New Location! Liz And Dick a Go Go

LIZ SAYS:
Okay, I have always wanted to title this Liz And Dick a Go Go but Dick set it up and we never got around to changing it. Well, just did it so, new location, click:
http://lizanddickagogo.blogspot.com/
and don't forget to change the bookmark ;-}.
cheers! and Happy New Year!

Blog maken

Liz says: Encouraged by Dick, I've decided to add a few words. Its Christmas eve and we are in the Amsterdam airport, I am evidently 'Blog maken'. Okay, Dutch is the hardest language I have heard to date. It stunned me when she, the flight attendant started to speak on the plane in dutch, I had never heard it before and it doesn't sound a thing like it looks. Somewhere between blurgs and bduch's, I cannot imagine trying this one!
I am judging my mental blur by playing scrabble and seeing how long it takes me to finish a game. We should walk around a little, I know, but all I want to do is sleep. We have been up since 5, the place is dull as warm milk and its foggy outside, so you can't see much past the parked planes. The Christmas music is driving me crazy, as usual! Soft calming music always makes me nuts! Judging singularly from the airport, the Dutch are no nonsense people. Everything is very clean, plentiful and straight-forward. Of course, its cruel to judge anyone from their airports ;-}. But, hey, that's where I am.
It is wonderful to hear the symphony of languages and accents, everyone is flying on Christmas Eve, so there are no expectations of getting anywhere on time or doing anything except waiting out the weather or whatever. It is evidently blowing hard in the States, so, maybe we will get to Minneapolis, or maybe we will be stuck in Amsterdam. Be careful what you ask for, it just might be funny!

In Transit

After a final meeting with the fixer at a familiar--although hardly outstanding--cafe, Liz and went back to the bank for a meeting with Madame.... Oh, that's right, she conveniently forgot to give her name when she promised to call "demain" with information about yet another
twist in the never ending game that is French-style banking. At least, the normally brusque gatekeeper at the front desk was pleasant, but since she speaks no English and my cheat sheet French is good for ordering meals, navigating transportation options, basic shopping and little else, not much pertinent information was exchanged.

Both of our personal bankers had taken off for a 5-day holiday (we've learned that this is the French way, when it comes to one-day national holidays), but fortunately, the young guy who speaks a tiny bit of English was there and after many apologetic merci's and sil vous plait's, I was able to get a relatively straightforward answer to my question. Not of course before the guy frowned and disappeared into the copier room for 15 minutes or so to a) speak with a colleague, b) make some copies c) curse "Monsieur Laskin" for returning and d) make plans for a post-work trip to the cafe, but that was to be expected. At the bank, nothing happens fast or with any sense of finality. Day after day, the same people return, apparently asking the same questions and receiving the same inadequate responses to their needs.

Anyhow, it was the day before we had to fly back to the States, so we didn't want to get too wrapped up in the bureaucratic web. They'll be plenty more of that to deal with later. Liz suggested a trip to a favorite stocking/stretchy body clothing store, and I obliged. The highpoint of the excursion was a stop for crepes Grand Marnier and a cafe ligieos. Then it was back to the apartment, where we did the final pack. Liz noticed that one of the walls was peeling high up in the corner near the ceiling, which indicated to me that some tenant--with luck not us--will eventually have to deal with the damage being done by the upstairs neighbors' leaky pipes. Curiously, this kink in the perfection of this very well-kept apartment also made me feel better about living amidst white furniture, white appliances, white walls, white bedding, off-white chairs.... Well, you get the idea. If the pipes are gonna to blow eventually, why should I keep worrying about the consequences of getting a wayward drop of tea on the white drywall back splash?

More later. We're currently in a lounge at the Amsterdam airport waiting for a flight. Lots of cheese and a few things with chocolate in them and, curiously, a big urn of cream of chicken soup. Apparently it's a Dutch delicacy. I haven't been to the Netherlands in 30 years, but the vibe hasn't changed. Everyone looks quite cleaned and press and tall glasses of Heineken are everywhere.

