On the 4th of July it will be exactly a year since I arrived in Paris and it is looking increasingly likely that at the end of July my flatmate and I will have to move out of our apartment. This calls for all sorts of potentially life changing decisions to be made. Moving to another apartment in Paris, in July as well, would be so hellish due to the heat, the multiple flights of stairs and the organisation it would probably be less stressful to move back to the UK. However, this alone is not a good enough reason to do so.
I certainly don’t dread going to work in Paris like I used to in London but, having said that, it doesn’t take long for my mood to plummet proportionally according to the number of fresh orange juices, café au laits and milkshakes I have to make. On top of this I’m not exactly furthering my career but I’m not prepared to justify my career choices to some starched collared executive at a big corporate firm in London so I’m not too concerned about that. The thought of returning to a stifled office and career obsessed colleagues from 9am – 5pm is terrifying. Sunday nights would, once again, be accompanied by the ‘Sunday horrors’ at the prospect of another week in the office and my time would be spent ironing five work shirts and polishing my shoes. No thank you very much. I’d much rather be where I am for the moment.
The colleagues at Breakfast in America continue to be among some of the nicest I have ever worked with. The atmosphere is open, relaxed and friendly and I am continually amazed at how fast the days go by. Ian, who I have written about before, together with his girlfriend Lisa and Bobby, one of the chefs, have become good friends of mine and we regularly go to Ian’s pub quiz on Sunday nights. Ian is the kind of person who will get steaming drunk and shave all his hair off but is, in fact, hugely intelligent. We have spent many an evening discussing all manner of philosophical topics such as religion, politics and literature. He and Lisa make the perfect couple – I never know any of the answers to his quiz questions but she gets lots and claims it is not a result of her general knowledge but her knowledge of Ian himself that allows her to divine the answer. These kinds of personalities are so far removed from those I encountered at my office job in London that, together with the type of work and lifestyle on offer in the UK, they provide a solid argument for staying in Paris. On top of this my French continues to improve.
Learning a language is a funny business. I’ll go through plateaus of struggling with simple phrases, verb conjugations and tenses and then, suddenly, I’ll notice a vast improvement and find myself having a perfectly normal conversation, using all the correct tenses, as I would in English. I joke with the customers in the restaurant, speak naturally on the phone and give updates en masse to the people standing in the queue as to how long the wait will be.
So, really, I’m no closer now to deciding what I should do in July than I was at the start of this entry. Any advice would be very much appreciated. In the meantime, perhaps I’ll do a pro and con list.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
A rather French affair...
Paris is not a nice place to be during the winter. In fact, due to various circumstances such as my appalling apartment and anti-social working hours, this last winter was one of the most unpleasant and miserable of my life. Perhaps I am exaggerating slightly – there was, of course, always the option of returning to the UK for good, but, since I chose to stay in Paris, this suggests I couldn’t have been too unhappy. In hindsight however, the living conditions and lifestyle in general, I would certainly not be prepared to repeat.
Finally the bitter cold is being replaced with balmy spring air, the drab, soulless cafes are alive once more with people spilling out on to the streets and the long dismal nights are slowly but surely being encroached upon by the longer, more relaxing days. Paris in spring, on the other hand, is a wonderful place to be. As I write this I am sitting beneath a cherry blossom tree in full bloom in Buttes Chaumont. The sunlight is filtering down through the leaves and I can hear the birds singing, the children playing and an elderly French couple chatting quietly behind me. This vast turn around in my opinions toward Parisian life has been aided, not only by the improvement in the weather, but also by my working hours. I now work mostly day shifts meaning I am free from as early as 4:15 to have a siesta, a shower and recuperate in a pub with some friends or go out for dinner. A couple of weeks ago I spent an evening in an especially French fashion at a dinner party.
French schools are closed on Wednesdays and, each week, my friend Rose looks after two boys, Dimitri and Guillaume, for the day. They are nice children and sometimes I go for lunch or to play table tennis with them. They seem to have taken a shine to me and often report back to their Mother what we got up to during the day. It is because of this that when Rose, in her infinite wisdom, decided to cook for almost the entire family, the boys and their parents, insisted I come.
It was with some trepidation that I climbed the stairs to the fifth floor of their rather pleasant apartment near the Pantheon. Upon entering I was relieved to find that no one had arrived yet. However, I did find Rose and her sister Aba huddled over the stove in the kitchen engulfed by a cloud of smoke. Presumably, not being used to the induction hob, Rose had misjudged the temperature and burnt the first lot of tatale: a delicious combination of mashed plantain, deep friend until slightly crispy on the outside and gooey on the inside. Not wanting to add to Rose’s problems I settled myself at the breakfast bar – having a solid barrier between myself and the tension in the kitchen felt rather reassuring. Presently the others began to arrive. First it was the boys’ Aunt and Uncle who came with their two children and then the parents arrived home too with the boys. This made a total of 11, of which, only two spoke any English.
Thankfully, the Father, Frederic brought out the alcohol and provided me with a beer with a dash of Picon – an orange flavoured addition that made it taste rather like marmalade. I sat quietly making kebabs and chatting with the boys’ Uncle whilst Rose and Aba pottered about in the kitchen, the boys played with my iPhone and the little girl spilled her juice, fussed and generally irritated everyone, except, of course, for her doting parents.
