Dear readers, both of you know, as I do, that I should be writing the screenplay instead of this journal, but I am waiting for dinner to warm up, I've had a shot, a beer and half a cigarette. As the desire to write wells up, so does the interest in dragging out the typewriter (my term for the PC I use to write the play) diminish, and here I am writing just to keep writing.
Of the three things I was most curious about discovering when I finally arrived here, at the top of the list was the view out the window. I was careful to choose a place that not only had a window, but which appeared to be well lit with the possibility, at least of a pleasant view. Not included in the photographs of the flat was the view, so I had good reason to be concerned. One flat that I looked at early on had the requisite window, and thankfully the landlord included a shot of the view, which was a wall. Not at all what I had in mind. Turns out, I got very much what I had in mind.
When I arrived last Monday, it was a warm day, and I hiked the six or eight blocks from the Gare du Nord, found the building an texted my contact to check in. Actually, thanks to the internet and my phone--wifi on the train from London to Paris--I had already checked in with her, but the time had come for me to meet her and ah, well, actually speak French for the first time in six years. It would be an understatement to say that I was nervous, even a bit scared, but I kept telling myself that's what I'd come for. Right? Right.
The text came in, "Vouz pouvez montez". Ack. I crossed the street and said my first bonjour to the man standing next to the building entrance, whom I assumed (correctly it turns out) was the concierge (or guardien, as the sign says on the door of his ground floor flat, next to his horaires)
and stepped inside the courtyard.
Actually it is more of a corridor, with three story apartments on both sides. Quickly, the address I'd been given by the landlord, Batiment 9, 3eme etage, became apparent. On the left I could see that the numbers of the buildings were going up, and soon I came to number nine. I am familiar enough with this part of living in Paris: one has an address, and then a sort of sub-address that enables things like letters or packages to make it to your door. I opened the door and stepped inside, greeted by exactly what I was expecting, a narrow staircase, with a stone first step and wooden steps up to the concrete landings, a cast iron railing painted gloss black and that smell. People. Food. Paris.
In 1980, when I lived a worked here for a year or so, I lived in very small flat. It was so small, that I couldn't even stand up in half of it. On the top floor of the building, it was just under the roof, so that the slant of the roof literally cut the space in half, vertically as well as horizontally. The two advantages (besides my own toilet and shower) were the two windows. One was one of those classic French windows that open up from about one's waist to the ceiling, opening inward to reveal a delicious view the city skyline. The other was what I friend of mine told me is called a, get this, 'vasisdas' because, I know this will sound lame, and no I haven't fact checked it, when the Germans arrived during WWII they occupied the apartments, and when they encountered the windows in the ceiling, that up up and are propped open for ventilation or opened fully to give access to the roof, the Germans asked, 'was is das?' I said it was lame.
Ok I digress. The current apartment has no wasisdas and has a non-sloping ceiling, but in many other respects it is the same. First of all, it is tiny. It was hard for me to grasp just how small eleven square meters actually is, but when I got to the room, my eyes were wide. I really thought I was in the wrong place, and the contact, Stephanie, saw my wide eyes and asked me if anything was wrong. Of course, it was just the American in me, and it was hot, I was sweating having hiked up the three floors (83 steps) and terrified at the prospect of having to actually speak French.
Yes, it was the correct apartment, and yes, it is everything I expected and hoped it would be. The window looks out onto the corridor that I walked through to get here--building 12 is at the end, and it's lined with plants and flowering trees. The pavement is cobblestone, though likely from the 20C, and it's clean, light and quiet.
It's also just about twenty feet wide, which means that my window looks almost directly into my across-the-way neighbors on at least two floors. It also means that they have an equally good view of my apartment. Just today I learned while cooking dinner that one of my neighbors across the way is American--I heard her talking to her French husband.
I have actually met one of my two next door neighbors, Ahmed, who lives on the right. I saw but did not meet my neighbor on the left, who has the rest of the third floor. Today I heard her out in the hall, vacuuming, mopping and cleaning, but I was writing and wasn't inclined to greet her while she was at work. In any case, when she retreated to the apartment I set out for a walk and found that she'd put down three new runners on the floor. It's nice to have neighbors that care for their space. All I've done so far is stick a longhorn logo on my front door.
During the day, it's quiet, and at night, the familiar city noises come up along with the smell of cooking and music and tv in a dozen apartments. The courtyard is full of different kinds of light, smells and sounds. I love it. It's why came. Home. Paris.