French Pizza

Liz says: Okay, so we re getting ready to go back to the -3 temps of Madison after the balmy days of Paris. This is one unhappy camper as far as the weather is concerned. I'm just getting used to the idea of roaming my neighborhood and figuring out which corner leads to which, trying to make a sense of direction.
I've learned to be bold and insist on speaking my pathetic french or as the Fixer says, I will be here in 20 years still getting the english menu.
I have learned that my smile can change the world, or at least the way it looks to me. Even though Parisiens don't walk round smiling, I do and they respond with friendliness.
I've learned that Amy Winehouse appeals for no particular reason other than it sounds good in the background of a cafe at night.
I've learned that the french seem to love pizza and I say no,no, no!
Okay, now there is pizza as we americans know it, Dominoes or the local pizza joint run by Sicilians. The chain pizza is another animal altogether, just casserole on a dense, tasteless crust. The local pizza can be okay to great and maybe even close to authentic. But french pizza is a thing in and of itself. The french do their take on everything. You see lots of curried dishes in french restaurants, they are very light and creamy. Good but not the hot, spicy things you tend to get in America.
But back to the subject a hand, french pizza. I have to begin with Corsican pizza. That was wonderful, bizarre and of course, in Corsica (an island off of France, in case you don't know).
It had goat cheese and corsican honey on a genovese crust. Lots of Italians from Genoa settled there and influenced the cuisine. It was very unique, not really sweet, herby, as the honey there is influenced by the herbs grown there, and rich.
But, it was Corsica, there was an italian influence and I thought, well, this is special.
The first night in Paris we went to the pizza restaurant below the apartment because we were too tired to venture any further out. I had the 'parisien pizza'
it had goat cheese (fresh), ham, bland chopped meat, akin to burger,tomato sauce,
and some other creamy cheese. It was bizarre. Creamy, bland pizza on a so-so crust. Dick remembers his 'margheritta' a classical pizza," as mainly cheese, seemingly mozzerella and a flavored oil to add to your liking, super thin crust, almost like a saltine with that kind of consistancy. Not one of the great pie's of all time."
The owner was sweet and we were so tired I had forgotten all about how mystifying it was until everytime we pass a pizza restaurant here. It will be filled to overflowing. Even Dominoes has take out orders on scooters. The thing is the pizza is so very french. It bears no resemblance to Italian pizza, American Italian pizza, or even Corsican pizza!
They make it very bland, very creamy, almost like a very thin milky casserole with a thin crust. And they love it. The places are chocked full every night.
Especially a place called Cesar's. The waiters are crazy fun, they speak italian to you and swing and swirl around from table to table with utter efficiency. Large families come there and the noise level is synonmous with real live fun.
The pizza is that weird french take on the pie and veal piccata here! Don't get me started! I've had it 3 times, each time it is utterly different, it has no lemon, no capers, is not pounded out and usually resemebles some sort of creamed beef stew without vegatables, but with gorgeous chanterelle mushrooms and sometimes potatoes. The thing I can't figure out is this place is so close to Italy!
I guess I have more to learn about the french, after all if they can change the world, they can certainly change me. Vive la France!

the Sunday Market

all pleased with myself or how friggin domestic

Liz says: Sitting here in my purple Wolford all pleased with myself. Having charted out the living room and tidied up some business with the Fixer, I just feel all yummy.
It was a lovely day, around 50 degrees, dull, not sunny, but not cold and not grey.
I'm happy that I have a new home and the kettle is warming for tea. Dick is busy behind his computer, taking care of something or looking at the news, or as he says 'dicking around'.
We had lunch with the Fixer and his pal, delightful, as usual. They had the gargantuan bloody Argentinean steaks and cleaned their plates. I don't know how they do it. I had about half of my huge hot goat chesse salad with bacon and onion soup. I can barely fit the tea in my tummy and its been 2 hours. Dick had the Cassoulet, he finished about half. We are still working on becoming french.
The Fixer says its metabolism and that angst burns off his calories. Give me Xiety! (If you don't get it watch High Anxiety, Mel Brooks).
We went to a restaurant we had been to previously, Chez Nadine on the Moffartard. The irrepressible owner is sweet and chatty, although she can speak about as much english as I can french. Still, she will talk to you, convince you to order her best dishes, even if it takes showing you press clippings, and charm the teeth right out of your head. I adore listening to her even though I haven't a clue what she is saying, she has that musical french la, la, la going on all while she is saying whatever it is, you just go ,"okay, whatever you want, my dear". Her husband must be a puddle. Actually, I'm retty sure he's the one in the chef's jacket who strolls through every now and then, saying one word and checking the scene.
She is love!
I took some photos of the market, which is at the fountain square, the aforementioned Place Monge. It was close to closing down, as it was already near 1 p.m or 13 Paris time ;-}. It has all sorts of fresh produce, fish and goods several days a week.
I also incuded some photos of the apartment.