I had, without really thinking, brought a bottle of wine which, although wasn’t the cheapest in the ‘Alimentation Generale’ wasn’t anything special either. Frederic opened this and we eventually sat down to dinner. Rose made a toast which induced the boys into fits of giggles and resulted in them taking it upon themselves to try and extract a toast from me as well. Within minutes the entire table was chanting ‘Allez, James! James!’ Naturally I went puce in the face with embarrassment before making my rather forceful excuses. Not being a connoisseur of wine I thought my bottle was rather delicious. Frederic was also very complimentary although I can’t imagine that a €6 bottle of red from the corner shop compared particularly favourably to the expensive looking bottles of Chianti and Merlot that were lined up in the kitchen.
The meal was wonderful and, before long, I was more relaxed and chatting fairly comfortably to Frederic and Celine, the boys’ Mother. Throughout the meal the boys’ cousin, the little girl of about three or four, was a constant nuisance. Sweet, in a clichéd sense, with blonde hair and blue eyes she was constantly seeking attention either by whining or crying. Once we had all finished eating her father offered her a chocolate mousse. Before opening it he checked with her that she was sure she was going to eat it to which she replied with a withering look and a Gaelic shrug ‘Bein oui’. This caused the parents to visibly swoon with affection whilst I did my best to keep my food from making a bid for freedom.
After we had cleared the table we moved into the living room for champagne and dessert. Celine had made some delicious cookies which she sandwiched together with a thick, creamy strawberry sauce and summer fruits. The little girl insisted upon meandering around the coffee table upon which were perched everyone’s champagne glasses. Celine and Frederic were somewhat wary about this but didn’t say anything - her parents were oblivious to their precious little girl’s stupidity. Inevitably, before long, she knocked one off the table (luckily for her it wasn’t mine) which caused everyone to wince, draw breath or cry out. This caused the little girl to burst into tears. Rather than giving her a good smack and making her sit down finally, the father swept her into his arms and cooed softly in her ear for the next 15 minutes whilst Celine went about clearing up the spilt champagne.
Eventually, tired, full and relaxed, Rose, Aba and I bid our farewells. We left the warm glow of the apartment and went down the narrow stairs to the wide, Parisian boulevard outside. I was wheeling Rose’s shopping trolley, the kind popular with elderly Grandmothers. The wheel of this contraption kept spinning off causing Rose to chase after it down the street. It was a warm evening and the cafes were still busy, couples walked slowly, arm in arm bathed in the soft moonlight and the imposing outline of the Pantheon stood behind us as we made our way down to the RER and home.
Finally the bitter cold is being replaced with balmy spring air, the drab, soulless cafes are alive once more with people spilling out on to the streets and the long dismal nights are slowly but surely being encroached upon by the longer, more relaxing days. Paris in spring, on the other hand, is a wonderful place to be. As I write this I am sitting beneath a cherry blossom tree in full bloom in Buttes Chaumont. The sunlight is filtering down through the leaves and I can hear the birds singing, the children playing and an elderly French couple chatting quietly behind me. This vast turn around in my opinions toward Parisian life has been aided, not only by the improvement in the weather, but also by my working hours. I now work mostly day shifts meaning I am free from as early as 4:15 to have a siesta, a shower and recuperate in a pub with some friends or go out for dinner. A couple of weeks ago I spent an evening in an especially French fashion at a dinner party.
French schools are closed on Wednesdays and, each week, my friend Rose looks after two boys, Dimitri and Guillaume, for the day. They are nice children and sometimes I go for lunch or to play table tennis with them. They seem to have taken a shine to me and often report back to their Mother what we got up to during the day. It is because of this that when Rose, in her infinite wisdom, decided to cook for almost the entire family, the boys and their parents, insisted I come.
It was with some trepidation that I climbed the stairs to the fifth floor of their rather pleasant apartment near the Pantheon. Upon entering I was relieved to find that no one had arrived yet. However, I did find Rose and her sister Aba huddled over the stove in the kitchen engulfed by a cloud of smoke. Presumably, not being used to the induction hob, Rose had misjudged the temperature and burnt the first lot of tatale: a delicious combination of mashed plantain, deep friend until slightly crispy on the outside and gooey on the inside. Not wanting to add to Rose’s problems I settled myself at the breakfast bar – having a solid barrier between myself and the tension in the kitchen felt rather reassuring. Presently the others began to arrive. First it was the boys’ Aunt and Uncle who came with their two children and then the parents arrived home too with the boys. This made a total of 11, of which, only two spoke any English.
Thankfully, the Father, Frederic brought out the alcohol and provided me with a beer with a dash of Picon – an orange flavoured addition that made it taste rather like marmalade. I sat quietly making kebabs and chatting with the boys’ Uncle whilst Rose and Aba pottered about in the kitchen, the boys played with my iPhone and the little girl spilled her juice, fussed and generally irritated everyone, except, of course, for her doting parents.
I had, without really thinking, brought a bottle of wine which, although wasn’t the cheapest in the ‘Alimentation Generale’ wasn’t anything special either. Frederic opened this and we eventually sat down to dinner. Rose made a toast which induced the boys into fits of giggles and resulted in them taking it upon themselves to try and extract a toast from me as well. Within minutes the entire table was chanting ‘Allez, James! James!’ Naturally I went puce in the face with embarrassment before making my rather forceful excuses. Not being a connoisseur of wine I thought my bottle was rather delicious. Frederic was also very complimentary although I can’t imagine that a €6 bottle of red from the corner shop compared particularly favourably to the expensive looking bottles of Chianti and Merlot that were lined up in the kitchen.