PS - The other two things? Smell. Check. Internet. Check.
Of the three things I was most curious about discovering when I finally arrived here, at the top of the list was the view out the window. I was careful to choose a place that not only had a window, but which appeared to be well lit with the possibility, at least of a pleasant view. Not included in the photographs of the flat was the view, so I had good reason to be concerned. One flat that I looked at early on had the requisite window, and thankfully the landlord included a shot of the view, which was a wall. Not at all what I had in mind. Turns out, I got very much what I had in mind.
When I arrived last Monday, it was a warm day, and I hiked the six or eight blocks from the Gare du Nord, found the building an texted my contact to check in. Actually, thanks to the internet and my phone--wifi on the train from London to Paris--I had already checked in with her, but the time had come for me to meet her and ah, well, actually speak French for the first time in six years. It would be an understatement to say that I was nervous, even a bit scared, but I kept telling myself that's what I'd come for. Right? Right.
The text came in, "Vouz pouvez montez". Ack. I crossed the street and said my first bonjour to the man standing next to the building entrance, whom I assumed (correctly it turns out) was the concierge (or guardien, as the sign says on the door of his ground floor flat, next to his horaires)
and stepped inside the courtyard.
Actually it is more of a corridor, with three story apartments on both sides. Quickly, the address I'd been given by the landlord, Batiment 9, 3eme etage, became apparent. On the left I could see that the numbers of the buildings were going up, and soon I came to number nine. I am familiar enough with this part of living in Paris: one has an address, and then a sort of sub-address that enables things like letters or packages to make it to your door. I opened the door and stepped inside, greeted by exactly what I was expecting, a narrow staircase, with a stone first step and wooden steps up to the concrete landings, a cast iron railing painted gloss black and that smell. People. Food. Paris.
In 1980, when I lived a worked here for a year or so, I lived in very small flat. It was so small, that I couldn't even stand up in half of it. On the top floor of the building, it was just under the roof, so that the slant of the roof literally cut the space in half, vertically as well as horizontally. The two advantages (besides my own toilet and shower) were the two windows. One was one of those classic French windows that open up from about one's waist to the ceiling, opening inward to reveal a delicious view the city skyline. The other was what I friend of mine told me is called a, get this, 'vasisdas' because, I know this will sound lame, and no I haven't fact checked it, when the Germans arrived during WWII they occupied the apartments, and when they encountered the windows in the ceiling, that up up and are propped open for ventilation or opened fully to give access to the roof, the Germans asked, 'was is das?' I said it was lame.
Ok I digress. The current apartment has no wasisdas and has a non-sloping ceiling, but in many other respects it is the same. First of all, it is tiny. It was hard for me to grasp just how small eleven square meters actually is, but when I got to the room, my eyes were wide. I really thought I was in the wrong place, and the contact, Stephanie, saw my wide eyes and asked me if anything was wrong. Of course, it was just the American in me, and it was hot, I was sweating having hiked up the three floors (83 steps) and terrified at the prospect of having to actually speak French.
Yes, it was the correct apartment, and yes, it is everything I expected and hoped it would be. The window looks out onto the corridor that I walked through to get here--building 12 is at the end, and it's lined with plants and flowering trees. The pavement is cobblestone, though likely from the 20C, and it's clean, light and quiet.
It's also just about twenty feet wide, which means that my window looks almost directly into my across-the-way neighbors on at least two floors. It also means that they have an equally good view of my apartment. Just today I learned while cooking dinner that one of my neighbors across the way is American--I heard her talking to her French husband.
I have actually met one of my two next door neighbors, Ahmed, who lives on the right. I saw but did not meet my neighbor on the left, who has the rest of the third floor. Today I heard her out in the hall, vacuuming, mopping and cleaning, but I was writing and wasn't inclined to greet her while she was at work. In any case, when she retreated to the apartment I set out for a walk and found that she'd put down three new runners on the floor. It's nice to have neighbors that care for their space. All I've done so far is stick a longhorn logo on my front door.
During the day, it's quiet, and at night, the familiar city noises come up along with the smell of cooking and music and tv in a dozen apartments. The courtyard is full of different kinds of light, smells and sounds. I love it. It's why came. Home. Paris.
PS - The other two things? Smell. Check. Internet. Check.
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