more pictures

My Neighborhood!

Liz says:
We went out but I forgot to take many pictures! Just spaced out with the sun and thinking about Madison's new snow. It was lovely again here today, it was supposed to rain, but, it didn't. So, I spaced out taking pictures for awhile and just enjoyed.
I added a couple of pictures of lunch because it was FABULOUS!
See everybody soon!

If did. Welcome to Rue Monge

Liz says: I hate to say it but it was beautiful today. Sunny, around upper 40's maybe even 50's. But, I am sick. I can't pretend its not there anymore. I thought it might get better but my sinus infection has moved down to my chest. I have another Zpack and set of Dexone pills, which I started this morning. If this doesn't knock it out, I will be back on US soil and running to the doctor right after Christmas.
Its a real Camille scenario. Yeah, well I could be Greta Garbo. She had TB, according to Dick but its that, you know, delicate cough into a lace hanky thing. Well, except, I'm hacking into hard napkins. Sorry, too much info.
ON THE UP SIDE!
We have the place, it was supposed to be the temporary place. Now he paperwork is rolling, the bills are in our name and the residence is secured.
The Fixer is getting our beautiful black (cinna.fr) sofabed moved in for us and doing everything he possibly can to help us. He can argue with the best of the french and he's a ball of energy. We could not have done this without him.
This apartment is smaller than our upstairs, in the Madison house. The bathroom is tiny and the kitchen is in the living room. Dick noticed "that infernal rumble" which turns out to be the metro underground somewhere near here. I don't notice it much. It sounds like noisy furnace in an old house coming on. Bugs him more than it does me. We are hoping that it won't freak the birds out.
We are a block from another fountain, on the Place Monge. We are about 6 blocks from the Mouffatard market I loved so much. The streets go at an angle, so we are 2 blocks from the middle of that street. The Mouffatard starts as a market and turns into a street of restaurants and then mediocre shops. We are closer to the restaurant area. It opens onto a square, surrounded by restaurants, on of them Irish. But, all that is about 2 blocks away. You can see it up the hill from the fountain area, the Place Monge. I just remembered that we saw a scene being filmed with a horse and carraige in the Place Monge when we first got here. It's pretty easy to get the olde time Paris look, if you limit the shot to exclude the cars and a few signs o' the times ;-}.
My new street is Rue Monge. It is a very long street in Paris and it gets ritzier further on. There are 2 butchers on our street, one fish monger, all sorts of shops, some boutiques, pharmacies, ethnic restaurants and asian traiteurs (to go deli-like places), lots to explore! We have gone to the bistro on the corner a couple of times for quick, easy dinners. It has a great wine list and pretty good food. It is orange and white, the red haired bartender is very freindly. I'm just trying to get my head around, "this is our new neighborhood".
We are officially becoming Parisiens. The paperwork is working and the rent is being paid.
I did what I came here to do. By the skin of my teeth, and with the help of many, we have done the do.
I'll add pictures tommorow.

