Finding an Apartment

Imagine living in a dorm room with a bunk bed, bathroom and small kitchen.  Now imagine you're 30, and you live in this room with your husband.

Our apartment is 16 square meters, which is about 172 square feet.  Actually, it's not the smallest apartment that we've seen.  When we tell people back home about our apartment, they wonder why on earth we live here.  There are two reasons.  The first: we can walk to Notre Dame and the Louvre.  For that, I would live in a smaller apartment.  We might not ever live in as amazing a neighborhood in all our lives,  so we're happy to live in a small box just to be here. 

The second reason for our tiny apartment is a bit more practical.  Imagine trying to find a low priced, fantastically located apartment in Manhattan. Not so easy.  Now do it in French! 

When Matt and I first arrived in France on September 26,  we couldn't understand most of what people were saying.  Unfortunately, this caused problems when people were saying these things to us.  It's not that we hadn't studied the language, but lessons are a controlled environment.  There are ten to twenty new words, and the rest are already mastered points of grammar.  Unfortunately, on arrival in France, no one needs you to recite a grocery list or describe your wardrobe.  They need you to sign an apartment lease, open a bank account, fill out emigration papers and so on.  Countless times, I mentally thanked our Tampa-based French teacher Tina for teaching us the basics of apartment vocabulary - without her, we could have ended up with an apartment sans wc (without a toilet - yes, these apartments exist).  Within days of arriving in France, we needed to call people and ask to see their listed apartment.  This was, nine out of ten times, a disaster.  We would write out what we wanted to say and hope that the person on the other end of the line would respond the way that we anticipated they would, because we had no way of understanding what they were actually saying. 

This is the conversation we always hoped for:

Me: Hello, I found your ad on Craigslist for an apartment.  If it's still available, could we come see it?
Landlord: Yes, it's still available.  Can you come tomorrow at 11:00?
Me: Yes!  What is the exact address?
LL: 8 rue du Temple.  That's on Metro Temple.
Me: Great, thank you! See you tomorrow at 11!
LL: Ok, see you then!

This is a representation of the conversations that we usually ended up having instead:

Me: Hello, I found your ad on Craigslist for an apartment.  If it's still available, could we come see it?
LL: What? Who is this?
Me (mildly panicked): Hello.  I found your ad on Craigslist for an apartment?  If it's still available, could we come see it?
LL: No, I already rented it.
Me: Can we come see it tomorrow?
LL: No, it's already rented out, how did you get this number?
Me: Ok, could we come see it tomorrow?
LL: No! It's already rented!
Me: (Still not understanding, but noticing that the person on the other end of the line seemed angry) Ummmmm..........errrrr........................ Okay, thanks! BYE!!!!!!!!!!! (hang up in terror)

Thankfully, we eventually found an apartment using the internet, because the phone is still a disaster. 

My photos

Jen Stephenson's photostream on Flickr.

Now you can see some of my photos from our life in Paris!

Small Things

Occasionally, I panic.  About everything.

Sometimes, when the practical part of me comes out of hiding, I think to myself, "My God, what have I done?  What are we doing here?  Why did I make Matt come here, we have no future job prospects! What will we do next year?  We need careers and 401Ks and pensions!  This was so irresponsible!"   In these moments of terror, I look on Facebook at photos of my friends with their beautiful homes, successful office parties, and sometimes, their children.  Then I look at my 172 square foot apartment. 

And then a seven year old French student asks to hold my hand as we walk to our classroom after recess.  Carrying books, a scarf, my coat and my purse, all I can offer her is my pinky. 

"I'm holding Jen's little finger!" She laughs and tells her friends, who appear legitimately jealous, checking to see if I have any other fingers free. 

They ask me what the USA is like.  Do we have any of the same stores?  Do kids have the same toys?  Is it nice there?  Have I been to New York?  They tell me that some day they hope to visit the USA.  They want to see the Statue of Liberty and the Golden Gate Bridge.  The want to visit the White House and the Grand Canyon.  They ask if I like France.  Are the people nice?  Do I like the food?  Although the kids don't speak English, and I don't always understand their French, they always try to talk to me whenever they have the chance.  In these little daily interactions, I'm coming to appreciate why we're here. 

And then I don't worry so much about my lack of career.

The search for French Santa

For the past few weeks, I've been on a Santa hunt.  I was curious: Would the French version of Santa - Père Noël - be in possession of the proverbial 'bowl full of jelly' stomach? Or would French Santa, represented in a culture that does not struggle with obesity, be trim and fit?

In the weeks approaching Christmas, I came across various shop window displays including Santa, however these only added to my curiosity over Kris Kringle's physique, as he was often depicted in contradicting styles.  One store window would show his characteristic rosy cheeks and bulging tummy, the next would show a tall, lean man in red.  Unable to find a uniform characterization of Santa, I decided that to have my answer, I would have to seek out the real Santa - or at least the one who makes appearances at Christmas markets.