The meal was wonderful and, before long, I was more relaxed and chatting fairly comfortably to Frederic and Celine, the boys’ Mother. Throughout the meal the boys’ cousin, the little girl of about three or four, was a constant nuisance. Sweet, in a clichéd sense, with blonde hair and blue eyes she was constantly seeking attention either by whining or crying. Once we had all finished eating her father offered her a chocolate mousse. Before opening it he checked with her that she was sure she was going to eat it to which she replied with a withering look and a Gaelic shrug ‘Bein oui’. This caused the parents to visibly swoon with affection whilst I did my best to keep my food from making a bid for freedom.
After we had cleared the table we moved into the living room for champagne and dessert. Celine had made some delicious cookies which she sandwiched together with a thick, creamy strawberry sauce and summer fruits. The little girl insisted upon meandering around the coffee table upon which were perched everyone’s champagne glasses. Celine and Frederic were somewhat wary about this but didn’t say anything - her parents were oblivious to their precious little girl’s stupidity. Inevitably, before long, she knocked one off the table (luckily for her it wasn’t mine) which caused everyone to wince, draw breath or cry out. This caused the little girl to burst into tears. Rather than giving her a good smack and making her sit down finally, the father swept her into his arms and cooed softly in her ear for the next 15 minutes whilst Celine went about clearing up the spilt champagne.
Eventually, tired, full and relaxed, Rose, Aba and I bid our farewells. We left the warm glow of the apartment and went down the narrow stairs to the wide, Parisian boulevard outside. I was wheeling Rose’s shopping trolley, the kind popular with elderly Grandmothers. The wheel of this contraption kept spinning off causing Rose to chase after it down the street. It was a warm evening and the cafes were still busy, couples walked slowly, arm in arm bathed in the soft moonlight and the imposing outline of the Pantheon stood behind us as we made our way down to the RER and home.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Easter in the UK
I’m spending Easter in the UK and, before returning to my hometown of Oxford, I broke the journey with a night in London catching up with old friends. Living in London last year I remember being crammed into a corner on the tube and thinking how desperate I was to move from this city to a more relaxed and refined lifestyle in Paris. Now that I have realised that lifestyle it is, of course, a classic case of the grass being so much greener in London once again. I spent the whole day seeing as many people as possible and thinking to myself how refreshing it was to have people wait for you to get off before swarming onto the tube themselves. By comparison people are decent in London: They hold doors for you, they wait at zebra crossings and are generally far more polite than in Paris.
The ‘buzz’ in London is also another factor worth mentioning. We went out on a Monday night, probably the quietest night of the week, and yet still found the streets thronged with people, the bars and clubs busy enough to provide a good atmosphere and the various sandwich shops and burger restaurants open all through the night to satiate those post-alcohol munchies. I took full advantage of this and bought a delicious sandwich from Subway before getting the night bus, followed by a salt beef bagel from an all night workers’ cafe along the Bethnal Green Road on the walk from the bus stop home. This scenario is about as far removed as possible from the lonely walks I have made, even on a weekend, with no taxis in sight, from Bastille to Gare de l’Est craving some hot food but knowing that the only thing available at such an hour is the cold pasta in the fridge at home.
Back in Oxford, driving along the familiar roads to have lunch with an ex-colleague or drinks with an old friend I found some old CDs in the glove compartment which instantly transported me back to my Uni days. Oxford is full of memories. Very little changes but it will always have a rather bittersweet value because of that. My schoolboy self walked the same streets and went to the same shops, whilst at Uni I drove along the same dual carriageways and went to the same clubs and I even used the same routes each day on my commute to and from my first job. Although it feels as though I’ve left it behind somewhat, I know I can come home and it will always feel relaxing and safe.
The ‘buzz’ in London is also another factor worth mentioning. We went out on a Monday night, probably the quietest night of the week, and yet still found the streets thronged with people, the bars and clubs busy enough to provide a good atmosphere and the various sandwich shops and burger restaurants open all through the night to satiate those post-alcohol munchies. I took full advantage of this and bought a delicious sandwich from Subway before getting the night bus, followed by a salt beef bagel from an all night workers’ cafe along the Bethnal Green Road on the walk from the bus stop home. This scenario is about as far removed as possible from the lonely walks I have made, even on a weekend, with no taxis in sight, from Bastille to Gare de l’Est craving some hot food but knowing that the only thing available at such an hour is the cold pasta in the fridge at home.
Back in Oxford, driving along the familiar roads to have lunch with an ex-colleague or drinks with an old friend I found some old CDs in the glove compartment which instantly transported me back to my Uni days. Oxford is full of memories. Very little changes but it will always have a rather bittersweet value because of that. My schoolboy self walked the same streets and went to the same shops, whilst at Uni I drove along the same dual carriageways and went to the same clubs and I even used the same routes each day on my commute to and from my first job. Although it feels as though I’ve left it behind somewhat, I know I can come home and it will always feel relaxing and safe.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Moving on
A lot has happened since the last time I wrote: for various reasons, I am no longer teaching English, I have increased my hours and am now working almost full time at Breakfast in America and, most importantly, I have moved into a much more congenial apartment near Chateau Rouge. I have a big, comfortable bed, a warm, spacious room and as much hot water as I like – enough, even to fill the luxuriously big bath in the bathroom. In comparison with my tiny studio at Gare de l’Est this apartment feels rather like a boutique hotel. The apartment was only the third one I viewed so no one could say that the search was particularly difficult. However, the two previous apartments I saw were so completely unacceptable, it was a huge relief to find this one.
