Meeting My (Host) Mother

Le Chao Ba, where we killed some time before meeting our hôte-mère, is very close to our new apartment. We walk the short half-block and ring the buzzer for the tenant listing that reads "Berger." I'm very nervous about having to speak only French, but in a can't-contain-myself kind of way. She answers and after a brief exchange--in French!--she lets us into the building. She and her family live on la première étage which is the second floor of an American building. But really everything begins on the second floor... The door to the apartment swings open, and there before us is Ingrid Berger, Hôte-Mère du moment. She is a thin woman with a husky voice, dirty blonde, and very happy to see us. She speaks rapid-fire French that I am thankful to understand. Where I do not understand, I get the gist. Still, we were both exhausted, to the point where I would agree with anything said just to lie down for a minute. I remember thinking that she was probably relieved that I understood her well enough that she didn't have to switch to English for us--perish the thought!

She shows us to our room off the hallway entrance and to our right. It had belonged to the Japanese student that had been staying with them since May, Tetsuya. He had since been relocated to another room where Ingrid's live-in beau's two kids stayed when they came over. It was little more than a walk-in closet, filled with books, and whose bed actually disected the entrance at about the face. There was a tv for the kids to watch movies on. Tetsuya seemed to like it well enough. There were also two young Aussie lads staying in the same flat. And we thought we would have to entertain Madame and her monsieur all alone. Ingrid encourages us to take a nap. I opt for a shower first.

Our shower is actually a tub that takes some getting used to. For one, the tub is in one corner with a stacked washer/dryer unit in the other corner. Right between them, in the sixteen or so inches leftover, is a toilet. Using the toilet requires one to put a foot in the bathtub, or sit with legs smashed together. My modus operandi was usually the former. The tub isn't curtained off; all that separates it from the rest of the bathroom is a glass window/door that works as a shield between it and the sink, which is right next to the door. I still manage to get the floor soaking wet, however (as Jeff would expect of me:)): there is a hose/shower-head thing connected to the spigot. I took many tub baths after that day.

Then I join William for a nap in our bed, high off the ground (the ceiling is high for an apartment; there is actually another cot beneath it), hard as a rock, and yet a godsend for my aching, fatigued body. William wakes me hours later with kisses. We hear voices outside our room, mostly male. William asks me to help him with vocab. We descend from on high; William studies, I help. Then I skitter off to start this journal. At around 8-8:30 Paris time, a bell sounds from the kitchen and someone knocks on the door. It's time to meet the rest of the family.

They are: Ingrid Berger (whom we can call Ingrid, while still using 'vous' with her); her boyfriend, Jean Claude (whose second name escapes me twice before sticking for good; I still cannot remember his last name); Tetsuya, the Japanese exchange student from Osaka; and the two Australian boys, Jacob and Tom. Tetsuya is twenty-one; both Jacob and Tom are 16 (and so cute!). We are served some baguettes (fresh-frozen) and pâté de canard (duck pâté). I've never had pâté before, but I'm surprised how much duck liver tastes like the rest of the duck (meat, I mean). Dinner is spaghetti bolognese, followed by assorted sorbets for dessert. We talk about many things, and I practice my French (and some Japanese), reverting to English only when absolutely necessary. I didn't want to be lazy about it: I was there to learn French, so that's what I was doing.

It was when Jean Claude asked if I surfed (being from Hawai`i and all) and I said that I didn't have 'un bon sens d'équilibre' (sense of balance) for it that Jean Claude turned to Ingrid and commented on my French skills. They seemed genuinely impressed. In a way, it can be construed as insulting; what native speaker comments on how well another native speaker speaks? But I am not a native speaker, so I'm flattered every time a native speaker compliments me on my speech :P. Tetsuya also insists that my Japanese is good, although I can't understand hardly anything he says.

After dinner, Ingrid and Jean Claude suggest we take a walk up to Montmartre and Sacré Coeur, which we are right next to. They escort all of us up, explaining how the Aussie lads can only go out if adults accompany them. They're too young to be out and about unsupervised at such an hour (about 10 pm), though they don't seem to mind the chaperoning. We climb many steps up the steep hill, passing all kinds of shops that, Ingrid tells me, will give way to other tabacs à la mode (more fashionable shops). We window-shop; I like the French expression much better: 'lecher vitrine,' to lick the windows. People are everywhere, a large portion of them seriously underage by our American standards, and, unlike Jacob and Tom, they are unsupervised. I wonder where their parents are.

