September 2005 Archives

The day before, someone had buzzed our apartment from downstairs. Since this didn't happen often (or ever actually), it caught me off guard. Geoff was at work, so I tentatively picked up the intercom phone and mumbled a cross between "allo" and "hello." At that point, the woman on the other end began babbling in French and all I caught was something about a kitchen and bathroom. So I said, "je ne comprends pas." She asked if I spoke English and I said yes. Then she babbled in English and was equally incomprehensible. She kept saying "it's very important," but that was all I got. Figuring she must be trying to sell something, I simply hung up the phone and went back to my computer. At this point, she somehow had managed to get buzzed into the building and rang my doorbell which I ignored for several minutes. I figured that eventually she'd give up and go away. Considering I couldn't understand her at all, that really seemed for the best. Several minutes of ringing was followed by a brief silence. But within seconds, she returned to buzzing the downstairs intercom. So instead of my polite Franglish 'hallo' I now barked into the phone "What on earth do you want!?" Again, she just said it was very important but nothing else. So I said, "Ugh. I'll come down." On my way out, she was on her way up the stairs.

Only face-to-face could we properly communicate. I finally learned the two most important bits of information - she was our downstairs neighbor and she had a leak. The petite woman was in her late 30s and had long black curly hair. Quite flustered, she rattled on quickly as if she were running out of time. She explained about the leak and wanted to show me. I went and looked - sure enough, a leak. But wait, I said, our apartment is not above yours, and we don't have any leaks. Still you never know, she said. Presumably she thought French pipes could defy gravity. I didn't rule it out either. I said, perhaps the culprit was the apartment directly above her. There was clearly someone living there because I had started to hear ridiculously loud music pumping out into the stairwell each time I crossed our apartment threshold. She said whoever lived there (he, she or it) wouldn't answer the door. She was nearly in tears. Her electricity had stopped working and her walls were ruined.

Ok, I sympathized, but I still was confused. I asked, what exactly would you like me to do? She said she needed me to call the plumber to make sure he could get in all the surrounding apartments when he came. Maybe I had misunderstood but it appeared that she was asking me to call the plumber for the leak in her apartment. I repeated this back to her in disbelief. She nodded. No, you should call, I offered. But her phones were dead due to the leak. What about a cell phone? But, she responded, I am French and I don't have a cell phone. I felt badly but there was no way I was going to test my French on a plumber for someone else's apartment. So I told her, no I couldn't do that but I would give her my cell number and promise to try and be here when her plumber arrived if I could.

This was when I realized that perhaps the self-sufficiency of apartments in Paris wasn't ideal for the tenants. When you had a problem, there was no management agency to call - it was simply your problem and you had to fix it. Our Paris apartment did seem unusually self sustaining. It even had its own individualized on-demand hot water system. When you turned on hot water in the apartment, a gas flame turned on inside a device tucked in the kitchen cabinets. This flame heated up the pipes through which water ran, causing the water coming out to be hot. When you turned the water off, the flame turned off. As we also learned the first time I took a shower, when you turned the water down too much thinking that lowering the water pressure would increase the heat of the water, the flame also shut off. So the water never got to the scalding temperature I preferred for my showers but it did get hot and presumably it never ran out. The heat, being electric, was also self-sufficient.

Anyway the next day, as I left for class, I heard the music thumping from the loud hermit next door and imagined some crazy French person blasting the music and overflowing the bathtub into that poor woman's apartment. When I returned later, I found a postcard under my door saying "NEWS from waterwork-trouble. According to the first investigations, the leak probably comes from the studio occupied by the man who is listening to loud music. I put a note under his door because he doesn't want to open it. The leak is still worrying. I hope it will not provoke a fire. My electricity is cut and I will not be very often at my place the next few days." I didn't know much about fires but I was fairly confident they didn't begin with water leaks.

Meanwhile that day in class, we got back the tests which we had taken on Tuesday. Apparently, one had to pass to proceed to the next level of classes. What had amused me most about our test was that as soon as our teacher had left the room, the Lebanese student started inquiring (in French) to others if they understood part of the instructions. Although he seemed a friendly guy, I couldn't warm up to him because he made a point of saying something sexist anytime the opportunity arose, which was often. Anyway, the whispering of students seemed comical to me so I started laughing at which point he asked me if I understood what the instructions meant by "particularités." I gave him a French shrug, a smile, and a "j'n sais pas." This was followed by more loud whispering at which point the Mexican girl in the class, shushed them. Thankfully, the teacher returned so we had some quiet time to complete the test.

After such hubbub, everyone passed the test. Although the teacher did ask the Japanese guy if he wanted to continue or if he'd prefer staying on in the same level. Maybe that's as much as anyone could fail, who knows. I liked our class. We would have political and theoretical conversations in French which I thought was hysterical since I still didn't know the best way to say "nice to meet you." Clearly, my teacher also found it disturbing that the Lebanese student believed women an inferior breed. Our conversation always drifted to equal rights. One day, we discussed women in politics at which point the Lebanese guy said there weren't too many women in politics because they were too emotional. Our teacher wanted an alternate opinion and no one chimed in, either because they didn't care or because the French eluded them, I wasn't sure. So not being one to let things slide, I popped my hand up. I started down a path of saying something like "I think that the teachers in school..." hmm, what was the word for discriminate. I shook my head and told my teacher, "Je ne sais pas le mot." But she knew I was her only hope to defend the rights of women, so she encouraged me to press on. So I came up with some other very simplistic way of stating what I meant - something that translated to, "The teachers do not think the girls can be politicians." Clearly I had hit the mark because she quoted a study that had been done on school discrimination. If this class was graded, I would have just landed my A.

I found it amusing that my teacher kept egging on this chauvinist guy. One time we did this exercise which featured a picture of a man rollerblading and carrying a child. Of course this prompted a conversation about women's roles in the home versus careers. The Lebanese guy predictably expressed where he thought women should stay. Knowing me to be her new ally, the teacher turned to me for my response. But I couldn't resist teasing her so I said "Vous pensez que vous pouvez changer sa tete" (you think you can change his mind) which brought laughter from all the students, even my nemesis.

That night, I did some food shopping and went back to our apartment with a load of five full grocery bags. The door to our apartment building was tucked next to a raw seafood stand manned by rotating crew of Senegalese men. One of them clearly had a crush on me since the first day I arrived, at which point Sylvia scolded him that I was married. This didn't deter him much. Each time he worked, he eagerly tried to make conversation even though I made it pretty clear I had no idea what he was saying.

But this night, I stopped. I had been in my class for nearly two weeks and was interested in seeing if we could have a conversation that made sense. Since he spoke no English, there was no opportunity to slip into the native tongue. So we chatted. He said he was trying to learn English and showed me a learning tape. He asked where we were from. I told him I was American, but really Italian too. I didn't know how to say Jewish. He corrected me on how to say I was from New York but originating from Italy. After a few minutes, the bags in my hands were getting heavy, so I said I must leave but perhaps some day when he was working we'd eat at the restaurant. He said we could go out afterwards dancing which I thought was funny. He asked if I went out at night ever. I asked, with my husband? He said, no alone, and laughed. I smiled and answered, "Non parce que je ne suis pas française " and waved aurevoir which he thought was hysterical. I laughed too. I had definitely decided that there was nothing more fun than making a joke in French.

Without bothering to shower, we woke up and immediately left our seedy room. Geoff had picked the town for the new day - Bayeux. Having learned our lesson, we decided to make the first stop a prospective hotel. So I successfully navigated us to Chataeau de Sully, featured in two of our guidebooks. We drove up to the impressive driveway towards the grand mansion. The outside was much like the one from the night before, but obviously this house had been lovingly restored and maintained. Initially, we figured we would book a room and have lunch.