One evening while walking around, Matt and I stumbled upon the Champs Elysees Christmas Market, littered with various tents of vendors selling chocolates, beverages, hats, french fries and Christmas ornaments, and complete with a Carousel and Ferris Wheel.  Noticing a strong cable lining the tree tops, we followed it to see where it would lead.  Finally reaching the end of the cable, we came upon a sign claiming that Santa and his sleigh would fly through the sky every half an hour until 8pm.  Unfortunately, we read the sign at 8:45pm.  French Santa had eluded me.

The next week, we decided to attend the Christmas market in the 6th arrondissement, near the famous Saint-Germain-des-Prés neighborhood, a place that Hemingway once called home.  Besides being in one of my favorite parts of the city, this particular Christmas market was rumored to be the residing place of Parisian Santa, so of course, we had to go.  Meandering down the cobblestone streets, we saw boutiques filled with Christmas trees, ornaments, and winter clothing alongside cafes with coffee, tea and hot chocolate.  As always, we also saw the ever-present Starbucks. The streets were filled with tourists and Parisians alike, many of them doing some Christmas shopping, or just going for a stroll along the decorated streets.  After taking in the beauty of the market for an hour, I couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment that French Santa had evaded me once again.  Père Noël was turning out to be a wily old man.


Day after Santa-less day, I had all but lost hope.  I decided that I should stop focusing on Santa and move on. After all, it's only Santa, and I am an adult.  As a result, Matt and I decided to spend a day in the Medieval town of Provins, about an hour and a half train ride to the south-east of Paris.  

Well known during the Middle ages as a fair town - a designated fortified city where merchants from around Europe would gather to sell their wares - Provins is home to a 12th century castle, and many surviving examples of Medieval architecture in the form of churches, houses, shops and taverns.  After spending an hour in the Castle, and then walking the ancient streets and having a Medieval lunch, I had all but forgotten my Santa quest as we entered the Christmas market of the medieval town.  While glancing around at the various cakes and candles for sale, suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him. There he was! French Santa!  He was sitting in a booth, having his photo taken with a small child on his lap.  As the child's mother thanked Santa, and the child got up, I gaped at the red man: he was decidedly not fat.  French Santa was thin!  Finally, I had my answer.

Apparently, I must have stared too long. Suddenly, French Santa spoke:
"You can come sit over here," he said, patting his thigh.
"Oh, no thank you," I laughed awkwardly.
"No, it's okay, women can have their photo taken with Santa, too," he said with a smile.
I laughed, politely declined, and walked away.

It was confirmed.  I had, without a doubt, met the real French Santa Claus.

Cultural Refinement

In my on-going adjustment to French culture, my interactions with children have been the most positive. I'm a little surprised at this, because I'm the first person in the world to admit that children can be insufferable. They are, among other things, selfish, belligerent, and rude.  

I'd like to pause and discuss the meaning of the word "rude".  In saying that children are rude, I was, of course, referring the the fact that children say hurtful, disrespectful things at least once a day.  But it's the secondary meaning of "rude" that I've come to appreciate here in France: without culture, learning or refinement.  With this meaning in mind, it is the rudeness of children that make them open to learning, and to interacting with me without judgement.  

We often think of refinement as the ability to judge a good wine or a superb taste in fine leather goods.  This is not refinement.  Refinement is what makes us socially adept within our culture.  Refinement gives us the ability to navigate the social world, obtaining what we want, making connections with those we need.  At birth, all humans are the same.  People are people in every corner of the world.  What makes us different as we grow is how our culture affects us.  Culture teaches us which traits are valued, and which are undesirable.  Additionally, culture gives us social tools to mask our less-than-optimal characteristics.  Unfortunately for those of us trying to acclimate to a new environment, not only do all of the different cultures of the world have different social customs for masking bad qualities; they have different opinions on which qualities are bad.  It is through the process of refinement that we are able to internalize our society's ideals of good and bad traits, as well as learn to optimize ourselves.  Here in France, without my language, culture, profession, friends and family, I am not refined.  As it turns out, I have a lot in common with all of those selfish, belligerent and rude children. 

Being rude, selfish and belligerent are part of human nature. These characteristics do not vanish in adulthood, they simply become hidden away in a person's undisclosed self.  Qualities such as these, which are tucked away from the world, can not be openly addressed. Thus, while children can be so insufferable, it is through their very outward opinionated declarations that they are able to be challenged and thus have the opportunity to become better people. 

And so it is that I enjoy the children of France so much more than the adults: when they have an assumption about me, they state it matter-of-factly. I rebut it, and they are able to draw their own conclusions. Whatever their decision, I appreciate being given the opportunity to candidly discuss my perspective. It's quite rare that an adult, in any part of the world, will give you that opportunity.

Comfort Ye

Tonight we had our church choir's Christmas concert at the Cathedral of Saint-Eustache (Yes, not only did Lionel accept my ridiculous audition, he even gave me a few solos!).  Among other things, we sang part one of Handel's Messiah. 