The first apartment I viewed was in a quiet block just next to Telegraph on line 11. Upon knocking I was greeted by a volley of barks from within and a lot of scuffling noises whilst the owner presumably moved the dogs into the back room. As it transpired she had six. Six small yappy creatures that all slept in the same room and shared a bed with the owner - a toothless lady in her 50s who showed us around in her pyjamas. Despite the unfortunate dog smell which had permeated the rest of the apartment, in general, it wasn’t bad at all. The living room was light and spacious with rather grand, out of place, marble furnishings. The kitchen and bedroom were also adequate. It seemed that the owner preserved the rest of the apartment quite perfectly and rarely used the living room or kitchen. Her room on the other hand was awash with dog toys, stained bed sheets and clutter. Aside from the smell and the six dogs I simply wouldn’t have felt relaxed living with someone so much older than me who allocates the use of her balcony solely as a loo for her dogs so I moved on to the next viewing.
This apartment was much less agreeable. It was small and poky and I would be sharing with an Indian man who would have to walk through my ‘bedroom’ to in order to access his. It really couldn’t be accurately described as a bedroom in any case – it was just off the kitchen and really only offered enough space for the bed and the walkway between the kitchen and the owner’s bedroom. This man was very particular about my working hours since he claimed to work from home a lot. Once it transpired that I worked mainly evenings he explained that the apartment wouldn’t be suitable for me. I could have told him that from the second I walked in the door in fact.
My current apartment is in a traditional Parisian building and my room has large French windows with a view of, well, the wall of the building opposite actually, but it is light nevertheless and the apartment is quiet and warm. The kitchen has an electric hob and a mini oven but this took nearly an hour to cook a pizza the other night so I’m going to invest in a new one so I can, once again, indulge in mid-week roast dinners, boeuf bourguignon and macaroni cheese.
The apartment has made a huge difference to my quality of life. I sleep better, I feel more relaxed, I’m more enthusiastic about learning French and I eat better. Coupled with this the weather in Paris lately has been wonderful - clear blue skies, a slight warmth to the sun and trees and plants starting to bud in anticipation of Spring. I’ve found myself meandering through the streets feeling really rather positive about living here – something I haven’t felt for a long time.
After work on Saturday I went to Corcoran’s to meet some friends. It was the first time I had been there since long before Christmas and I was surprised at how little things had changed. Nicky was still lumbering about behind the back bar shouting at several new starters whom I didn’t recognise, Nabeel was still prowling across the floor with his earpiece, in constant contact with the door staff, and several other staff members who I remembered where still working frantically with sweat dripping off their faces. In hindsight I’m surprised that I put up with the management there but this, of course, is easy to say now that I am settled, have a steady job, friendly colleagues and a regular income. In July, starting out in a new city with no job, only a couple of friends and an unfamiliar environment I was prepared to put up with a lot more to make a go of things. Luckily, it seems to have paid off.
The first apartment I viewed was in a quiet block just next to Telegraph on line 11. Upon knocking I was greeted by a volley of barks from within and a lot of scuffling noises whilst the owner presumably moved the dogs into the back room. As it transpired she had six. Six small yappy creatures that all slept in the same room and shared a bed with the owner - a toothless lady in her 50s who showed us around in her pyjamas. Despite the unfortunate dog smell which had permeated the rest of the apartment, in general, it wasn’t bad at all. The living room was light and spacious with rather grand, out of place, marble furnishings. The kitchen and bedroom were also adequate. It seemed that the owner preserved the rest of the apartment quite perfectly and rarely used the living room or kitchen. Her room on the other hand was awash with dog toys, stained bed sheets and clutter. Aside from the smell and the six dogs I simply wouldn’t have felt relaxed living with someone so much older than me who allocates the use of her balcony solely as a loo for her dogs so I moved on to the next viewing.
This apartment was much less agreeable. It was small and poky and I would be sharing with an Indian man who would have to walk through my ‘bedroom’ to in order to access his. It really couldn’t be accurately described as a bedroom in any case – it was just off the kitchen and really only offered enough space for the bed and the walkway between the kitchen and the owner’s bedroom. This man was very particular about my working hours since he claimed to work from home a lot. Once it transpired that I worked mainly evenings he explained that the apartment wouldn’t be suitable for me. I could have told him that from the second I walked in the door in fact.
My current apartment is in a traditional Parisian building and my room has large French windows with a view of, well, the wall of the building opposite actually, but it is light nevertheless and the apartment is quiet and warm. The kitchen has an electric hob and a mini oven but this took nearly an hour to cook a pizza the other night so I’m going to invest in a new one so I can, once again, indulge in mid-week roast dinners, boeuf bourguignon and macaroni cheese.
The apartment has made a huge difference to my quality of life. I sleep better, I feel more relaxed, I’m more enthusiastic about learning French and I eat better. Coupled with this the weather in Paris lately has been wonderful - clear blue skies, a slight warmth to the sun and trees and plants starting to bud in anticipation of Spring. I’ve found myself meandering through the streets feeling really rather positive about living here – something I haven’t felt for a long time.