The friendly man at reception spoke to me in English and feeling lazy, I answered the same. He suggested dinner instead since the menu was the same, which actually I thought was a great idea. It sounded very relaxing to be able to enjoy a wonderful meal, and then simply walk back to your room. The hours of driving to and from each place had definitely stressed us a bit, so that would be a welcome change. So we booked a room. It was more expensive than the previous night, but Geoff reasoned that it's really about how many showers you get in a room, not nights of sleep. And since we'd be getting two each in our new room, it was quite a good deal. Per the receptionist's instructions, we headed away from the town for lunch. It was quite a fortuitous turn since in Port-en-Bessin we found a Sunday market still in full swing. Enamored with the local offerings, we decided to get a picnic lunch and bought some peaches, delicious peppered salami, slightly salted raw milk Normandy butter, a loaf of bread, and, less than 24 hours after our formal cheese education, the official Camembert.

Geoff had wanted to see some of the World War II sites in Normandy, some of which his grandfather had told him about. Normandy had been devastated in the war since it had been a critical point of entry for both the Germans in overtaking France and for the Americans and British in liberating her. We began by stopping at the Musée des Epaves Sou-Marines du Débarquement where there were several tanks which had sunk in the war and had been dredged up in the last few decades. What we discovered in the Museum's video (an obligatory component of all small museums in France), was that this was the work of one man who had spent his life scuba diving to retrieve tanks and memorabilia from the war. He never touched any tanks that still contained the remains of drowned men, but in the others he had retrieved compasses, watches, letters, and other personal items from the soldiers. Geoff tried to convince me this was the same man who now worked at the museum, but I wasn't sure.

We also went to the American Cemetery, eerie rows of nearly 10,000 white crosses in memory of soldiers who died. It was hard for me to imagine sacrificing your life for your country. But I also thought of all the people who had suffered at the hands of the Nazis and thought how amazing it was that humanity does find a way of stopping such grave evil - even if it was later than it should have been. I also thought about the sarcastic comment that seemed to be a favorite among Americans embittered at the French - if it wasn't for us, they'd be speaking German. Maybe it was true. But I realized now that most importantly this comment minimized the greatness of what these men had done and sacrificed. I thought about Geoff's grandfather and wondered what it must have been like for him. I also thought about all the men who died who never got a chance to have children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. Although it was enormously brave, it was such a waste to die in war.

We paused for awhile to gaze at Omaha Beach, and decided maybe that would be a good place for our picnic lunch. So we drove down and found a spot where we laid out our spread and savored every bite. With butter that good, who needed bread? And the camembert lived up to its esteemed reputation. Creamy with a crumbly center and firm casing, it tasted nothing like stinky ripe cheese, but rather more like brussel sprouts.

We went to one more museum - Musée D. Day Omaha - built in a musty metal building used in the war. In it, the French man that worked there told us that he was 10 years old during the war and it became his life mission to collect and maintain all of these objects - uniforms, weapons, propaganda, photographs. Geoff talked to him about his grandfather's war contribution of building a special machine that attached to the tanks and cut through the thick brush. The man knew about them and earnestly looked through his books and photos for something related. He said how grateful he felt to the men like Geoff's grandfather who had freed the country he loved.

We wanted to press on to other sites, but after wearing ourselves out the day before, we decided not to push ourselves. So we went back to the hotel. Our lovely room had padded walls papered in a dark pink floral print and thick drapes which covered a grand window facing the front of the chateau. A nap seemed like a fine idea, so I curled up in the enormous bed and went to sleep. When it was almost time for dinner, Geoff woke me up and I got ready to go. I was glad that we had only to go downstairs. We were surpised to discover a modern dining room with a skylight tucked at the back of this old mansion. Unfortunately, I had a pretty bad headache and wasn't feeling well at all. I thought maybe the culprit was the wine from the night before so maybe some more wine would help? We ordered and they brought us our appetizers. I had a delicious vegetable risotto with mushrooms and some rich red wine. Then our main course came - fabulous tenderloin. But something hit me - suddenly the prospect of eating this hunk of meat made me quite nauseous. Geoff asked if I wanted to go, but I didn't. Two years ago in Paris I had missed enjoying a fabulous Michelin three-star meal because I had gotten violently ill in Spain and it had lingered. Now that I was at a Michelin one-star, I didn't want to miss that too. So I did the best I could on my steak. But soon enough it became clear that the imminent cheese course was out of the question. That clammy feeling of nausea had swept over me and I felt sure I was going to throw up. I didn't know what had brought it on - maybe all the raw milk butter and cheese earlier. But it clearly wasn't fading, so I had to forgo the rest of my dinner. Determined not to get sick, I went back to the room and tried to relax. I knew I couldn't go back downstairs, so I got undressed, got into bed, and fell asleep. When Geoff came, I asked if he would go get me some Tylenol at the front desk. Reluctantly (because of his fear of speaking French), he went and returned with some pills which I gladly took. Thankfully that seemed to do the trick because I woke up without having gotten sick and feeling rejuvenated.

The next morning we would have to leave Normandy, but I had a strong feeling it wasn't for forever. It was a French good-bye "au revoir" meaning literally until we see each other again.

We set the alarm clock early, but we didn't actually get up early. Maybe it was because the volume of the alarm radio never rose above a whisper. Or maybe it was because since we had arrived in Paris we had been so tired and had indulged in full nights of sleep. Or maybe we were just lazy. Regardless, we didn't get up early and as a result, missed the Saturday markets in Normandy. Fortunately, there was more to see.

We took the metro out of Paris to Rueil-Malmaison to pick up the car Geoff had reserved. When we got to Avis, I decided to try an experiment. I wanted to see if we could complete a complex transaction like renting a car without 'cheating' in English. We managed to give the man working there our licenses when asked and to do the paperwork properly, so he then gave us the keys and directions to the car, of which I caught "gauche" (left) "cinquante metres" (50 meters) and "trios bas" (three of something). We weren't sure how these would come together, but we decided to give it a shot. We walked in the direction he had pointed and looked towards the left for signs of our car. Geoff spotted a parking garage for the train station and since it was on the left, we figured, why not? So we went up a few flights of stairs and saw that we were at deux bas - quite promising. At trios bas, we hit the car clicker and located our car - success! We were quite proud of ourselves, until, of course, we actually got in the car and realized we had no idea where we were going.

Over the years, Geoff and I have developed the best system for these trips: me driving and Geoff navigating. It caused the least arguments and the least accidents. This trip Geoff had brought his GPS which he connected to his laptop and proceeded to navigate us directly to the highway with few problems.

The French maintain their highways well. In fact, they all seem relatively new. They have the same type of rest-stops with gas and food-marts, except according to Geoff the espresso from the machines puts the U.S. to shame. Gas costs about 1.30 euros per liter (about $7 a gallon). But most of the cars are smaller and more fuel efficient. Our car this time took diesel which is prevalent. The tolls are startlingly high - on this trip we passed through a 6 euro toll and several smaller ones. Mappy.com had listed it would cost about 30-40 euros for the three hour trip including tolls and gas.

We arrived in Normandy and drove directly to Livarot, a charming little town, similar in style to other small French villages. We knew we should probably not waste too much time and go directly to lunch since it was already nearing 2 pm and many places would be closed. At first, we thought to pick a random place in Livarot but it looked touristy (the English menu gives it away every time) and we thought we should seek out something more interesting. So I looked up restaurants in the French Michelin guide and found a place in the nearby town, Vimoultiers. One problem: we definitely wouldn't arrive until after 2 which meant they might be closed. So, I took a few deep breaths and gathered the courage to call and ask in French if they were still open for lunch. Luckily we got our reward.

Part of a small bed and breakfast, L'Escale du Vitou's dining room had panoramic windows that looked onto the surrounding hillsides. The only people still eating when we arrived were some of the chef''s family. We decided to order the full menu which included a choice of appetizers, main courses, a cheese course and dessert. We also requested a bottle of the house cider which was a specialty of the area. The cider arrived and filled our mouths with wonderful bubbly apple sweetness. We then enjoyed a rustic meal with some flair and fresh local ingredients. After our four course lunch, we were quite stuffed. But of course we had to try the Calvados, an apple liquor special to the area. The waiter poured from this enormous bottle of the 15-year old Calvados and set it on the table. That's when we (ok, I) got a little picture happy. Our last day in NY, we had purchased a new digital camera, the Canon 10D, and were still learning how to use it best. After taking about 10 pictures of Geoff and the Calvados and Geoff begging me to put the camera away, we seemed to have caught the attention of our waiter and given him an idea. He came and asked if he could take a picture of us for the restaurant's website. Of course, we agreed.