We pass through Place du Tertre on the way to Sacré Coeur. The plaza is alive with painters reconstructing masterpieces or simply painting their own wares to sell. There are (seriously expensive, I thought) restaurants (before I realized that they were not that expensive) lining the plaza. We look, then move on.

Sacré Coeur is a sight to see, day or night. Of course we forgot the camera. We go in to take in some of the perpetual prayer inside. You can buy un lumignon, a prayer candle, 2Euro for the small one, 10 for the big. A plaque insistes that the church is sustained by the kind donation of her visitors alone. I get annoyed when I see a machine for making souvenir coins right in the church, a sentiment echoed by Ingrid. I tell her that's what pissed Jesus off that one time. It's residual Christian upbringing for me, and probably institutionalized Catholicism on Ingrid's part. She gets a little loud and we get shushed by a young man I'd been checking out earlier.

Outside again, someone is singing Bob Marley's 'Redemption Song.' There are steps splayed out before Sacré Coeur, the better to view the city of Paris in all her nightly splendor. We take in the city skyline, which is impressive all lit up. La Tour Eiffel, like a beacon, bathes her environs in a beam of white light, a light that does not reach us here in the eighteenth arrondissement.

We make our way back home. Ingrid has given me a key, which William and I will share. After a quick stop 'home,' we head back to Le Chao Ba, where I finish this entry and William chats on AIM with Jim and Gray Hill Solutions, et al.

Vive la France!

Sept 27: Day One in Paris

I worried about having taken the wrong train from CDG to Paris proper. CDG is actually quite a ways outside of l'Ile de Paris, though the RER trains make at least two of "Paris' " three airports easily accessible. (The other RER-accessible train is in Orly. Beauvais is considered a Parisian airport, but it takes a two hour bus to get there.) William noticed my discomfort and tried to pep me up, but I was curt with him.

William was right to distrust the advice of the French who was, however good-intentioned, wrong about getting off at Gare du Nord. We did that only to get right back on. We rode on to Le Jardin du Luxembourg without another hitch.

Our packs are heavy. Instead of lugging around luggage (they do come from the same root), we opted for hiking packs. William bought me a beautiful green and black one from REI that proved to be handy. Our hiking packs, filled to the gills, hung from out backs, while our daypacks, also filled to overflowing, hung from our fronts. We look like American tourists from Seattle. We walk around the Jardin, a park unlike any I've ever seen before. If I were to describe it briefly, I'd note the sheer size of it, big like a football field or bigger, with fountains here, a cute cafe there, and sitting somewhere in the middle what appears to be a museum. There are paths that cut through the gardens, which aren't anything like American home gardens, much more like parks. These paths are lined with chairs, chairs everywhere, and more notable, people in them at 11:30 a.m. on a regular Thursday. Shouldn't these people be at work, these children and teens at school? High-schoolers and college freshmen (William hopes) are everywhere.

I'm tired and hungry, and more than a bit peeved. I'm ashamed of it now. I should have been elated, bubbling with beside-myself-edness. Instead, I was annoyed and sulky, pouting. To appease at least my hunger, we stake out what the park signs say are La Rafraichement et Restauration. William assures me it's just a little restaurant with open-air seating, and he's right. It's close to lunch, so--we're told--the menu is about to change. We wait for the lunch menu, but order two cafe cremes from the garcon, who is much nicer and more attentive than his lunchtime replacement. We pay our first server for the two coffees. When it's available, we order lunch: a sandwich au jambon (ham sandwich) for William, and a real crepe au jambon, aux oeufs, et a l'emmenthal (crepe with ham, eggs, and emmenthal cheese) for me. We eat and hang out like real Parisians. William's restless, and takes a walk around the grounds. I read my recently purchased edition of Harry Potter et Le Prisonnier d'Azkaban (en francais). We move a while to later to une pelouse autorisee, a lawn set aside for people to sprawl out on, unlike those labeled to prevent such. There are tons of teens hanging out on this lawn set aside for lounging between two rows of trees.