After the orchestra prelude, the tenor soloist begins the sung portion of the Messiah with "Comfort Ye".  I've always liked this piece, and I was excited to hear Stephane, the church's cantor, sing it. As soon as he began to sing, I felt like I was hearing the words "Comfort Ye" for the first time in my entire life, which was strange because, as Stephane sang it, they were more like "Confahrt Yeae".  Suddenly, as his voice filled the massive cathedral, my eyes started to well up. 

Life in another country can be difficult.  Separated from people by a language barrier, it is simply impossible to speak as much as is desired, or is necessary, to function socially.  Increasingly, you withdraw into yourself because it is too difficult to attempt to communicate with others.  In addition, there is an enormous amount of confusing paperwork at every turn, and the future is frustratingly uncertain.  Without knowing how to do practically everything in a new environment, and being without the ability to ask anyone, you start to doubt your own abilities, and wonder if everyone you meet views you as incompetent. After all, how is it that you don't know how to write a check or take the bus?  You're not from Mars, after all, and these things do exist in your home country. To top it off, it's easy to become insecure about every facet of yourself as people scrutinize you, your language, and your culture.  Even the most kind and well-meaning people can make you feel bad without intending to, simply by making assumptions about you or your values based on shows like the Simpsons, or political decisions made by US government officials who were elected before your birth. 

As I sat in the choir stall and let Stephane's beautiful voice wash over me, I finally understood the words "Comfort Ye."  Seek solace where you can find it, because it's little things that make the big things possible. Through my participation in the choir, I am able to remind myself weekly that I am, in fact, not incompetent.  Although I often have no idea what people are saying, as soon as we begin to sing, I am absolutely sure of myself.  Sitting there, I knew that whether it be in France, the USA, Cambodia or Costa Rica, what I've learned about singing in my home country will not be ridiculed or torn apart, because it is solid.  I can take my musical training with me anywhere, and it will translate perfectly.  In the moments of that tenor solo, I was comforted by the knowledge that my musicianship - my American musicianship - is equally appreciated in France as at home, and I am not so different from my French neighbors after all. 

Learning French

When I auditioned for the Church choir that I sing with (The Choir of the Cathedral of Saint-Eustache), I had been in France for three weeks, and my French was atrocious.  It's not great now, but back then I was unable to ascertain most of what people were saying, and I had no way to respond appropriately to what little I could understand.  As a result, my default response was always "Okay" or "I don't know".  Despite this, I really wanted to be part of a choir, so I braved the francophone sea and auditioned.  For whatever reason, I brought a recorder with me, and just listened to it today.  It's a wonder I was accepted into the choir at all, as this is what happened:

Lionel (The choir director): Ok, we'll do some vocalizes, then you can sing a song that you've prepared, then we'll do a little sight reading, ok?
Me: Ok.
L: First, just a few questions.  Do you know your voice part?
Me: Soprano.
L: Can you sight-read?
Me:  I don't know.
L: Ok, you're not sure.  Can you read music?
Me: Umm, I don't know.
L: Ok, well... have you ever been in a choir before?
Me: Ummm....I don't know? (If I were Lionel,  I would have laughed here.  Then again, maybe he truly believed that it was possible for me to have been in a choir and not known about it?)
L: Ok.  (Looking at me doubtfully, thinking I do NOT need a person in my choir who has never sung before and doesn't speak French) So what song do you have? Did you bring a song?
Me: I don't know.
L (Looks at me quizzically, then at the book of French Art Song that I brought with me): Is it in there?
Me: Oh, yes.  It's Beau Soir by Debussy, is that ok?
L: Yes, of course.  I don't have the music, can I look at yours? Do you know it by heart?
Me: No.
L: Ok, well can I read out of the book?  You can stand behind me.
Me: Oh, it's ok, I can sing it from over here, I memorized it.
L: Oh, Ok...
Me: So, should we start with the song then?
L: No, we'll do some vocalizes first.
.....................Vocalizes and Song...................
During my singing he looked confused.  Probably because I obviously have a lot of musical experience but told him that I didn't know if I had ever been in a choir.
L: Well, that was good, so you do sing; you've obviously studied voice.
Me (This was probably the first thing that he said that I really understood): Oh yes, I have a Masters in voice.
L (I wish I could describe his face.  It was a mix of surprise, exasperation and bemusement): Okay, well that's good.  But you're not sure if you can sight-read?
Me: I don't know.
L: Ok. (Sigh) Well, we'll just try.
..............sight reading............
L: Ok, well you can sight read, since you just read through that piece perfectly.
Me: Yes, I'm decent at sight-reading.  (I was able to say this because I realized that the word he kept saying - dechiffrer - meant sight-reading, so I just repeated it.  Meanwhile he was probably thinking Why did she say she didn't know if she could sightread and then tell me she's pretty good at it?
After giving me a strange look that conveyed the thought What is this person doing here? I hope this is a good idea, he smiled and told me that he would love to have me in the choir.