After that we decided to visit the Camembert Museum in Livarot, which we had passed earlier. It was as kitschy as you might expect a small-town museum about cheese to be. It was one room subdivided into several 'scenes' - for example, one featured all the products (cans, little benches) used to milk the cows and another contained examples of the racks and containers used to age the cheese. Several of the scenes contained life-size milkmaids, which were actually a bit creepy. Each scene had an audio component which was projected through the tiny museum in English for our benefit. This didn't interfere with non-English speaking visitors, because there were no other visitors. What we learned at this informative museum was that the real Camembert from the region must follow strict rules of creation and was only ripe for about 10 days. Anytime before or after those 10 days, it would be under or overripe. Although there were over 400 producers of Camembert in the world, only two had the official French seal and could only be obtained ripe in France. Not surprisingly, we left determined to find this official Camembert and eat it as soon as possible.

Once we left, Geoff took over the task of driving, so I was assigned the job of deciding where next. I picked the northern coastal town of Honfleur because it got two stars in the Michelin guide, which I thought deemed it worth a detour. We arrived and found a charming, but crowded and touristy little town. It felt more like Newport, RI in the height of summer than France. The water reflected the rows of thin colored row houses and the narrow cobblestone streets sheltered dozens of little restaurants and cafés. I had picked out a hotel, but when we located it, a sign informed us that they were 'complet.' After that we walked from hotel to hotel without a room to be found. Finally, we walked back to a characterless hotel on the edge of the town that Geoff had initially suggested. Also full, but a woman working there suggested a chateau outside of town and called to confirm availability - two rooms left.

Now dark, we thought we'd never find the place but amazingly it turned out to be on Geoff's GPS. We drove into the driveway to find an old mansion which was quite nice. Once inside, I could sense the faded grandeur. Unfortunately there was now only one room left, and it was in the other building. We went to see it. This teeny room apparently was for a family of six which is what caused the price to be 108 euros despite the fact that it was pretty lousy - low ceilings, worn carpet, and indeterminate cleanliness. Now about 9 pm, the alternates weren't much better - driving 3 hours back to Paris, sleeping in the car, or continuing to look. So reluctantly we booked the room. I would sleep there but first, I'd need a few glasses of wine.

So we went back to Honfleur and frustrated ourselves trying to find a small dinner but by that time most of the restaurants were closed. We were feeling a bit down after all the effort we had put in this evening for not so hot results. Finally, we sat at a café and I had some chicken and a half bottle of wine. The café looked out over the waterfront where some people dressed in Amish looking clothes (apparently some traditional Honfleur attire) had begun a ring of dancing. Dozens of people of all nationalities joined in. I wanted to enjoy the moment of watching them dance. It was so strange to me that at any given moment there were so many people happy and so many sad. Some were getting great news and others facing great sorrow, and most were just living their lives without thinking. Our evening had been frustrating, but I wanted to keep it in perspective. What was one night's sleep in the course of a lifetime, really?

We had become addicted to this pastry shop located on our walk home from school. Called Bread & Roses, it was clearly friendly to English speakers. But I still always spoke French since I told them (in French) that I need to practice. There were two very friendly women who worked there and I always saw an older gentleman who seemed like the owner. One time I ordered something and pointed and said "celui-ci" but he corrected me, saying it was "celle-ci" (because the fennel pretzel snack Geoff wanted was feminine apparently) and he sympathized with how difficult the French language was to learn.

The shop had amazing pain au chocolat any hour of the day (although one afternoon I got the last one) and melt-in-your-mouth mini brioche loafs. They also had a little snack menu that was a nice change from the standard café items - quiches, tarts, salads. A couple of days later, I discovered my new favorite dessert there - the chocolat tartelette. Theirs was the perfect size for two people with an evenly and lightly browned perfectly flaky crust. The interior was basically just soft chocolate, similar to ganache. I adore that all chocolate defaults to dark chocolate in Paris instead of milk chocolate. And this was no exception.

That night we had made plans to visit with Geoff's friend Mark, who had been living and working in Paris for a few years. We hadn't seen him in about five years, but a friend is a friend - especially when you're abroad. Geoff had gotten the directions to his place, which was off our tourist map. So when we got out of the metro at his stop, Geoff directed us 'up the hill'. The neighborhood contrasted sharply to ours. The 20 'Arrondissements' of Paris began with number one in the center above the Seine River and couting up while circling around the center like a snail. We lived in the 6th a few blocks from the river, pretty close to the snail's center. Visiting Mark, we had ventured to the 10th. It had a much more neighborhood feel, and it was clear why this was off the tourist map. There were little local neighborhood restaurants featuring mostly Turkish and North African cuisine with people sitting outside and chatting. There were also some convenience stores, supermarkets and a mini-department store. But there was no 'traditional' Paris café and no open-air shop selling postcards and Paris bags. Still, it was a bustling little neighborhood.

When we got to Mark's address, someone was walking out of the gate and held the door for us so we entered without the code. That was a first. We found his building and Geoff said his apartment was on the 5th floor which in Europe really means the 6th. So we started the climb and reaching the top, found his apartment and rang the bell.

He opened the door and greeted us with hugs. His apartment was small but nicely renovated. The door frames were the thick original wood mouldings painted in the highest sheen of maroon paint I've ever seen. He said it turned out a bit shinier than he had expected, but I liked it. He also had one wall in the living room painted a high sheen burnt orange which along with the dark stained original wood floors and brown leather sofa and chair warmed the room.

Thin with dark hair and glasses, Mark looked and acted the part of a scientist, which is what he was. More specifically, he did research on the moon and Mars. Since he worked for the French government, it was one of those jobs which was essentially permanent and he said even if he never showed up again, he was pretty sure it would take his boss two years of paperwork and red tape to fire him. Geoff was surprised to hear that there was income tax, which somehow I knew. France raked in 20 percent for sales tax on all purchases which you might think would allow for a smaller income tax. In wondering aloud where the French government spends all of its earnings, I suggested maybe health care and unemployment - both of which I've heard are fantastic in France. In fact, IVF is covered throughout France as are all medical procedures and medications.

According to Mark, renovating an apartment in Paris caused many headaches, even more than the average American renovation. One day, he had returned to find his dining room table with only one of the original four legs still intact. Apparently they had used it as a work table and it couldn't withstand the pressure. He also discovered a hole drilled right through the top of another table. Still they had gotten all his appliances in and working - although he complained that the French don't seem to be clever enough to tuck the unattractive electric boxes somewhere less obvious than the hallway wall. He mentioned that actually his stove had only just gotten working a few weeks before. Geoff was stunned and half-jokingly asked him how he had made a veal blanquette before then. Not surprisingly, that had never come up.

Although Mark had already lived here for 3 years, he said he still didn't speak French well. He had never really taken formal lessons he said but he had picked up enough to get by. He had a great book that I flipped through about French grammar - "Grammaire Expliquée du Francais" by CLE International. He did speak French at work, but all of his writing and reading at work was done in English which not surprisingly was the primary language of the scientific community. But he had made a conscious decision not to learn French all the way - what was the point, he figured, if he wasn't going to be staying here? He clearly wasn't thrilled to be in Paris. He said he didn't particularly like the city and he thought he'd be moving in a few years.

For some reason, I found myself taking his detest for Paris and the French personally. But then we got on the topic of the United States and it seemed he didn't like that there either. I thought about the expression 'la vie en noir' one of my French teachers had taught me, the anti-thesis to 'la vie en rose.' But just when I thought he had only a dark side, we found the thing that was not a source of irritation to him - his work. He loved his job because he didn't have to teach and interacted only barely with some mostly competent graduate students. In the United States, he said, a research job would never be unaccompanied by teaching. His work sounded interesting although it's out of the realm of what comes up in my daily existence. In fact, I rarely wondered why more asteroids hit one side of the moon as opposed to the other, but according to Mark there was a good reason for that.