on a dime pt.2

Liz continues: So, as we walked, I noticed shops I had passed on my way to many other places. I noticed a butcher, a baker, boutiques, a cheeseshop, fresh flowers, well, I am in Paris!
It was still a dismal day, but this place wasn't in a worse place, it was just not where I had focused all my attention.
When the fixer arrived, I thought well, I can do this for 5 days. He had helped the owners buy and fix up the apartment. He was very up about it. I could feel it, and I didn't want it to sway me, so I was determined to stay immune. My feelings were pretty dulled from the pain of seeing my dream place literally pooed on.
We entered the building, it was clean, it had n elevator and the apartment was 5 floors up. I do like to be up high. Some idiot had graffittied something on the wall, but the fixer said the concierge for the building was going to fix it. The concierge for the building? Okay.
So, as it their habit, the agent/fixer went up the steps as we rode the tiny elevator up. In my experience here, it is rare to find an elevator in an apartment building that can fit more than 2 people. So, the people who re showing you apartments always walk up.
We get upstairs and he opens the door, immediately you see a gleaming white tiled bathroom. Tiny as usual, but with a window and bright and clean. A shower, no tub, but one of those rain shower heads. The whole thing is 4 square meters.
Then we enter a room with 3 full length french doors that open out onto a balcony.
They let in all the light that is possible on such a dull day because you are up in the sky. It is a typical Hausmann building. The style common in Paris, they are all about 5-6 stories high and some floors have the ornate black iron balconies. The room was minmally furnished in a very discreet and quiet style. The kitchen is in the living room, not uncommon here either, but the kitchen is laid out so well and all in white, you almost don't realize its there. It just seems to fit. There was a small bedroom down a short hall, it also had windows, and there was light.
It was indeed lovely. Small, but lovely.
We are going to rent for these few days and if everything works out, we will have it for our return. We could possibly establish everything we need to establish to get our visas.
But then there is that word if. Paris has changed me, IF has become a very big word. Everything can change with one piece of paper or because there is not one piece of paper. If, IF can be tamed, maybe I can enjoy the last few days just breathing and remembering where I am, surrounded by art that I can see, without the phone telling me I have to run to the bank. if...

On a Dime

Liz says: How quickly things can change.
We were busy pursuing the apartment, running from bank to cafe to the bank again with the fixer. He had shown us a few apartments before but they didn't do much for me or they were in the 3rd. I was so stuck on the Moufattard Market and that fountain. He had a place to show us, but we were near the apartment I had lusted after for so long, I asked him to come, take a look, so he could see what we were really interested in.
It was a rainy day. We went up to the apartment and it was very dark, okay, so in the winter, I guess you'd have to turn on the lights in the middle of the day. Then, I showed him the balcony, which was now covered with about 50 wet cigarette butts. The fixer said he lived on a lower floor with a balcony like that once and people do that, they throw their butts down and it never stops. Okay, kind of funky, the flower pots would have butts in them. Not too sweet. But as we raised the shutters, those mechanical metal shutters they use in Europe to batten down the hatches, literally, we saw the end of the dream.
There was a broken whiskey bottle smashed all over the patio as if it had been thrown from several floors up. There was also a couple of human sizes pieces of caca and toilet paper. The End. Fin. Cut. It was over, the garden terrace with cig butts, glass and caca raining down.
I was crushed. I had worked so hard, jumped through so many hoops, held on for weeks to get this apartment which was at the top of our price range. I had shopped for appliances, furniture and envisioned my lovely terrace garden and balcony of flowers, now I was looking at New York City in the 80's.
So, dejected and heading toward a depression the color of the skies, we walked over to the other apartment. This was going to be where we spent our last 5-6 days here.
Since we had to extend our stay, we had to find new temporary shelter, our current place already has a new tenant coming. Actually, I am glad to be leaving. This place is cold and noisy, it a good place to learn some things but I'd really like to take a shower without freezing my touchie and then almost burning it squeezing between the heated towel rack and the toilet seat. But, I digress.
The Fixer was having a bad day. He had to cycle back across the river to get the keys that he'd misplaced. We had plenty of time to walk over to the new temporary apartment. It is about 5-6 blocks from the fountain and fresh food market I so loved. It doesn't sound far, but the other apartment was around the corner from it.
Plus, one of the great things about Paris is the way it changes. Every corner you turn has a different character, it changes on a dime. Not from good to bad, just different. There are rows and rows of restaurants, butchers,fresh food stores, phrmacies, natural food bakeries, boutiques, all different.