William wants me to see the Seine, so we go, passing through what could become a protest between the Jardin du Luxembourg and St. Michel-Notre Dame. The Seine is green and dirty, but the scenery is quaint. We decide then to take a bus to Pigalle instead of trying to navigate the RER. It is then that we discover just what kind of area Pigalle is. We had been warned it was the Red Light District.

We arrive at our home for the next ten weeks, Chez Ingrid Berger on Rue Andre Antoine, one and a half hours early. We remember that it's best to offer the host family/mother a gift for opening their home. I asked one of the men hanging out in front the laundromat right next to Madame's immobilier for directions to the nearest florist. Although I was really nervous, apparently I managed to make myself understood and about three blocks later, I was in a florist. I asked the florist to suggest something for a gift... for a woman. I think I may have been too vague; he recommended red roses. I asked him if that wasn't a bit "trop," and he assured me it was not. So I purchased them. Of course, it was only after I had made the purchase that it occurred to me that perhaps I had bought a gift for a young girlfriend instead of a more mature divorcee in whom I had no interest, age notwithstanding. I was, however, tickled by the awkwardness of it. By the time I get back to William, sitting on the stoop to our apartment, it's still too early for our 5 pm rendez-vous with Ingrid, so we check out Le Chao Ba right there on the corner of Andre Antoine and Clichy. They have free wifi, which will prove enormously to our favor. We order the closest thing to lemonade on the menu, 2 citron presses, which, unlike lemonade, you mix in sugar to taste. It is much more sour than we expected, but the kick is welcome. I'm sleepy after the drink, so I settle in for a nap while William tests the wifi. Little did we know that this elaborately shabby-chic pan-asian cafe-bar would become our chez-nous away from chez-nous. I wake in time to meet the Madame of the five o'clock hour, Mme Ingrid Berger.

Sept. 27: Getting to Paris 2--Toronto to Paris

Once in Toronto for our five-hour layover, we wondered how we should spend our time. William suggested we rent a day-room, so we could nap, like he had in Detroit on some trip well before I came into the picture. Toronto International Airport doesn't have day-rooms, so we asked instead about our gate (the marquee had read "529"). We took a shuttle to the 500 gates, where we bought a Napoleone pizza, whose crust was crunchy, but in a fresh-baked cardboard way. Then I sprawled over four armchairs, intending to sleep the remaining four hours away. I woke two hours later, expecting our gate to be full, but it wasn't: we were one gate off (never mind what the marquee said). Sure enough, at 7:40 pm, Toronto time, now, our flight was boarding. We hurried aboard.

Seated, we were subjected to the same quaint video introduction. There would be two movies on this flight, neither of which we watched: Mission Impossible 3 (for lack of interest--hold the Tom Cruise, pls) and Whale Rider (for lack of the will to stay awake). I debated writing in my journal, which would become this blog, but I felt I hadn't experienced anything worth writing about really, except for maybe the onset of jetlag. (Of course, I wrote about all this stuff later, just like I'm adding this note much later... nine months later.) William slept for the better part of the flight; the white noise of jet engines puts him to sleep like riding any kind of vehicle puts me to sleep. He woke only to eat his lactose-free meals. I found the food to be decent, and thought--not for the first time--about how airplane food often gets a bad rap. Maybe my palate just isn't cultivated enough. An hour or so before landing, I see French soil for the first time and also find out we'll be landing an hour early... Which leaves us a good eight hours to kill in Paris before Ingrid is ready to receive us.

Charles de Gaulle is a confusing airport, we quickly learn. William bought some water and some candy for me to get change for the navette to the RER terminal. There we find out change is still too big, unless we wanted to wait a long time to get a ticket. We managed to finally get tickets after standing in line for a change machine. We got onto the B-line, which some other passengers (wrongly) informed us that we'd have to change trains at Gare du Nord. (In retrospect, they were probably right, except we weren't going straight to Pigalle. We had planned to kill some time in Le Jardin du Luxembourg.) When we were on our way and past the initial tunnels, we saw how beautiful it was outside. "Un type" witha little speaker/mic/music set-up sang for change, at which point, William looked at me and said, "Now you're really in Paris."