After work on Saturday I went to Corcoran’s to meet some friends. It was the first time I had been there since long before Christmas and I was surprised at how little things had changed. Nicky was still lumbering about behind the back bar shouting at several new starters whom I didn’t recognise, Nabeel was still prowling across the floor with his earpiece, in constant contact with the door staff, and several other staff members who I remembered where still working frantically with sweat dripping off their faces. In hindsight I’m surprised that I put up with the management there but this, of course, is easy to say now that I am settled, have a steady job, friendly colleagues and a regular income. In July, starting out in a new city with no job, only a couple of friends and an unfamiliar environment I was prepared to put up with a lot more to make a go of things. Luckily, it seems to have paid off.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Return to Paris
Having spent a glorious two weeks at home for Christmas I am now back in my icy apartment with a fridge that clangs all night long, a fresh spattering of mould on the walls and a loo that is now completely broken courtesy of the disgusting old man who lives down the corridor. It may not actually be his fault but since he has woken me up every morning since I got back by unlocking the loo door and leaving it open whilst he urinates loudly I think it only fair that he be held responsible. Now that my fingers are growing accustomed to the cold and can, once again, operate sufficiently to type and my brain has got over the shock of discovering that a friend of mine who lives in Shrewsbury pays the same for her two bedroom house as I pay for my studio, I thought I would continue with my accounts of life in Paris.
In stark contrast to the type of behaviour expected in London, for example, in Paris, no one was surprised by the sight of a rather frazzled old lady boarding the metro with a pigeon clinging to her bag. She settled herself in one of the folding chairs and the pigeon looked round indignantly at the other passengers as though warning them to respect his personal space. He then ruffled his feathers resignedly and dived into the bottom of the bag which I could see was covered with an assortment of seeds and other delicacies. I suppose the lady was grateful for the company for she seemed to be homeless.
Walking home from Breakfast in America towards Bastille the other night I was, once again, reminded of the amount of poverty and homelessness in Paris. This particular stretch of road is lively and full of people during the day but at night it transforms into almost another world. Each shop doorway is occupied by a homeless person together with an assortment of belongings. There is one notable elderly lady who takes up almost the entire length of a shop window with an assortment of packing cases, clothes, sleeping bags and deck chairs. She makes herself a little camp each night and stomps about in her tartan skirt and stockinged feet rummaging through her belongings, tidying up her little space and watching the world go by from one of her deckchairs. I regularly see her tending to someone (presumably her husband) buried underneath a thick pile of blankets and pillows. Several residents of this strange nocturnal neighbourhood make little fires and the whole scene resembles something out of Escape from New York.
Just a few doors down from me, I discovered recently, is a perfect sleeping spot which is densely populated with tents and sleeping bags. I have taken a different route home these past couple of nights and have been sure to tiptoe silently past the sleeping lumpy shapes to get to my building. I suppose this sort of place would be my choice if I were homeless – not only is it quiet but there is also a metro grate which expels warm air to the lucky one who is first on the scene in the evening. Of course, there is also the option of sleeping in the metro itself which, although warm, means putting up with the trains passing until 1am and then again from 5am so, for me, a little backstreet seems the best option.
In stark contrast to the type of behaviour expected in London, for example, in Paris, no one was surprised by the sight of a rather frazzled old lady boarding the metro with a pigeon clinging to her bag. She settled herself in one of the folding chairs and the pigeon looked round indignantly at the other passengers as though warning them to respect his personal space. He then ruffled his feathers resignedly and dived into the bottom of the bag which I could see was covered with an assortment of seeds and other delicacies. I suppose the lady was grateful for the company for she seemed to be homeless.
Walking home from Breakfast in America towards Bastille the other night I was, once again, reminded of the amount of poverty and homelessness in Paris. This particular stretch of road is lively and full of people during the day but at night it transforms into almost another world. Each shop doorway is occupied by a homeless person together with an assortment of belongings. There is one notable elderly lady who takes up almost the entire length of a shop window with an assortment of packing cases, clothes, sleeping bags and deck chairs. She makes herself a little camp each night and stomps about in her tartan skirt and stockinged feet rummaging through her belongings, tidying up her little space and watching the world go by from one of her deckchairs. I regularly see her tending to someone (presumably her husband) buried underneath a thick pile of blankets and pillows. Several residents of this strange nocturnal neighbourhood make little fires and the whole scene resembles something out of Escape from New York.
Just a few doors down from me, I discovered recently, is a perfect sleeping spot which is densely populated with tents and sleeping bags. I have taken a different route home these past couple of nights and have been sure to tiptoe silently past the sleeping lumpy shapes to get to my building. I suppose this sort of place would be my choice if I were homeless – not only is it quiet but there is also a metro grate which expels warm air to the lucky one who is first on the scene in the evening. Of course, there is also the option of sleeping in the metro itself which, although warm, means putting up with the trains passing until 1am and then again from 5am so, for me, a little backstreet seems the best option.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Un Mélange of Anecdotes
Several Sundays ago I was in the midst of a terrible hangover and trying desperately to lie still and sleep when from across the room I heard my mobile buzzing furiously on the table. Thinking it might be something important I wrenched myself out of bed and after much searching located my phone under a pile of bills. It was Deborah from Breakfast in America who explained that they were a man down and asked if I could go in at 4pm instead of 7pm. And so, with puffy eyes, a splitting headache and a stomach that felt as if it might make a bid for freedom one way or another, I fought for a place on the metro and arrived at work just before 4pm. Brunch was in full swing and there was a queue of around 25 people waiting outside, whilst, inside, there were plates stacked high on every available surface, pancakes with sticky containers of maple syrup at almost every table and a very frazzled looking staff doing their best to satisfy every demand. I surveyed the room with a feeling of despair and immediately popped two Doliprane in an attempt to ease my headache before I joined the fray and began taking orders and clearing tables. Whether it was a result of the Doliprane, the pace of work, the heat, or a mixture of all three I’m not sure but within an hour or so I realised I was feeling relatively normal. My headache had subsided, I no longer felt queasy and I was feeling rather energised by the atmosphere in the restaurant. Perhaps forcing your body to perform in such a situation induces your metabolism to speed up and purge itself of all the toxins left over from the night before, I was certainly feeling better, regardless.