and the there's the morning news

Liz says:Getting up this morning deciding whether it would be cheaper have Dick send my Ugg's to me here, if I have to stay longer to finish gathering papers, I had looked for a place to buy Ugg's here. There were 4 shops including the fabulous Bon Marche.
While eating our vitamins and yogurt, on comes the news. The police have disarmed 5 bombs in the Printemps Hausmann Department store. If you don't go to Bon Marche, you go to Printemps. Frankly, you'd probably go to both, like Saks and Neimans, or Boston Store and Macy's. Some Afghani group has taken responsiblity.
Hmph.
Does it change anything? Immediately, I feel no. Even though it is a scary thought, it is life. The gas could blow up the house, I could get hit by a car, have an anurism, life includes a lot of things including death. Plus, my tomstone could read, she just thought those boots were to die for.

inside the Pantheon

the Fixer

Liz says: Love this city. We have looked at a couple of apartments while we wait for the place I am determined to get, the god place, comes through. They only make me more determined to get the god place. One was up 5 flights and Liz is not doing 5 flights. The apartment was still under renovation and full of Polish workers. I would say the place was at capacity! I know I’m always talking about the size of the apartments, but this one was positively gargantuan (for Paris) and still you could barely get in. It had 2 bathrooms, and looked to be on its way to being pretty nice. The neighborhood was just around the corner from the Pompidou Center and you would never know it. It was a charming street, bustling but not crowded, with fresh vegetables and two butcher shops, one a tripererie (one that has tripe things, I assume). I was close to being persuaded that I could live in the Marais, but it was still too far from the nice pedestrian market and the walk up the stairs settled it.
It was the second apartment shown to us by our new Fixer. He is the most fabulous thing since the croissant!
I had contacted him online back when I was looking for places from Madison. He was out of town when we first arrived and I was under the impression that by the time he got back to Paris, we would have a place. Silly me! Little did I know the French Surprise petite tape rouge! Anyway, he called and I said, “Oh, we found a place and we were waiting to sign the lease.” That was 2-3 weeks ago. Meanwhile, we were frustratingly struggling with the invisible spider web of can’t do, won’t do, manana, manana. I, with my Larrouse dictionary and Dick with his mountain of patience and logic. Nothing was happening very slowly. The Fixer emailed, asking to see if we were interested in an apartment. Yeah, sure, why not, maybe it will force the gods into motion. The apartment was not far away, but, it was right where the neighborhood starts to go dead. Well, we’ll look at it anyway. We waited outside and we greeted with a big “Hi!”. It was shocking. We hadn’t heard “Hi” in weeks. You have no idea how foreign it sounds when you have been saying Bonjour for a month! He immediately started talking, in English, it was amazing, just to be talking to someone without the struggle to say things simply, without slang and colloquialisms, so they can continue to understand you.
The apartment was nice, one major red wall, which in all honesty, did look very french. It had one or two fireplaces, old wooden floors and a decent sized kitchen and small bath, a living room that could be divvied off with pocket doors and another room. Large, again, for Paris and nice and clean. But it just wasn’t the apartment I had my heart set on or in the area I really wanted to be in and I told him so. We summed up the situation as we understood it and he said the magic words I wanted to hear. "Well, if its what you want, we’ll see what we can do." CAN DO!!!!!! Yes!
We walked down to our favorite area while he talked with us and strode along on his bike. You can tell he’s been here for awhile because he can do that thing that people driving and biking do here, they manage not to get hit and yet seem completely preoccupied by something else. He’s chatting away, listening, catching his phone and doing the bike walk thing. I’m just thrilled to be able to hold a conversation. Not that Dick isn’t hold up his end verbally, but we have been in this frustrating invisible mess together, so nothing new to say there.
We go to the real estate office and he talks to the agent, in french. We stand there with smiles on our shining faces because someone can say what we need to say and find out what we want to know.
Feeling foreign.
Having people talk about you and not worrying that they are mocking you, but feeling that you are actually being helped. Not a feeling I am used to. It is very warm and sweet and powerful.
One aspect of this learning is like being an infant. You can barely speak the language and you want things, everything is so complicated by your lack of voice. Your brain gets very frustrated. You know 2 of the words but not the one that ties the two together to make the thought you want to express. Whaaaaaaaaa!
I must add here that I have been told I have a very strong American accent, which tickles. I imagine myself sounding like people who say “EErack” and “yee haw”. But then, no one never understands me on the first go and they still hand me the english menu. Although, I have welcomed the corrections, and they do like that.
So, the Fixer talked to everyone involved, the same day. With stunning efficiency he found out what we had figured all along but could not work out.
Everything was a simple but complicated problem. Welcome to France.
Still love it!
Within the span of 2 days he has helped us get an internet connection, has gotten the bank to send the card and checkbook, uh, in theory. He took me to the shop to put my fabulous sofa bed on hold. He can talk to anyone and get them to do things. He’s charming and talkative,traits I personally like and he gets things done.
It seems the form we need in the language we need it in is on its way. The landlord wants things in the present tense, not the future tense. Its as simple as that. The documents take weeks for the bank to produce. That is all it is. Will the landlord wait? Will he rent to us once the document comes in? At least now we know what we are waiting for. Hopefully, it will happen before we have to leave. I am prepared to stay here, if needed and let Dick go back for Christmas.
We went to the Pantheon. It has a grand, in every sense of the word, sculpture with Live Free or Die/ Liberty or Death written on it. I have a bad photo of it here. It is my apartment motto. I will pursue this, as the Fixer says, “tooth and nail”. I am Joan of Arc of this cause, I WILL have this apartment! unless the landlord rents it to someone else ;-}.

