I'm writing this travelogue, sitting on my bed, trying to conjure up memories from three weeks ago. So much has happened since then. I'm even living in a different city.  

Still, I'll return to the story of my first week in France. The week in the city of Herblay. 

The day after I discovered that quality grapes actually taste like wine (I believe they were Muscat grapes), I took a trip back to the grocery store. This time I would walk there. 

There are so many things you need when you're moving into a place. This place in particular needed a little extra love. Our apartment was at the same level as the garage, but for all intents and purposes it was a basement. 

It had windows up toward the top of the wall to let in a little air, but it was so dark you had to have the lights turned on at all times in the kitchen and in the bedrooms.

The smell of something damp and dank permeated the air. It was something faintly reminiscent of the older dorm rooms at my alma mater (the dorm buildings that had the asbestos warnings written at the front entrance). I registered another stench, too. Maybe a mold of some sort. 

It was dusty. At one point, I opened a cabinet in the kitchen just above the burners, then immediately closed it. Some very large spiders were chilling in there (none of that daddy longlegs stuff, I'm talking the real deal here). I quickly decided it was their cabinet, and that it was rude of me to open the door without knocking. 

My room was fine, apart from the smell, the dust, some spider webs, and different spiders that were in this case small enough to share a living quarters with. I realize now that sentence sounds sarcastic. It was actually a sincere attempt to say it wasn't that bad. 

The toilet is another story. A thick, brown, (and what I would soon find was close to impenetrable) coating covered the bottom of the bowl. But I have lived in my fair share of less-than-ideal places, so I wasn't alarmed. 

I thought it was probably just mineral deposits from hard water and general lack of use. Then I scrubbed it once. Then twice. Then a third time. I only got real results when I poured Coca-Cola in the bowl and let it sit overnight. (Simultaneously a great and terrible advertisement for Coke).

The whole time, I thought it was just an old, mistreated toilet. I later found out that the other assistant in my program — who got to the apartment a few days before me — said flies had been buzzing in the toilet when she arrived. 

So... not mineral deposits. 

Anyways, the house needed some work. And I needed to go back to the store for more produce and more cleaning supplies. Of course, a simple trip to the store turned into a trek. 

I lived at the end of a culdesac. Woods that looked straight out of Grimms' fairy tales were nearby. That being said, the closest grocery store was a 20-minute walk, at least. 

I didn't know how to get there, but I didn't have phone data that would allow me to navigate once I left my apartment. No SIM card yet. Instead, I used the Wi-Fi at my apartment to get walking directions, then took a screenshot of them on my phone. 

I was off. Then I quickly learned that street names in France are little blue signs that are oftentimes hard to find, and that most streets look more like curves and circles than lines and angles. 

I was lost. I'd have to ask for directions. Time to practice my French. 

I saw a nice, middle-aged lady outside a home. I asked her. She told me the grocery store was far. I said I didn't have a car, so I was walking anyway. She told me she would ask her mom for directions because she didn't know the area.

Her mom came out, still sprightly. She gave her daughter instructions, then the daughter told me. This was all in French, so I took a little bit of pride in being able to understand her. I followed the random dirt path she showed me. Then I got out to a street. I took some turns, got a little lost again, but eventually stumbled upon another random dirt path. Believe it or not, a tiny little marker toward the bottom of the ground showed it was a real street — or trail, at least. It was actually listed on my Google Maps directions. 

It was the path of justice.

Really, that was the name. Chemin de la Justice. 

                           Chemin de la Justice, an actual path listed on Google Maps

From there...

I would eventually find the supermarket. 

I would eventually find the way back. After getting lost in the woods. 

I would eventually buy a SIM card for my phone. A few days later.

I would eventually realize that maybe, even though I had found stable housing, maybe I didn't come to France to live by the woods, in a basement, a full-on hike from a grocery store, nowhere near a train station. Maybe, I should try to live somewhere else.  

But I hadn't realized it yet. I thought I could still make it work. If you walked 6 minutes to the bus stop, then rode the bus to the train station, then took one train, then transferred to another, you could get to Paris in about one hour and 15 minutes. 

That could work, right?

 *** As I was writing, I got the alert from France's public radio station. France beat Germany 2-1 in the UEFA Nations League.

In Herblay

The house rests at the end of a cul de sac. A heavily wooded forest is just a short walk away.

I lived in that house for a week, and it was a formative stay, to say the least. My time in the city of Herblay — some 12 miles from the center of Paris — had its highs and lows. From the tops of the town's many tree branches to the crunched flora that lay underneath. In Herblay, I learned that marron is how you say chestnut in French.

I learned that dirt paths in the middle of nowhere always lead somewhere. I learned that somewhere can feel like nowhere if there's no train nearby.

Before leaving Florida, I secured housing in Herblay — a two bedroom in-law unit below a home lived in by the proprietor.  I was sharing it with another English assistant in my program who told me about the spot while I was in the middle of a desperate housing search.

The kitchen of the in-law unit is where I sat down and wrote my first post for this travelogue. My first night in France.