Despite having a wealth of things to do in my spare time such as searching for a new apartment, writing this blog and, of course, learning French I have become so drained by the lack of long hot showers, central heating and pretty much any creature comforts that all I seem able to do is lie in bed and watch Brothers and Sisters and Spooks. However, I am off until 7pm tonight, which is unheard of, and, having just had a delicious and comforting meal in a warm delicious restaurant with my friend Camille, I feel rather energised so thought I would channel this energy into something productive.
Last Sunday I had enjoyed a lie in and was just getting through the daily obstacle of showering in a cupboard when I heard someone come up the stairs and knock, either on my door, or on Soraya’s (they’re so close together I couldn’t tell which). The last thing I felt like dealing with was anything that required speaking French so I stopped singing abruptly and listened for further developments. Presently Soraya answered her door and I heard an anguished cry from our neighbour below us who exclaimed ‘Il pleut dans ma maison!’ literally translated this means ‘it’s raining in my house’. I felt sure this was caused by my shower but I was in no mood to deal with this kind of problem on one of my precious mornings off so I quietly finished my shower and got dressed. All the while I could hear Soraya and the other woman murmuring outside trying to determine whether it was Soraya’s sink or the loo or something else entirely. Eventually Soraya went downstairs to see where the water was coming from and I snuck out to buy some lunch. As I passed the doorway to the apartment below mine I noticed that it was ajar and I could them still trying to determine the source of the leak.
When I returned with a fresh baguette, some smoked salmon and some cream cheese all was quiet so I made myself a sandwich and decided to Skype my parents who had just got back from an extended holiday, as such it was the first time I had spoken to them in around three weeks. About five minutes into the conversation there was a loud knocking at the door. I wearily answered it to find Soraya who anxiously explained to me about the leak. Despite my protests she ran off to get the neighbour below us silencing me with shrieks of ‘J’arrive toute de suite!’ I explained to Dad that I would call him back, sprayed some Febreeze around the place to get rid of the smell of fish and waited for the neighbour. She surveyed the shower and exclaimed ‘Oh la la, c’est sympa eh?!’ I studied the peeling paint, the mouldy skylight and the ancient tiles on the walls and shrugged before she explained that she wasn’t sure where the leak was coming from but would try and arrange for a plumber to carry out some tests. I agreed and she went home, Soraya returned to her apartment and I went back to my sandwich. I haven’t heard anything since so I’m hoping the cause of the problem was something entirely unrelated to my apartment.
Breakfast in America is as enjoyable as ever and we rotate duties regularly meaning that one day I am taking orders, the next I am on the door and the next I am on the bar. This creates a nice variety of tasks and regardless of what I’m doing I always have fun whilst I’m there. The staff are extremely easy to get along with and we all seem to have a similar sense of humour resulting in a great atmosphere.
When working on the door one is responsible for seating new customers and clearing tables. The restaurant is so popular and so small that there is nearly always a queue of at least twenty people in the evening and it is the job of the person on the door to explain to them how long the wait will be and to juggle tables to seat everyone as quickly as possible. There is a notice outside that asks customers to wait outside to be seated since there simply isn’t enough room for people to wait inside. Last week, when the restaurant was as full as it is possible to be, a group of four French girls came in, ignored the queue, and asked me if I had space for four. I looked at them for a moment trying to judge whether or not they were being serious and, deciding that they were, made a mock scan of the room as if to convey the fact that there wasn’t an empty seat in the place. They didn’t catch on. I explained that we didn’t have any seats at the moment but if they’d like to join the queue outside there’d be a wait of around 20 minutes. They smiled and explained that they only wanted to eat a couple of pieces of cheesecake. Rather than explaining that they should, in fact, wait longer than all the other people who were already in the queue and wanted proper meals, I explained again that we didn’t have any tables at the moment. They decided to order the cheesecake to take away but in the ten minutes they were waiting for their order insisted upon waiting at the bar, getting in everyone’s way and asking me continually if they could sit at every table for two that became vacant. We were all very glad to see the back of them.
Despite having a wealth of things to do in my spare time such as searching for a new apartment, writing this blog and, of course, learning French I have become so drained by the lack of long hot showers, central heating and pretty much any creature comforts that all I seem able to do is lie in bed and watch Brothers and Sisters and Spooks. However, I am off until 7pm tonight, which is unheard of, and, having just had a delicious and comforting meal in a warm delicious restaurant with my friend Camille, I feel rather energised so thought I would channel this energy into something productive.