I Love a Parade

Liz says: Last night, I saw blue flashing lights on the ceiling. So,
I went to the window and looked down the street. The police were letting a
car turn in front of them. An odd sight! There were 4 cop cars and they were at the head of a parade! The parade was 3 blocks long with people with multi-colored balloons and singing, it was something about people with rare diseases. All at night, in the chilly evening.

Liz says: It's been weird not having our holiday season. Even though things are set up and rolling for Christmas here, we couldn't be less concerned with it.
Well, we had another go round where Dick had to run to the realtor, walk with him to the bank and they discussed the conditions.
It will amaze or amuse you, but here goes:
The landlord wants a year's rent 'blocked' by the bank.
Meaning: the money would be put aside in a savings account and he could go to court and get it if we split without paying him. He wants us to sign a 3 year lease. We will still be paying him monthly rent out of our pockets. The years rent stays blocked until we move out.
We agreed.
It has taken about 8-10 meetings with the bankers, realtor and phone calls with the lawyer, over around 3 weeks, but we have come to an agreement about that.
Today, the landlord didn't think his 'block' was iron clad enough, so Dick went to the realtor, we never get to talk to the landlord although we have seen each other once.

Dick walked the realtor over to the bank and the banker and realtor discussed it. They called the landlord and the banker brought in the DIRECTOR of the bank to say, yes, the money had been blocked. The landlord thinks the paper saying the rent is blocked is not satisfactory, he wants a more specific document from the bank.
The Director tells him this is the way it is done, this is it. The landlord wants another document.
So, we added to the offer. We will pre-pay a years rent, in advance as well as block the money. The realtor will get back to us. He hasn't called back today, so who know's, its around 9 p.m. now.

I know this is a great apartment for the price. I also know that if this falls through we probably won't have enough time to go through the same bizarro process with different specifics with some new landlord or seller before we leave.
Dick has read many articles about how frustrating it is to do any kind of business in France, and he keeps telling me that this is just the way it is, everybody says so.

The realtor also told us that renters have "very strong rights in France" so landlords tend to want all kinds of protections. They evidently cannot evict without years of effort, so this is par for the course.

I am still looking at furniture and kitchens, figuring it can't hurt. It's so funny to be looking at these compact kitchen units after making over our kitchen in the house in Madison. That kitchen seems unreal now.