Our conversation got me thinking about how so often in life it seemed like people were waiting for something - waiting for the event to happen that was going to make them happier. They were waiting to move or to get married or to have children or to retire. It seemed wrong to me. It's not that I thought we should have everything we wanted immediately, but that there needed to be more appreciation and awareness of the present moment. It was ironic that young people longed to get married and have children while older people often longed to be young. Why was it that people ached for what was next or before? What about what is now?

We spent a few hours talking and then figured we should head out since we had planned to wake up early the next morning to drive to Normandy. Mark walked out with us and took us on a tour of some of the surrounding streets. Some of the areas seemed a bit sketchy and perhaps picking up on our unease he mentioned how crime-free Paris was. Geoff wondered out loud then why were there so many locked doors and security codes just to be able to buzz someone's bell? Nonetheless, we soon were near the Place de la Republique which had a much more bustling Friday night in the city feel to it. We hopped on the metro there and headed home.

Back in our neighborhood, the streets teemed with vendors, bars and restaurants. I tried to see from Mark's eyes what it was he didn't like. Any touristy area oozed a certain phoniness - you'd often find waiters soliciting customers to sit in an empty restaurant and English menus were easy to spot. But then I saw the Seine sparkling at night under the glow of the ghastly intricacies of Notre Dame Cathedral, and wondered, how can you not be in love with Paris?

There are two phrases in French: "manger pour vivre" and "vivre pour manger" meaning "eat to live" and "live to eat." The French do both.

Geoff and I both had some homework to do, so we decided to leave for class early and get some lunch while we did our homework. We found a café near school and took a table outside.

The cafés in Paris have several things in common. First, out front they all seem to have petit round tables packed together under an awning. You don't wait for a table; you simply sit down. Usually there's a menu lying on a nearby table, which it's tacitly understood you will grab and decide what you want by the time the waiter comes. If you ask for a menu, you throw off his whole rhythm. And I say his, because there are very few waitresses in Paris cafés.

Anyway, there's no need to look at the menu because aside from slight variations in the prices, the menus are identical. You can get a croissant of varying quality but only if it's French breakfast time. You can always get espressos (one of the cheapest drinks) usually for about two euros and hot chocolate (chocolat chaud) for three to four. If you don't ask for petit chocolat, you automatically get the grand for an extra euro.

From morning to night, you can have omelettes with jambon ou fromage ou mixte. Then there's the croque monseiur - a French equivalent to grilled cheese - and croque madame with the added ham. Usually there are at least one or two salads on the list. And there's almost always French onion soup - usually for about 7-10 euros. If you're an American sucker craving a coke, you'll pay at least 4 euros for it. If you're French, you'll probably get a decent glass of wine for the same price. Although nothing is cheap, the prices always (yes, always unless stated otherwise) conveniently include the tax (a whopping 20%) and the tip (15%). Most people seem to leave a little extra for the waiter - around 5% - but it is definitely not necessary.

The café bill is handled much differently than a restaurant bill. In a restaurant, they will never bring you the bill until you ask for it. Well maybe not never, I presume once they start cleaning up for the night they would bring it, but I'm not actually sure. In a café, the bill is always delivered with the food. You're really supposed to only order once. If you do order after food has arrived, they take back the bill and bring you a new one with your new total. Also, it seems to be assumed that you will have the correct change for your bill. The waiter rarely returns to settle the bill. When we're out of coins, we usually wind up settling at the bar.

On this café trip, I got an omelet fromage and Geoff a croque monsieur. It occurred to me that all the menu items basically included some combination of cheese, eggs, bread and ham. I wasn't sure if it was just us but we seemed to be eating a lot of bread in Paris. I also had decided to try out my new way of ordering a carafe of water so that we didn't have to pay for bottled water every time we sat down. We did our homework together and I scolded Geoff for doing his wrong which he finally corrected. We were right around the corner from class so at about a quarter to four, we paid our bill.

At class, my teacher arrived wearing a very stylish tan wool jacket which obviously the female Japanese student in class fancied. She asked if she could take her picture, which our teacher responded to by blushing and posing. This started a picture taking session of the whole class by the only two students (both Japanese) who apparently had cameras with them at the time. Then we got down to business. One of the students had brought in a French book and read a short paragraph. I didn't understand a word at first, but since I was sitting next to him, I could read over his shoulder. That helped a lot. Obviously my reading comprehension was much better than oral. Hopefully I would learn in time - I wanted so badly to speak and understand.

After class, I decided to go the supermarket to stock up on some things. There are a ton of little food shops and little outdoor and covered markets happening on each day in our neighborhood and the surrounding area. But there's really only one supermarket nearby - Champion. This seems to be the place where local Parisians stock up on some basics like bottled water (mostly French), canned goods, and toilet paper. For some reason the toilet paper is mostly pink and comes in teeny rolls so you have to change the roll constantly. Clearly we're using more than we're supposed to. Maybe if we had one of those historic bidets, we wouldn't need so much.

The supermarket is midsize - much smaller than an American suburban supermarket but larger than the typical Gourmet Garage in New York. It has all sorts of delicious yogurts. Even the Dannon yogurt here is amazing - thick and creamy with actual real pieces of fruit in it. The French company is definitely keeping the best for themselves. There's also a great selection of butters, fantastic packaged hams (this is no Oscar Meyer), gourmet cookies, and fresh fruits and vegetables. Since all the labels of course were in French, we often bought something not quite knowing what it was. For example, Geoff had bought flour and used it several times before he realized it was corn flour. On this particular night, I bought what looked like chicken breasts, not knowing the label had said "dinde" meaning turkey.

At home, I grated up some old baguettes, and Geoff dipped and fried the turkey cutlets. He also made some homemade viniagrette for a salad, and fried these thin slices of potatoes in a pan so they got crispy like potato chips. It really was the first balanced home cooked meal we had in our new apartment, and it was fantastic.

It was Monday - the first weekday in our new apartment and our first day of school. It felt like the beginning of something.

But first, something smelled a little funny. Literally - we started to notice something rancid in the stairwell of our apartment building. We tried propping open the windows, but the odor wouldn't budge.

Meanwhile, I constantly voiced my amazement that in the week since we had arrived I saw very little garbage on the street. Obviously people must have had trash but where was it? In New York, it seemed that there are always smelly black plastic bags lining the streets. Compounded with the dogs using the streets as their public toilet, Manhattan emitted quite a summertime aroma. Paris didn't seem to have this problem. Despite the French's reputation for being dog-obsessed, I had seen many more dogs smuggled into cafés in New York than Paris. And the trash, where were they hiding it...

Our suspicion proved true when we discovered a closet on our ground floor filled with green plastic trash containers, which were obviously not air-tight. These were the containers put on the street for garbage collection. Although honestly I hardly ever saw them, so they must be pulled out right before and pulled in right after garbage collection. But that explained the stink-less streets. Instead people had to live with the stench they created. Actually it seemed quite fair, when I thought about it.

We did some work at home and at around 3 pm, Andrea, the weekly housekeeper mandated by our landlords (no complaints here), arrived. Soon after, we headed out to class. We got a bit mixed up about the directions when we emerged from the subway, so we were a few minutes late.

Geoff and I are in different classes because we're at different levels in French. Did I mention that I'm ahead? I'm in 201 and he's in 101 - four levels apart. Although really that's only four months of classes which considering I took four years of French in high school and over two years of lessons is not that much of a lead. I've been seriously wondering if somehow he'll leave a better speaker than me. He has that annoying way of picking up on things quickly.

The class, like most of my French classes in the States, consisted of mostly younger women and was taught by a woman. Of course, our young petit blond teacher didn't speak any English in the class. That wasn't just because it's an immersion class, but was also because most of the students didn't speak English. I was the only American in the class. The other students originated from South Africa, Lebanon, China, Japan, Mexico, and Iraq.

After class, I headed straight over to Sylvia and René's (our landlords) apartment. We still owed them about 1,000 euros which I needed to hand deliver. They had also offered to share a drink if we came in the evening. However, Geoff had to receive a business call at 6:30 pm at home. Plus he was feeling badly, having obviously caught the cold I had a few days earlier. So I went alone.

