Daytime was ending in a suburb northwest of Paris.
It's a small town by the river.
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).
- The nearby river, an old muse for France's impressionist artists of the 20th century
- An old Catholic church
- 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.