Last Sunday I had enjoyed a lie in and was just getting through the daily obstacle of showering in a cupboard when I heard someone come up the stairs and knock, either on my door, or on Soraya’s (they’re so close together I couldn’t tell which). The last thing I felt like dealing with was anything that required speaking French so I stopped singing abruptly and listened for further developments. Presently Soraya answered her door and I heard an anguished cry from our neighbour below us who exclaimed ‘Il pleut dans ma maison!’ literally translated this means ‘it’s raining in my house’. I felt sure this was caused by my shower but I was in no mood to deal with this kind of problem on one of my precious mornings off so I quietly finished my shower and got dressed. All the while I could hear Soraya and the other woman murmuring outside trying to determine whether it was Soraya’s sink or the loo or something else entirely. Eventually Soraya went downstairs to see where the water was coming from and I snuck out to buy some lunch. As I passed the doorway to the apartment below mine I noticed that it was ajar and I could them still trying to determine the source of the leak.
When I returned with a fresh baguette, some smoked salmon and some cream cheese all was quiet so I made myself a sandwich and decided to Skype my parents who had just got back from an extended holiday, as such it was the first time I had spoken to them in around three weeks. About five minutes into the conversation there was a loud knocking at the door. I wearily answered it to find Soraya who anxiously explained to me about the leak. Despite my protests she ran off to get the neighbour below us silencing me with shrieks of ‘J’arrive toute de suite!’ I explained to Dad that I would call him back, sprayed some Febreeze around the place to get rid of the smell of fish and waited for the neighbour. She surveyed the shower and exclaimed ‘Oh la la, c’est sympa eh?!’ I studied the peeling paint, the mouldy skylight and the ancient tiles on the walls and shrugged before she explained that she wasn’t sure where the leak was coming from but would try and arrange for a plumber to carry out some tests. I agreed and she went home, Soraya returned to her apartment and I went back to my sandwich. I haven’t heard anything since so I’m hoping the cause of the problem was something entirely unrelated to my apartment.
Breakfast in America is as enjoyable as ever and we rotate duties regularly meaning that one day I am taking orders, the next I am on the door and the next I am on the bar. This creates a nice variety of tasks and regardless of what I’m doing I always have fun whilst I’m there. The staff are extremely easy to get along with and we all seem to have a similar sense of humour resulting in a great atmosphere.
When working on the door one is responsible for seating new customers and clearing tables. The restaurant is so popular and so small that there is nearly always a queue of at least twenty people in the evening and it is the job of the person on the door to explain to them how long the wait will be and to juggle tables to seat everyone as quickly as possible. There is a notice outside that asks customers to wait outside to be seated since there simply isn’t enough room for people to wait inside. Last week, when the restaurant was as full as it is possible to be, a group of four French girls came in, ignored the queue, and asked me if I had space for four. I looked at them for a moment trying to judge whether or not they were being serious and, deciding that they were, made a mock scan of the room as if to convey the fact that there wasn’t an empty seat in the place. They didn’t catch on. I explained that we didn’t have any seats at the moment but if they’d like to join the queue outside there’d be a wait of around 20 minutes. They smiled and explained that they only wanted to eat a couple of pieces of cheesecake. Rather than explaining that they should, in fact, wait longer than all the other people who were already in the queue and wanted proper meals, I explained again that we didn’t have any tables at the moment. They decided to order the cheesecake to take away but in the ten minutes they were waiting for their order insisted upon waiting at the bar, getting in everyone’s way and asking me continually if they could sit at every table for two that became vacant. We were all very glad to see the back of them.
Monday, November 16, 2009
My Neighbours
One of the many factors I dislike about flat living is the different smells that waft out from each flat as the inhabitant starts cooking their evening meal. In our building each floor is, naturally, linked by a staircase. However, there is an absence of any doors to seal off the floors and the result is a medley of odours from each floor amalgamating and hanging in the communal air until their go stale. Imagine, for example, floor one provides the fried onions, floor two provides steamed fish, floor three, roasted garlic and by the time you get to floor five with Soraya’s various curries and lamb dishes the air is so heavy with the various scents that it’s a huge relief to close the door on them all and breathe the relatively fresh, albeit slightly damp air, in my apartment. It seems that the patch of mould that is slowly moving its way across the ceiling is responsible for this but I have also noticed that the wall behind my bed is constantly wet so I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole apartment crumbled away to nothing before too long.
The inhabitants of my building are a varied bunch. On my floor there’s Soraya of course but there’s also the old man who lives directly opposite the staircase. We have a strange relationship – each morning I hear him shuffling past my apartment, unlocking the loo door and urinating loudly with the door wide open before shuffling back to his apartment without using the flush. This is followed by a bellow of range on my part when I visit the loo half an hour later to find a generous sprinkling of urine all over the stone floor and an unflushed bowl. I proceed to hammer loudly on the wall adjacent to his apartment whilst shouting obscenities before returning to my apartment and listening to some music at full volume to vent my anger. This is all played out anonymously and when we meet each other on the stairs we are, generally, perfectly amicable with one another and will discuss topics such as the weather and the state of the building. He’s a strange man, not least because he is in his sixties and living in a studio apartment, but he also has a lazy eye which always looks skyward and a slight limp. The thought of him shuffling past my door in his dressing gown and slippers at night is the stuff of nightmares.