I didn't realize until I was already on the subway that the address I had for them on Voltaire Boulevard didn't provide a cross street, and according to my map it was quite a long street. So I decided to get off on a stop close to the middle and hope for the best. When I stepped outside and saw that I was only about 50 numbers away, I was quite pleased with my judgment. I started walking.

Sylvia had written out elaborate instructions for me with the several codes required to get into the various doors in her complex. When I found their address, I began to type the code. It didn't work. I tried again. Still, no luck. So I tried each of the other codes. Nothing. Then an older French woman went into the building and I tried to follow her in which annoyed her greatly. I tried to explain in French that I was visiting a friend and had the code. She looked at my paper and told me this wasn't the address. So I left and stood outside clearly looking at the number 145 above the door and on the paper in my hand. I walked to the end of the block and assured myself that yes, I was standing on Voltaire Boulevard. I checked my map to see if there was another Voltaire. There wasn't.

Since my cell phone was already out of minutes, I went to a pay phone and, using a credit card, called their home phone which luckily I had with me. When Sylvia heard the metro stop I got off at she said, oh no, I was much too far away and should get back on. She told me the nearest cross street to her apartment and I hung up. I began walking to the end of the block when I realized I was already at that cross street. So wait, that building had to be it. So I walked back wondering how much it was going to cost for me to call again. But then I noticed that there were two doors with the same address 145 - one large and one small. I had only tried the small. So I tried the code on the big door and it worked!

Onto door number two, where once again, I struggled. A young French woman earnestly tried to assist me to no avail. That was when I realized I didn't have their apartment number and didn't remember their last name. I knew they were on the first floor (which is one floor up in France) but that was all. Finally a six-year old boy let me in and we got in the elevator together. I asked him in French if he knew Sylvia and René because I didn't know which apartment they lived in. He said he didn't. But when the elevator opened on the first floor, he said he knew they weren't in the apartment to the left. Ok one down, four to go. So I stood in the hallway wondering what exactly I was going to say after I began ringing doorbells randomly. I stood there for a minute or two frozen. I never asked how they knew, but suddenly, René opened the door and invited me in.

Sylvia, wonderfully made up and decked out in a sharp suit and heels, greeted me with two kisses. René  shook my hand. René, a distinguished 70-year-old man with a soft deep voice, was born in Egypt and came to France as a young boy and now is among the one percent of Jewish people living in France. So he spoke fluent French, English and Arabic - perhaps more. He adored France and prefers speaking French which we did more for a lark than for communication. Once we got down to the interesting stuff, it had to be in English, malheureusement.

I immediately felt at ease with them. They were so sad Geoff didn't come and I explained that he had a business call. Sylvia said, perhaps he is finished now and we can call him to come over? Not wanting to give his illness as another excuse even though it was true, I let her call him. Plus, I knew he would love it there. They had decorated their apartment richly with antiques and art. On the glass coffee table, there was a combination of cheeses, olives and crackers. In between there were several small Jesus on the cross statues, all of them collected from churches, presumably dismembered. So Sylvia called Geoff and gave him the elaborate directions, this time with my added instructions.

René poured us all drinks - a mixture of Cassis and something sweet, and we sat down. They both immediately wanted to know my background and nationality. They had seen my passport which still listed Goldstein-LaMura and were curious. I told them that I was half-Jewish if you can be half of a religion and half-Italian. They wanted to know what both my parents did and where I grew up. So I gave them my much abbreviated life story. They shared all the countries that they had lived in - they clearly had wealth, but they had not always lived in ease. Sylvia had once found herself in a war-torn country and fled with just her two children leaving her home and life behind.

Geoff arrived and we switched to drinking red wine, and sat down and talked some more. Part fiery South American and part opinionated Parisian, Sylvia percolated with excitement on every topic we covered. With her, there was no subtext. It was completely clear what she thought about everything and you. She's passionate and spirited and has way more spunk and style than any 70 year old I ever met, except for my own grandmother, of course. I'd love to see them together actually.

Of course, for me this was no problem. I've been well-trained in the art of speaking loudly and interrupting often, so I can chew the fat with the best of them. René, either by nature or as a result of his years with Sylvia, had a quiet way about him. I found myself trying to engage him with questions so that he could get a word in. Although his silence was not due to any lack of opinions. Once Geoff and I were both there, he wanted to know - why did we come to France? I told him that I guessed we were Francophiles. He said he didn't know there were any of those left, especially in America. He asked Geoff what he thought and he answered that any country that had over 400 cheese varieties had a greatness about it and he was curious to find out more. René understood.

Over the next several hours, we covered every topic from family to politics to the relationship between France and America, and the misunderstandings between the two (which I've started to think would make a great short film). Simply put, we had an absolutely marvelous time talking with these mature intelligent 'citizens of the world'. In this one evening, we had soared straight out of our malaise. We had been opened up to new people with new experiences and ideas. And suddenly it felt more that we were part of something. It reminded me of the vibe I get walking down the street sometimes in New York - when the rush of people and traffic made me feel alive and connected me to the world. Although I was small, I was here and I was part of it. This evening was exactly the type of rare experience I couldn't have wished for because I didn't know I longed for it. But the rush of the ideas and philosophies unfurled more questions. We didn't know why we were here or why or where the world was headed. But we knew we had opened ourselves to the world, and that was a start.

Before we left, I remembered to do the money hand-off, and Sylvia wrote us out a receipt. They were both excited about Geoff's cooking and wanted him over to cook at their house. Sylvia said she'd buy all the ingredients and Geoff could cook. René said he'd clean. I think I was just a designated eater, which was fine by me. Sylvia then said maybe we should have Thanksgiving! Geoff had wanted to make a goose and we talked that over a bit and somehow we wound up with Geoff telling them about the New Orleans invention of the turduckin - turkey/duck/chicken all de-boned and stuffed inside of each other to roast. They adored this idea and repeated the word turduckin in awe. When we left it was nearly midnight and I was shocked that we had been there for so many hours. Later I learned that Sylvia too hadn't realized how quickly the time had gone either. She and René both felt terrible that they hadn't offered us some dinner. But I hadn't really been hungry, I was too happy.

The night before, Geoff and I had decided to venture outside of the city for the day in hopes of clearing our heads a bit. We woke up a bit too late to take any faraway excursions, so we settled on Le Bois de Boulogne, an enormous, 2200-acre park on the periphery of Paris. I had seen pictures of the park before and it looked lovely. We were still feeling pretty strange about the day before, and really we just wanted some fresh air and a nice walk.

When we got off the metro, it seemed we had arrived at the edge of the park. But really we were in a small circle of a park surrounded by highway and filled with several sleeping homeless people. Geoff was tired and wanted to join them, but I forced him to press on. I had seen the pictures of the park and was determined to see the beauty. We finally figured out how to cross over and under the highway and weave through the trails to head in the right direction. As usual, Geoff's navigational skills came in handy - and he didn't even have his GPS with him that day. It was a pretty walk, but you could hear the highway which detracted from the peacefulness of it. But then we stumbled across a whole field of (mostly) men playing petanque or boule (aka the Italian game of bocce).

Here's how it works. One person throws a tiny ball - usually a bright color, like red - about 4 yards ahead. Then the teams of people try to get these bigger, heavier balls as close to that small red ball as possible. It also often involves knocking your opponent's ball out of the way. You'd be amazed at how engaging the game is and clearly these men had gotten quite good at it.

After watching them play for a bit, we walked on for awhile further until we came to the lake. Tons of boats coasted on the surface - couples, families, teenagers. It definitely seemed like the thing to do on a Sunday in Paris. We found a spot to sit down and ate some of the Hit chocolate cookies I had been wise enough to buy from a machine earlier. We rested in the shade for about an hour and took some pictures. Then we moved to the sun and rested there for another hour or so. We definitely believed we no longer looked like tourists. And I guess in a strange surreal way, we weren't.

After being sufficiently soothed we got some delicious ice cream pops and headed to the metro. On the train there were these three young boys about 10 years old or so. They seemed to be off on their own and knew exactly where they were going and were watching out for each other. In their conversation, they went back naturally from French and English, both with perfect accents. Geoff said that it'd be funny if that's what our kids were like some day.

