Whoa my goodness, I’m in Paris, and I haven’t updated in over a week. My apologies.
This was mostly due to complications of not having the right adapter for my laptop to begin with, and taking until Wednesday to find a suitable one. Granted, I could have updated en route via my Blackberry I suppose, but it’s a small keyboard and I’d rather be at leisure with a full sized one. So there.
Naturally, I have SO MUCH I need to comment on after having been here a full week, so let’s start with when I first arrived in Paris.
I arrived on time at the airport on Saturday night, and managed to retrieve all my bags from the baggage claim, even my skis. I went to find my driver for the shuttle I scheduled, and since I did not see anyone holding up a sign with my name on it yet, I went off to the side to wait, rather than standing in the middle of the arrivals gate with my four bulking suitcases. One taxi driver asked me if I needed to call a taxi, and I stammered in French that I didn’t need one thank you, I already had a shuttle. It took several tries for him to understand what I meant, since I realized I didn’t actually know the word for shuttle. My driver came along within a few minutes, and we were on our way to pick up my keys.
Now, I had only just changed the address I needed to be brought to the day before, due to a scheduling conflict. I had tried in vain in between connecting flights to contact the shuttle company again to let them know that I actually had two locations, the first to pick up my keys, and the second to be brought to my apartment. So I’m sitting in the back of the shuttle, rehearsing and working up the courage to ask my driver in French if he could please first bring me to my scheduled destination, wait 5 minutes, and bring me to the second, way over on the other side of the city. I knew this wouldn’t have cost me more to begin with, since it was one fee of 99€ for the private van, but still, I wished I had some Euros in my wallet so that I could at least tip him. Thankfully he was willing to do as I asked, and he brought me right up to my apartment and dropped off my bags and myself on the sidewalk in front of my building.
Picture if you will, it is around 7PM (or 19h) in Paris, and the sun has set. It is a well -lit street just off of one of the main boulevards in the arrondissement, brimming with people, dogs, cars, bikes, and mopeds. The florescent sign over the pharmacie on my street says that it is 11˚ C (so that’s about 51.8 ˚ F). In January. My apartment rests over a chic clothes shop, like many others on the street.
I struggled with my bags, which I could never carry all at once, to pull them up to the front door of my building. There was a group of men whom had just exited the door and were talking amiably amongst themselves in front of the entrance. I can only imagine how I looked as I approached, dragging a couple bags at a time, inching towards the door, looking like I had been traveling for over 24 hours, and again, stammering in French that I needed to get inside. They very kindly opened the door for me using the access code (which I had myself stuffed in my purse when I had picked up my keys), and each picked up a bag and brought it through the entrance, and neatly stacked them in the elevator. One asked if I was an American (dang, cover blown already?), and I said yes. They welcomed me to France and left the building. I stood in the tiny ornate elevator, puzzling. The liaison person whom had found me this place and given me my keys had said this building had no elevator. I curiously pressed the button for the sixth floor.
Of course nothing happened. I began to wonder whether it was just broken. Steeling myself for the inevitable, I faced the dark spiral staircase.
I knew there was no way I could carry all my bags at once, and even then I wondered whether I could drag just one up either. I tucked my heavier suitcases in a shadowy corner not visible from the entryway, and started up.
This was going to be impossible.
The stairs spiraled up clockwise, a nightmare for a lefty if descending the staircase. Also, I couldn’t find the light switch, and I was already sweating buckets after the first flight of stairs, but I kept going, bringing up one bag one floor at a time, and coming back for the rest after each floor. By the third trip to the first floor, I was really driving the dog behind the door of the first floor apartment nuts. I really hoped I wasn’t bothering other residents as well with my clunking and thumping around. It wasn’t until I had established all my things on the second floor and was starting with the third that I remembered something I had seen in the directions given to me with my keys. I scrambled to find the slip of paper, and read it from the light of my Blackberry.
“To access your floor, go past the elevator into the small interior courtyard. Proceed to the far left door of the small courtyard and take steps to the 6th (and last) floor. Your room is along the hallway, the door is marked with an ‘A’”.
What small interior courtyard?!?
I managed to swear only at a whisper, and groan in exasperation. No wonder this part of the building looked so nice. All the while the dog on the first floor was howling away at my intrusion as I began correcting my mistake and taking all the bags down again. I managed to fall only once, and just down a few stairs, blaming the right-handed staircase. Once I managed to get everything downstairs again, I proceeded past the elevator through a back door.
It was indeed a small interior courtyard, complete with dumpsters and recycling bins, and one door. I took one of my bags and started again.
This was yet again another dark spiral staircase, far more worn down and looking more like they led to an attic than apartments, though they were mercifully spiraling in the other direction. I decided to just stick with taking each back all the way to the top this time, leaving the others in the courtyard and hoping that would be the best method. After what seemed like hours, I managed to drag all my bags (two of them nearly 50lbs each), one by one to the very top floor to my room.
It was much the size I had expected from the description, about 8’x12’, with one large window looking out over the courtyard, complete with twin bed, mini fridge, hot plate, sink, shower, and storage space abundant. I explored the nooks and crannies, opening all the cupboards. I found a table that folded up into the wall, and a closet space of sorts. I was horrendously pleased that I had my own shower, and proceeded to rinse off after hours of travelling before calling home. The W.C. (water closet aka toilet) was down the hall, and I learned that I shared it with the five other residents on the hall, mostly other American students. After I had settled in a bit and unpacked, I went downstairs to explore the street a bit. I managed to buy some toiletries at the pharmacie, but not much else was open by that time. I figured I could try grocery shopping in the morning.
Sunday was gorgeous. The temperature felt like the mid-fifties Fahrenheit, the sky was clear, and so many people were out enjoying the weather. It didn’t take me long to realize that the Monoprix around the corner was closed on Sundays, and would need to wait to buy foodstuffs. Instead, I roamed the streets of the arrondissement, learning my way around, finding post offices, ATMS, and markets. I purchased some veggies and apples at a grocer’s, and found a boulangerie (bakery) where I bought a baguette. Not really a meal there, but some sustenance. I brought it all back home, munched, then decided I wanted to find Notre Dame and do some sketching. I found it on my Blackberry, and accordingly found it fairly easily within walking distance.
Notre Dame is gorgeous, and I always feel like an art history dork in the best way when I go to historic sites. I spent about an hour drawing the façade, sitting on one of the benches, occasionally people-watching, before going in for walking along the déambulatoire. One important thing I learned that day though: if you are sitting too long in a public tourist trap like that, people may come up to you asking you to donate to their organizations. It is best I think to politely say no.
After I had explored Notre Dame, I went wandering along some of the streets on the other side of the Seine, watching street performers, and walking over the bridges. I bought a small ice cream, and you have never tasted vanilla like they can do it homemade, oh boy.
I made my way back to my new home to rest a bit before scoping out the town for an inexpensive place to eat. I was beginning to think I wasn’t going to have any luck before I found a small crêperie that served a sandwich or panini with fries and a small soft drink for 5,50. Score. I sat in there eating what was basically French fast food for a bit, and then made my way back towards home. I found a small bar/tabac around the corner on my block, stopped in for a glass of beer, and just relaxed at a table by the window for a bit, checking email on my Blackberry. Not bad for a first day.
There is more to come as I catch up on my adventures from my first experiences at Sciences Po this week, but until then,
À Bientôt!
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