On the floor above is a very cruel looking Iranian guy who is possibly one of the most unfriendly people I have ever met. He has a waxen complexion and is completely bald except for a thin sprinkling of black hair around the back and sides of his head. He wears dark, misshapen clothes and I have had the misfortune of coming out of my apartment just as he is going past and having to endure five flights of stairs looking at the back of his head. This has happened on several occasions and never has he made any attempt to smile or speak to me. Once he was eating a cream cheese sandwich and kept dropping pieces of cheese which he would scrape off the floor and wipe on his trousers.
On the third floor lives a rather large lady with a ruddy complexion and unkempt greying hair. She’s much more friendly than the Iranian man and will always stop to say hello no matter how short of breath she is from climbing the stairs (usually with an array of packages and boxes). She gives the impression of always being tremendously busy and I often see her stomping around in her hiking boots and cycle gear as if she’s just about to embark on an expedition to the Alps. The door to her apartment is surrounded with pot plants which I thought were hers until one day I saw the little old lady who lives next door to her tending to them.
The elderly lady who lives on the third floor inhabits the apartment on the left hand side and can usually be found either pruning, dead-heading, or watering her pot plants or else pottering about in the storage room which is full to bursting with old bed parts, microwaves, assorted pieces of broken furniture and paintings. She has fine, wispy white hair which she wears tied up in a loose bun and milky blue eyes. She reminds me very much of Kralefsky’s mother in Gerald Durrell’s My Family and Other Animals although she certainly isn’t bed-ridden nor are her flowers exactly exquisite. She too is very friendly and always calls me ‘Monsieur’ which, although relatively normal, still makes me feel rather important.
Finally there’s the man who lives upstairs who I originally met at the laundrette and lent some washing powder to. He likes to practise his English when we meet in the stairwell and claims that his girlfriend (who also lives with him apparently) is English.
Thus, these are the residents who I interact with on a regular basis and who make up life in my building. There are others; the two guys who come home each night at 1:30am and thunder up the stairs, the girl on floor two who had the house party for her birthday and the Chinese man and his wife who live on the fourth floor. However, the ones previously mentioned are the most relevant and interesting characters in the building, and I portray them in order to give you an impression of the various personalities flourishing in a little side street, near Gare de l’Est, in the 10th arrondissement.
The inhabitants of my building are a varied bunch. On my floor there’s Soraya of course but there’s also the old man who lives directly opposite the staircase. We have a strange relationship – each morning I hear him shuffling past my apartment, unlocking the loo door and urinating loudly with the door wide open before shuffling back to his apartment without using the flush. This is followed by a bellow of range on my part when I visit the loo half an hour later to find a generous sprinkling of urine all over the stone floor and an unflushed bowl. I proceed to hammer loudly on the wall adjacent to his apartment whilst shouting obscenities before returning to my apartment and listening to some music at full volume to vent my anger. This is all played out anonymously and when we meet each other on the stairs we are, generally, perfectly amicable with one another and will discuss topics such as the weather and the state of the building. He’s a strange man, not least because he is in his sixties and living in a studio apartment, but he also has a lazy eye which always looks skyward and a slight limp. The thought of him shuffling past my door in his dressing gown and slippers at night is the stuff of nightmares.
On the floor above is a very cruel looking Iranian guy who is possibly one of the most unfriendly people I have ever met. He has a waxen complexion and is completely bald except for a thin sprinkling of black hair around the back and sides of his head. He wears dark, misshapen clothes and I have had the misfortune of coming out of my apartment just as he is going past and having to endure five flights of stairs looking at the back of his head. This has happened on several occasions and never has he made any attempt to smile or speak to me. Once he was eating a cream cheese sandwich and kept dropping pieces of cheese which he would scrape off the floor and wipe on his trousers.
On the third floor lives a rather large lady with a ruddy complexion and unkempt greying hair. She’s much more friendly than the Iranian man and will always stop to say hello no matter how short of breath she is from climbing the stairs (usually with an array of packages and boxes). She gives the impression of always being tremendously busy and I often see her stomping around in her hiking boots and cycle gear as if she’s just about to embark on an expedition to the Alps. The door to her apartment is surrounded with pot plants which I thought were hers until one day I saw the little old lady who lives next door to her tending to them.
The elderly lady who lives on the third floor inhabits the apartment on the left hand side and can usually be found either pruning, dead-heading, or watering her pot plants or else pottering about in the storage room which is full to bursting with old bed parts, microwaves, assorted pieces of broken furniture and paintings. She has fine, wispy white hair which she wears tied up in a loose bun and milky blue eyes. She reminds me very much of Kralefsky’s mother in Gerald Durrell’s My Family and Other Animals although she certainly isn’t bed-ridden nor are her flowers exactly exquisite. She too is very friendly and always calls me ‘Monsieur’ which, although relatively normal, still makes me feel rather important.
Finally there’s the man who lives upstairs who I originally met at the laundrette and lent some washing powder to. He likes to practise his English when we meet in the stairwell and claims that his girlfriend (who also lives with him apparently) is English.
Thus, these are the residents who I interact with on a regular basis and who make up life in my building. There are others; the two guys who come home each night at 1:30am and thunder up the stairs, the girl on floor two who had the house party for her birthday and the Chinese man and his wife who live on the fourth floor. However, the ones previously mentioned are the most relevant and interesting characters in the building, and I portray them in order to give you an impression of the various personalities flourishing in a little side street, near Gare de l’Est, in the 10th arrondissement.
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