When we got home, we looked up some English bookstores open Sunday night and a place to buy a wireless modem. Of course, both were within a short walk of our apartment. We had definitely started to get excited about the centrality of our apartment. The English store Shakespeare and Company has existed in Paris for many decades, run by the same woman who is now handing the shop over to her daughter. The shop is right by the Seine so we also walked along the River and wondered, who couldn't love this city?

We wound up for dinner at Le Petit Pontoise - a nice little café where I finally learned the correct way to ask for tap water: "Je voudrais une carafe de l'eau." Although since then there seems to be some discrepancy between some people thinking we should say "d'eau" and others "de l'eau." It's comforting and scary that even the French don't seem to understand which is correct. Geoff ate pig cheek and I got lamb chops. I also mustered the courage to ask in French what the people next to us were having for dessert so I could order it. Turned out it was chocolate mousse, and the best I'd ever had.

It seemed like a simple plan. We only needed to get a traveler's check at the American Express office for our security deposit. But somehow, two American Express offices and a half dozen ATMs later we were still short 1,000 Euros and out of time. So, Geoff and I had to split up - me to meet Sylvia for our noon meeting and Geoff to check out of the hotel.

Sylvia readied the paperwork as she chewed on a cigarette. Meanwhile, we wrestled our enormous luggage up the stairs. Although the lease measured a single page, the entire packet included about 50 pages. There were photos of everything in the apartment - from the furniture to the inside of the closets (and contents) to the tops and bottoms of every pot in the apartment. She also created handmade manuals for every appliance and utility including the single unit washer/dryer and the stove/dishwasher (believe it or not, also one unit) and left detailed instructions on how to shut off the water and gas for the apartment if we were to leave for more than three days.

After she double-kissed us good-bye, we were left alone in the apartment. And that's when it set in - malaise. The past year we had spent extremely task-oriented - find apartment in Boston, rent apartment in NY, buy house in Newport, fix it up, move out, organize trip to Paris - not to mention the series of doctor's appointments and treatments scattered throughout that had always kept us thinking of the next step. But suddenly, there was no next step. We had packed up all our stuff into storage and fled our life. We accomplished the task of getting here, for what? Or to quote Geoff's favorite saying (usually uttered at 4 am after dinner and the rounds to 3 NY bars), "What's next?"

Suddenly the apartment seemeed very close and we worried maybe it was this place? I wandered off to look at the patch of sky I could see through the bedroom window. The panic took form of a hollow ache - like when you have this terrible moan in your gut that something is wrong, but you just don't know what - malaise. It probably didn't help that my head still spun from my cold and Geoff's stomach still churned from the steak tartare. Why had we done this to ourselves?

But somewhere deep down, I relished even this malaise. Because I realized this was what it felt like when you opened yourself to the unknown. And I trusted that this feeling somehow would give way to some of the best moments of my life. Of course, it also was possible we would drown in this disorienting homesickness and abandon our life experiment. But that seemed unlikely. It also seemed unlikely to me that this feeling had anything to do with this apartment, but rather just the sudden realization that we had just moved to France for no good reason and had no idea what came next. It reminded me of sleepaway camp. I arrived desperate to leave, cringing at the food and skeeving the bathrooms. But by the end of the summer, I wished it would never end.

Geoff made us some green tea. We had brought our own since France is not known for its tea. And he hooked up the internet. I started to feel a little better. We were both exhausted. That night we slept great - a quiet, deep sleep. And as we both agreed when we woke up late the next morning, that's saying something.

My first order of business this morning was to call the front desk at the hotel and book one more night. My head cold had worsened, which made me lazy about speaking French. Since I knew the hotel staff spoke English, I cut straight to the point. "We'd like to stay an additional night, if possible," I informed the receptionist on the phone. But he replied that there were no rooms free that night in the hotel. Hmmm, great. I hung up. Then I realized I didn't know the time for checkout. So I called back and this time he answered with a drawn-out "Oui?" to ensure I could detect his annoyance. More hesitant, but still in English I asked about checkout. Instead of answering, he told me that in fact there was a room available tonight, just a different one. Apparently, one became available in the last 30 seconds. But I didn't complain.

I put together a list of the apartments that were my favorites so far. It didn't take long since there were only two of them. One was from the NY Habitats site which we probably couldn't see before renting and the other was the loft with the scary stairs which wouldn't be open until a week an a half. Not great options.

Geoff went straight to work. A party had been planned in our honor at his office at 4 pm so he figured he probably should show up for the day. Therefore I was charged with orchestrating the hotel room move which meant me moving five enormous, heavy bags from room to room or enlisting the help of the oh-so-friendly front desk. Anyway I figured I'd better get showered before I got kicked out. I had gotten in the habit of taking a very long shower with almost scalding water. It worked as well as the Claritin for my sinuses. While steaming in the shower, I heard the phone ring. I figured I should answer so I jumped out and grabbed the line. It was the front desk - we could stay in the same room. Fantastique! This day was definitely looking up.

On my way to Geoff's office, I got a mediocre grilled sandwich of trois fromages, but what do you expect from a place in Paris named "Snack Time"? Then I headed into the metro. Geoff had written me out detailed instructions so that I wouldn't end up making the same mistake he did the first day. The secret: Reuille Malmaison required both a combined RER and metro ticket. Without both you couldn't exit at your stop. Besides that confusion, the metro in Paris ran efficiently. Most of the tracks featured an electronic display listing the estimated time until the next arriving train. And it seemed I never waited more than two minutes for a train.

At Geoff's office, he introduced me to his officemate Patrice, a quiet 30-something guy who of course spoke perfect English. He wanted to know how the apartment search was going. Eh. We made some small talk and then Geoff showed me that he had gotten a message from Anne at NY Habitats and some of the apartments we had looked at were available immediately. Plus we could one see today. It wasn't my favorite, but it was better than renting sight unseen. In the meantime, a closer look uncovered that one of the apartments on my short short-list didn't actually have an oven - only a microwave oven. It made no sense - how could New York have a law about providing tenants with an oven, but not Paris? Really, what would be the point of a kitchen without an oven? How will Geoff cook a soufflé?

But then it was time for the party so we all gathered together in the conference room as they set up. The Franco-American spread included champagne, crackers, and Pringles. I wondered if foreigners to America would be met with such a nice welcome. One by one, I met his office mates. Some of them like Noel, a tall jovial fellow with a perpetual smile, and his serious foil Claude, I had already met at past functions. I started off in French but the conversation quickly eluded me. Not wanting me to be frustrated, Noel said I could talk in English. I knew it was just so much easier, but sad all the same. Next time it will be all French, he said. So for now, we spoke the rest in English - from the prices of real estate in Paris (insanely high) to the history of the company (sordid) to the method of how to saber a champagne bottle (tricky). It was definitely the first time I've been in a room with a majority of people who had used a saber to decork champagne.

During the party we got a phone call that we could meet the owner of one of the NY Habitat apartments at 6:30 pm to see the apartment. So from the Reuille Malmaison train, we headed straight to 9, place Saint-André des Arts in the 6th Arrondissement. Luckily we got there early because we circled around the "place" several times for 15 minutes before we found number 9. There we met Syvia, a 70-something woman dressed in an elegant pastel skirt suit and measuring 5-foot in heels. She had a nice tan and short blood hair which she later admitted to not being her natural color. She led us up to the apartment, pointing out the historic features along the way. The bottom of the building had the remnants of a fountain where residents would get their water. The wooden stairs must have been original or close to it because they were atrophied with age.

Sylvia led us up to the apartment. I had looked at the pictures online and suspected that the ceilings were not that high. I was right. As we got the tour, I realized another drawback was that although there were lots of windows, there was no view. All of them looked out into the courtyard, which was really just the other side of the building. The other drawback was the floors were a bit slanted - of course what do you expect from a building several hundred years old? Sylvia gave us her pitch and asked us what we thought. I was hesitant but I could tell Geoff was ready to take it. So she offered to give us 20 minutes alone in the apartment and she'd come back. We thanked her and agreed.