That evening, my stomach was empty from traveling. My legs were weary, too. I didn't have the energy to venture out and find food. At one point, I started eating my leftover mentos.

As I settled in, I heard a knock on the door. The proprietor's 10-year-old daughter was standing before me with a bright smile and a thick piece of chocolate cake.

"Bienvenue," she said. Welcome.

I'll always remember that.

A street in Herblay

The next morning, the proprietor gave me a ride to the nearest grocery store, along with a handful of reusable bags for shopping. No plastic bags in these parts. It was a Sunday, which meant it was a miracle the grocery store was even open. Most things in France are closed "le dimanche," and still the store was closing at 1:30 p.m. that day.

I walked in holding a "jeton" the proprietor gave me. It's a small, round plastic token, almost like a coin, that you put into a grocery cart in order to access it. Anyone in the states familiar with the German grocery chain Aldi will know what I'm referring to. But with Aldi you use real coins.

Anyways, I walk in, jeton in hand, looking around for the carts. I hadn't seen any outside. Finally, I approach a kind saleswoman at customer service.

She didn't speak English. I kind of speak French. In that moment, I realized that after four years of French in high school, another four years of French in college, and one month living just outside of Paris in 2013...

I had never learned the word for grocery cart.

Uh, je cherche uh...(I'm looking for)

Hmm, I know basket is a word in France, maybe if I say baskets I can just get a grocery basket instead. 

"des baskets?" I said

"Des baskets!?" she said.

Oh boy, baskets definitely does not mean baskets here.***

It turned into a quick game of charades until she said, "chariot." (shar-ee-o)

It was "dans le parking." So, the grocery carts were outside the whole time. And I will now, for the rest of my life, know that chariot means grocery cart in French.

The stores were not unlike American grocery stores. Though when I walked past the bread, I was amused that not a single baguette was left.

While browsing through cleaning supplies, an employee walked up to me to tell me the store was closing soon.

I got what items I had and I went to check out. Then I frantically rushed back to the aisles to get paper towels.

I learned a thing or two when I finally went to go pay. Produce has to be weighed beforehand. They won't do it for you at checkout. I did not know this.

So the cashier stopped when she saw my bag of produce and said something that to this day I do not understand. I could not make out a single word. Only after leaving the store, I realized why I couldn't buy any produce.

But I did get to buy the pre-packaged grapes. And I remembered then that real grapes have seeds. You see, everyone talks about how great French wine is. But that day, I realized why. Those were the best grapes I've ever eaten.




***While I remembered correctly that baskets is a word in French, baskets actually mean sneakers. So I was asking if they had tennis shoes at the grocery store.

How I learned to stop worrying and love the train

If you avoid the tolls, it takes 48 minutes to drive from Paris Charles de Gaulle airport to the small in-law unit where I was staying in Herblay, France. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, those 48 minutes felt like a scene at the beginning of "48 Hours."

I was in an Uber that I ordered from the airport. And for a moment, en route to the destination, I wondered if I'd actually get to Herblay.

Call it hyperbole. Chalk it up to jet-lag fueled paranoia. Or maybe it was a real threat. Who knows at this point.

The ride started like most do. The driver hopped out of the car, verified my name was the one on the app, then put my luggage in the back. We were off.

What a difference five years makes. The first time I wrote about a weird ride from Charles de Gaulle, it was in a taxi. This time around, I ordered an Uber. For whatever reason, my rides from the airport are always insane enough to warrant an entire post. Back in the 2013, the guy pulled over mid-drive so he could pee. 

No pit stops this time around. Speeding down the highway, my driver made conversation. 

He didn't speak English. I kind of speak French. He asked me if he was taking me to my house.  I said I was going to visit a friend.

He later asked me a second time if I lived there, maybe a third. Why, pray tell, do you need to know if I live there? I just kept saying I was visiting a friend. 

At some point during the ride, he went onto Google translate on his other phone and said to the dictation microphone, "T'es mariée?"

I already knew what he was asking, but within seconds the automated English voice responded on his phone, "Are you married?" 

I deflected answering the question.

Still, I was unphased at this point. I hadn't panicked until his next question, which, on the surface, might seem harmless. He asked if I had called anyone to tell them I was on my way.

My interpretation: does anyone know where you are right now? Would anyone be missing you?

That's when the warning signs came on. I have taken many an Uber before, and I did not think this series of questions added up. Well, they did add up, but not to something I wanted any part with. 

"Il m'attends à 17 heures."  He's expecting me at 5 p.m., I said.

The ride turned uncomfortably silent after that. I'm quietly mumbling all the applicable Psalms I know while I stared straight ahead at his phone, looking at his GPS for one wrong turn and knowing I probably couldn't tell the difference, anyway. He on the other hand, picked up the speed and sometimes looked back to see me stonily staring ahead at the map.

But I made it to my destination, thank God.

Call me paranoid, and I'd say there's a great Kid Cudi feature on the remix of that track. 

Call me paranoid a second time, and I'd tell you that international cities are hubs for human traffickers and what if...

TL; DR: Next time, I'm taking the train.