Yesterday, we saw a gas stovetop with and oven and dishwasher, all in the size of a stove smaller than most American dishwashers. The washers and dryers are all one unit. It washes and dries in the same drum.
Fantastically clever and compact ideas.

view from inside the D'Orsay

Paris Hack

Liz says: Well, I caught a cold or sinus infection or something. Dick calls it the Paris hack. Lots of people are blowing their noses with a hacking cough, so its no surprise that I caught it. Woke up this morning to ferocious rain and wind like we haven't seen since our third day here.
We did hopefully jump through the last hoop before the lease signing for the apartment but who knows.
We went to the Decorative Arts museum again, this time we got to see the Sonia Rykiel show. Fantastic but I couldn't take photos. You can take non-flash photos in other rooms but not there. Dick spotted one of the Coen brothers and his wife Frances McDormand (sp?), I was totally consumed by the frocks and hats.
Lunch at the museum cafe was fantastic. Very inventive food, even though I stuck to my favorite, roast chicken. Dick has a small steak with "potatoes like Pont Neuf". Pont Neuf is a bridge here in Paris, the potatoes turned out to be 3 inch deep fried rectangles, like tiles. My chicken came with a multi bell pepper and ham side. It was de-lish!
So today, I sit and sniffle, wait for info about the lease signing, maybe, and try to recover. Hopefully the sun will come back. Having a cold in rainy weather is just not fun.

Joe le Plumber

The plumber showed up and stayed for hours. Dick insists on trying to tell me what the plumbing is about, it makes no sense and I don’t care.
Getting this apartment is all I care about and its a very French experience. Today is a hard day, for sure. The bureaucracy is utterly astonishing. We need every piece of paper we have and more. Every time it hits a new high Dick says, it’s just like fill in the blank existentialist novel, mostly Kafka. It’s rough, the waiting, they seem to work mostly between 3 and 5 p.m. Monday through Thursday, at best. They call or make appointments for late in the day, so you can never get anything done until, tomorrow. When you exclude weekends and mornings, everything takes forever to move at a snail’s pace.
The queer thing is, I still want to pursue it. I want to understand a place where, double kisses greet you, when you enter a restaurant you seek out a member of staff, say bonjour and they tell you to sit anywhere. Then you’re in.
The people are usually very warm, they remind me of the people in Italy, They talk a lot, are very friendly and considerate, even as they are rushing past you and cutting you off. A woman tripped over Dick today because she was hurriedly angling past him, she looked back and apologized to him, and gave him an “are you alright face” and then a smile.
They gesture at everything while driving, and blow their horns constantly, they are truly crazy drivers. But there are about 3 crosswalks with lights in every block, at least in every area I have seen so far. Bikes, buses and taxis share a lane some going contrary to traffic. People will help you as much as they can even when you can’t really communicate with them.
All that business about Parisians being rude is nonsense. They do have their own way of doing things, but they are very tolerant and kind of fun to figure out.
There are essentially 2 kinds of waiters/waitresses. Type A:The kind that has seen it all, is very efficient, hands you a menu in English and rolls his eyes when you ask for your meat medium well or order water with your meal. He asks “termineay?” before you even take your first bite.
Then there is Type B, the kind who will explain everything, politely correct your french with, “in France we say ... .” and acts as if it breaks his heart if you don’t clean your plate.
Of course, there are also the one’s that turn from type A to B mid-service. We had a fabulous lunch at a lovely bistro/steak joint. The waiter did indeed roll his eyes when I asked for my small steak to be well done. It came with a sangria colored center. I asked him to suggest a wine to go with my steak, before I even finished my faux-french sentence, he named the wine and warmed to me. He wore those little horn-rimmed glasses I associate with Peter Lorre, his head was shaved bald, bit there were little black nubs all over it that came to a widow’s peak v a few inches above the glasses.
He became very sweet and concerned post wine order. He was the picture of the perfect french waiter with his white apron, white shirt and black pants.
None of this, “My name is Lou Lou and I will be your server this evening”, no stuffing the order pad in the back of their waistband, a practice I find kind of gross anyway. I don’t want the waiter to put anything in his pants and then touch anything without washing his hands in between. They are usually very elegant and efficient no matter how they are dressed.
One place we go to has their waitresses dress all in black. There is one sassy mid-aged blonde who wears pink feather earrings and a top that says Trashy in pink sequins as she serves us our breakfast coffee. She is an excellent waitress who would fit in perfectly on roller skates on Venice Beach.