When she left, I took another tour. In many ways, it was a great apartment - nice size, very quiet, modern bathroom and kitchen with all the amenities - even, get this, a stove! It also had a dishwasher and washer/dryer. The location couldn't be better - right in the heart of everything. And she had decorated the apartment nicely. You could call it cozy. But could I live here for three months? It suddenly seemed like an eternity. Could I call this place home?

The reality was that I felt exhausted and sick and now Geoff, the same. Eating out every night was getting expensive and we wanted desperately to just settle in somewhere. If we took it now, we might be missing out on a better apartment for less money that we would find shortly after. But if we didn't, we might look another whole week and be in basically the same situation yet out even more money on hotel and restaurant bills. And it was a palace compared to what we had seen.

Our 20 minutes was almost up so we wanted to make a decision. Geoff's instinct was to take it and I was undecided. I would have preferred to do more research, but I realized time was of the essence here and I was ecstatic to be done looking. So we decided to take it.

When Sylvia returned, she told us how she had gone to get some gum and the salesman said, "Why are you buying gum? You're French" But actually Sylvia wasn't French born, she was Colombian. She spoke Spanish, French and English all as native languages. I didn’t know what else she spoke, and I didn’t know why the French don't chew gum. She was glad we wanted the apartment.

When we left, I still wasn't completely at ease. We went straight to the hotel so we could fax paperwork to the NY broker before the end of the day. At this point Geoff's sickness took over - turned out the steak tartar wasn't sitting too well. He went off to rest, and I to the front desk. Luckily it was a different receptionist. I figured he was French because he spoke French. I wasn't too proficient at discerning accents. In fact he was Arab, and loved Americans especially compared to Europeans. He believed they were much friendlier and easier to get to know. Turned out we had plenty of time for conversation, since the process of sending a fax at the hotel had been "modernized" to go through the computer. The process required scanning each page (5 minutes per page) and then faxing each page one by one. In between pages, he was often interrupted by guests asking questions or needing their keys. So it took quite some time.

Finally sent, I went back to the room. Geoff was up for a walk so we went out and got some ham and cheese crêpes. We'd gotten into this habit of eating really late and that night was no exception. It must have been at least 11 pm when we ate. Of course, that would be no problem if you were up for several hours later. But we were tired - it had been a long day and we needed to rest up for moving day. So we did.

A stream of apartments blurred by today. Upon waking, I forced myself to pick up the phone. Each conversation started with me saying, "J'ai vu votre annonce à FUSAC," meaning (hopefully) I saw your ad in FUSAC. Then, "Parlez-vous anglais?" Twice the answer returned a firm "non." Luckily, they seemed to understand me better than I had expected. Perhaps when you're a potential customer worth thousands of euros, bad French is worth stomaching. One man I called, who probably could hear my heart pounding through the line, kept saying "Je vous écoute" ("I'm listening"). Ironically, even the English conversations seemed a bit strange. One woman warned us about the tricky stairs to her apartment and bluntly added that if we weren't interested in walking up two steep flights of stairs then please don't come. Quite a sales pitch. Another man asked my nationality and age. Apparently my bust size he could deduce in person.

Somehow I arranged four appointments. Our first stop was rue de la Grande-Chaumière. The owner had given me the code to the outside door. Once inside, there was another door in the courtyard to buzz the apartment. In fact, it seems most Paris apartments use this system. Those 20-foot high imposing iron doors throughout the city open up into courtyards which then lead to a variety of doors. It's the portal into the interior of Paris. After being buzzed in, we began the climb up. She wasn't kidding about the steepness, although I'm not sure she mentioned how narrow it was. There were actually ropes on either side to grab onto, but really it was just as well to press each hand upon the wall on either side and climb on. The zenith led out to a old wooden balcony. When we peered out, she was standing at the end. "Don't be afraid, come, come." So on we went. Finally inside the apartment, I breathed out again. The apartment was lovely. Very modern and open - with a nice loft bedroom and lots of airy windows. After the tour, she asked us to please sit - which often is requisite apparently. We proceeded to have about a half hour conversation on a variety of topics. Good thing I didn't book any appointments closer than one hour apart. She prided herself on her concierge services and said she could recommend places where we can rent some bikes for getting around the city, because it is "easy and dangerous" as if these were both great advantages.

After that, we grabbed a quick lunch and ate in a park. I almost didn't stop because there were a lot of pigeons and I hate competing for my lunch. Especially a yummy French jambon et fromage sandwich. Luckily they were busied by some French people feeding them and they left us alone (the pigeons, that is). After that, we travelled across town to place du Panthéon to meet our next prospect. We found him sitting outside, an older Frenchman about late-50s. On the way up he voiced his hope that we liked things that were old. The apartment was just that - old. Or as he prefered to describe it - historic. The ad actually had mentioned the XVIIth century character. I didn't interpret that to mean it hadn't been updated since then. He proudly showed us the 'historic' bidet that his wife wanted him to get rid of, to his refusal. He knew its value. He said you can't even find the parts for it anymore, you have to wait for someone to leave something on the street and collect it for repairs.

After our tour, he invited us to sit, which we did. He informed us that his wife had 'quit' him (probably over the bidet). But now he was with an American girl - only 30 years old. And in fact, she was Marlon Brando's daughter or as he described 'his bastard daughter.' Still reeling from him calling his girlfriend a bastard, I received the next shock when he went to retrieve photos of her. Very pretty, I said. He set the pictures on the mantle in front of us as we continued to talk.

Meanwhile, I had missed a call from one of the other owners on my cell phone because I didn't want to interupt our tour. So I tried to call my voicemail on my new French cellphone. Can you believe it - the instructions were in French? I called about three times extremely frustrated - probably cost me $3 - and got nowhere. I gave up. The message would remain unretrieved. Instead I decided to call the owner (this was for apt #4) and have a strained conversation in French. He seemed to think it was easier to instruct me on a meeting place rather than tell me the address of his apartment. Wrong. Several minutes later, he handed me over to his wife who spoke English about as well as I speak French. But we made arrangements for 4:30 pm.

The next apartment was completely unmemorable - small, old. The kitchen was like a dirty closet. Apparently that's what you can get for 1,300 euros/month in the Latin Quarter. Good to know. There was no conversation after because either the owner could see our disgust or neither of us could speak the other's language well enough. Either way, we were glad. For a break, we sat at a café. Geoff got a diet coke and I ordered 'jus d'ananas' which I asked for in French. The waiter had no idea what I asked for so I repeated with more effort. A light when on and he said "Oh jus d'ananas." I was pretty sure that's what I had said the first time, but of course the accented syllable is key which of course I had wrong. Then I wondered, is there some sort of juice shortage in France? Why would a small cup (about 6 oz) of pineapple juice cost $6? The same cost as a beer or glass of wine. C'est bizarre.

At promptly 4:30 pm, we met our next host, a jolly older French man reading a paper as he waited for us. The conversation went pretty well except for once I thought he asked how long we had looked for an apartment "due jours" when he really asked how long did we want to rent for "trois mois." He showed us his place which was all new, but not yet furnished. It was on two floors, very small with a minute upstairs kitchen. He also preferred someone for at least eight months, which put us out of the running anyway.

Finished with our day, but not sure what to show for it we decided to take a walk by the Seine. We happened upon Citadines - one of the hotel apartment complexes - so we went in for a tour. For a mere 240/euros per night you can get a carpeted hotel room with zero character and no internet in the room. At least we weren't missing anything there.

Resting on the riverside with Geoff's head in my lap, we were happy to be here but so tired. My cold that had started yesterday got progressively worse. I was exhausted and just desperately wanted a Claritin D. Fortunately I wisely packed all my own medicine (although I'm starting to realize not enough). Back at the hotel, I crashed. Geoff was on the computer so I told him to find us an apartment while I was sleeping. There's nothing more satisfying then knowing something is getting done while your sleeping. When I rolled over at one point I asked him if he was looking for apartments and he said no. I slept anyway.

Meanwhile, he must have begun the search at some point because he wound up finding a service called NY Habitats which helps find English-speaking suckers a wonderful apartment for an absurd fee. That's us! But really they had some nice places listed and they listed them as available immediately. We already realized our tomorrow (Friday) checkout was impossible and the days after that seeming just as unlikely considering the French prefer not to work on the weekends. I perked up long enough to convince Geoff to call the service which he did. But on the phone we learned that you didn't actually get to see the apartments in advance. This seemed strange. Could they make an exception since we were here in Paris already? We would hear back.

Wanting some soup, we headed out for dinner at about 10 pm and wandered, wondering which place would have decent soup and would serve dinner at this hour. One place where I asked dinner was 'fini.' In Paris, there is a tacit rule that lunch must be consumed from 12 to 2:30 pm and dinner, 7:30 to 10 pm. In protest, my stomach seems only to require food on the off-hours. So we went back to Brasserie Lipp which is open til 1 am. I had a delicious vegetable soup (same as last night) and a tuna steak with vegetables. Geoff ordered steak tartare, which is basically a raw hamburger with mustard in it. He seemed amused by his order, as if he were feigning to be a local. It reminded him of when we were in St. Martin, where all the nude sunbathers we thought were French were really just from Omaha.

Ok, it's true that I still haven't actually seen any apartments yet, but I do feel like I made progress today. I spent the first few hours this morning in the hotel room looking through online listings. This isn't only because I'm afraid of calling people. But even if it was - how many fears can I tackle in a week? Anyway, I got an email response from a woman to my post on craigslist and it was a listing I had passed over since the rent was listed as 3,000 euros/month. Apparently she now offered it at 2,000. This got me thinking that maybe more people were negotiable than I thought. So I scoured the online listings - paris.craigslist.org and vrbo.com - and emailed basically anyone with a listing in the 5th or 6th Arrondisement. Not much has come of that. Tomorrow I will actually have to use the telephone. There also seem to be several promising listings in the site FUSAC (recommended by one of Geoff's colleagues) which list only phone numbers.

Telephone calls are definitely the scariest since there's no pointing involved and you can't ask someone to "écrivez." I remember on one of our first trips to Paris I called this restaurant and made a reservation - nearly took everything out of me. Then Geoff pleaded me to call back again to find out if he had to wear a tie. I think the translation of what I actually asked was something like "Is it that necessary a tie?" Of course they had no idea what I was saying and I eventually just hung up. The real kicker on arrival was that not only was a tie unnecessary, but pretty much the entire staff spoke English. All that effort for nothing.

Every French person that I've spoken to so far has been cordial about my stumbling words. But they squint at me a lot. Perhaps if they could see me better maybe they could understand me better. Or maybe they squint out of frustration of how slow I talk. I must sound like a Southern farmer talking to a New Yorker. Except with a worse accent. Regardless, they don't actually scoff at me to my face. And so far no one has responded to me in English unless I give them an utterly perplexed look or sometimes when I ask them to "repétez s'il vous plait?"

Tonight, Geoff picked Brasserie Lipp for dinner. When we arrived, several groups of people were clustered outside, presumably waiting for their tables. Usually at that point we surrender. The fear of speaking and not understanding is heightened in a bustling place. But then I realized, we've got to eat right? I mean what's the worst that could happen? So I walked right in and waited for the maître'd. Geoff mustered the courage to follow. When someone approached me I simply asked in French how long the wait was for a table for two. He responded if we wanted to go upstairs we could sit "toute d'suite" but it was "pas fumer." Wow - two for two. So we sat down to a delicious, simple Alsacean meal - me with roast chicken and Geoff with a sausage dish.

Not everyone dreams of living abroad, but Geoff and I did - all the time, especially about Paris. What made us actually move all of our furniture into storage and fly here to live is harder to pinpoint. We wanted to speak French, especially me since I had been taking classes for the past three years. We loved the food - especially Geoff who had studied French cuisine at the French Culinary Institute. And we both adored the city. Anytime we planned a European trip, we would schedule in a few days in Paris.

But it was more than that. Back home, we both felt a bit stuck. We had lost our inspiration in our day-to-day lives and in our careers. Trying to start a family with no luck in nearly three years had worn us down. We had lost our mojo. And we suspected we might find it in Paris.

A few weeks before our trip, I dreamt that I joined the space shuttle mission. The rocket shook and I was off - to an unknown world. And that was exactly what it felt like. We were leaving the comfort of everything that was familiar to us - our language, our government, our family, our friends, our home.

Our flight took off on September 11, 2005 from Newark and arrived the next morning at Charles de Gaulle, Paris. Over the preceding few weeks, I'd come up with quite a few creative ways not to mention that our flight was on 9/11. When people would ask when we were leaving, my answer was "in a few weeks," "the week after next Sunday," "two weeks from tomorrow."

During our first day in Paris we pretty much slept all day, since we hadn't slept much on the plane. Who can sleep sitting up in a two by two space anyway? Plus, for our 10 pm flight we were served dinner at about 11:30 pm which in Paris was 5:20 am and then breakfast a few hours later. The hours of meals don't work out really for either time zone, but I guess it was something to keep people amused during the flight. I didn't get the meals because I've long since given up on plane food. There was a time when I thought, they must have something better back there. I had even tried changing my profile - vegetarian, Kosher, bland. But no, they're all gross.

The next day, Geoff decided to check in with his local office through which he might be doing some consulting work. I later learned that he bought the wrong kind of ticket for the train and got all the way to his stop (about 45 minutes away) and couldn't leave the station (they check your ticket on the way out too). So he had to come all the way back and then leave again with the correct ticket. Took him all morning.

Meanwhile, I went to a cafe that I'll probably never go back to again. It was the same way when we first moved to New York. The restaurants and cafes I went to that first week, I never ate at again. It's kind of like when you're new at school you latch on to whoever seems the friendliest. But after a few weeks you realize you actually have nothing in common with this person and wind up with completely different friends. This cafe in particular was a rip-off. I ordered a tea for 4.50 euros (about $5.50) and just assumed that meant it was some gourmet tea. Well, in fact it was a Tetley tea bag. Value: $.05. Mmm, delicious.

Realizing that my first priority should be to speak French better so I could do things like find better tea, I went directly to L'Alliance Francaise after lunch to sign up for some classes. Quite a popular place, I discovered. I was instructed to go upstairs to the testing room. Inside there were tables of people taking tests and about eight people sitting in chairs, presumably waiting for something. Afraid to ask, I took a seat. I tried to guess how this system worked and had come up with various schemes until I saw a sign posted (quite small, mind you) that informed visitors to please take a seat and an instructor would be right with you. Assuming I would be cut in line, I immediately looked up in my French/English dictionary how to say, "I am next." The closest I found was, "C'est a mon tour" meaning "It's my turn." And my preparation paid off because when two assuming gentlemen tried to cut me, I was ready with my phrase and kept my rightful place in line.

The professor called my name and sent me off to take the level 1 test and half of level 2. I wondered - what if it's too easy? Fortunately I kept that to myself. I scored a 90% on level 1, but only a 60% on the level 2 part. So they put me in the first class in level 2 and again, I had to stop myself from asking, what if it's too easy?

Later that night, we decided to go to Allard for dinner. We had eaten there two years ago and had one of the best meals I've ever had - an enormous leg lamb for two. So we were willing to wait. It would up being about an hour, but we did finally get a table. I already had started to feel a bit under the weather - whether it was allergies or a cold I wasn't sure. The food at Allard was once again fantastic, but unfortunately we sat in a haze of smoke from the party next to us who incessantly smoked. I'm not sure how they could taste their food - it must have just tasted like cigarettes. Of course, this did wonders for my developing cold. My throat ached when we left. And even my purse smelt like smoke.

The best part about the day, by far, was the fact that twice, not once but twice people asked me for directions in French. This meant I looked, dressed and acted French and even better I appeared to know where I was going. Unfortunately, I exposed the lie once I opened my mouth to speak.

I've decided that being in a new city that you love is much like a new romance. There's all the passion and excitement, but none of the ease and familiarity. And you know in time whether or not you stay in love that the comfort eventually sets in. So you have to appreciate the newness - with all its rawness, and embarrassment and discovery.