Paris For One Year: November 2015

A couple of months ago, a friend here was giving me a ride home. Along the way, she pointed to a terraced apartment above us and said, “a family from our school used to live there, they left right after the Charlie Hebdo attacks, they were too afraid to stay.” In that moment, I remember thinking two thoughts: “what a shame they decided to bail”, and “I so hope another incident like that doesn’t happen while we’re here.”

We weren’t even in Paris when all the madness occurred. Katie was returning from a cross country meet in Zurich Friday night, and we were in Strasbourg with Allie. Strasbourg is this Christmas-like village in northern France, near the German border. Some friends joined us as well. We did a boat tour, our friends visited a very quirky hospital wine cellar (yes, you read that right), and then we all had dinner at a traditional Alsatian restaurant. We had plans for some fun stuff the following day.

We’re at the hotel that night when we get a text from Katie telling us she is back in Paris, at the train station, which is somewhat near the 11^th arrondissement. Her and her friend are deciding whether to take the metro or an Uber home. Then we see the breaking news headlines about shootings in the 10^th and 11^th. Katie is unreachable for the next hour or so as the news gets progressively worse. Explosions, hostages, people killed. The news says there is a bomb scare at the Chatelet metro station. If she’s taken the metro, this is where she could change trains. We’re starting to panic a little.

Finally, she calls us from home. Her and her friend had opted to take a cab, and then she immediately took the dog out, as we had told her to do. It’s worth noting that this is the first time we’ve left Katie here solo overnight. The kid did good.

I like to run among the tourists by the Eiffel Tower on Sunday mornings. I have my American music in my ears and iconic Parisian scenery in my sights. I run off all of the nonsense that accumulates in my brain over the week, and breathe in all of the obvious wonderful. It’s a great way to start a new week. When I began my run this recent Sunday, my intention was to take a bunch of photos of normal street scenes and post them on Facebook, with a “life goes on” title, or something to that effect.

And I did.

Then I read a harrowing account by a 23 year-old woman, who had been at the Bataclan concert Friday night. There was such a disconnect between what this woman had survived and my silly, trite post, that I was embarrassed. So, I deleted it. If I were that girl, and someone said to me, “life goes on”, it would sound so cavalier, so clueless. Her life will go on, but not in the same way I suspect.

I’ve been awed by all the people that checked up on us. Facebook posts, messages, phone calls, texts. From people in our life now, and some I don’t often hear from. Funnily (to me), the very first person to check in on me was a guy from high school who, to be honest, was kind of a jerk to me back then. We reconnected at a reunion a few years ago and he’s actually a pretty good guy. We couldn’t be farther apart politically, but that’s ok, and I was really touched that he reached out. Vive la difference!

“Come home now!” This is the panicked message I receive from my friend Debbie. I know this is because she loves me and is worried. However, to suggest that we are any safer in the United States is not completely true. Not anymore. We’ve only been gone about four months and I think there have been at least as many, if not more, campus shootings in that period of time.

Still, I’d be lying if I said our kids weren’t a little shaken by this. Allie, a little more so. It’s only the first day back at school, and she’s already getting annoyed with people telling her to “live your normal life, don’t let fear win.” She says to me today, “how can I live my normal life when I’m afraid someone’s going to shoot me?” Not a question I’ve fielded before from my 14 year-old.

All I can tell her is I’m sorry this has happened. That her safety is the most important thing to us, and if we believed we were in real danger, we’d go home. I also tell her that, yes, there is no doubt that the bubble we live in back home is very safe, but most people have a very different reality. She’s smart. She knows all this, but it’s my best answer. The day after, I hear her humming the “It’s a Wonderful World” song to herself, so maybe she’s not totally jaded. Yet.

Just before all of this happened, both girls said that they would consider staying beyond our one year plan, if that were an option. Katie is still saying this, which I guess is good. I’m not sure if it’s her chutzpah or denial, or maybe a little of both.

Sure, we could run. But that feels so wrong to me. Disrespectful in a way. As if we only came here to experience all the good things in France, but we don’t care enough to stick around when times are tough? We love it here. We’re finally getting a little more comfortable with the language. Jim manages to have conversations with the market vendors and they are starting to recognize him. The girls are hitting their stride in school and seem happy here. Even Charlie has adjusted! She struts down the city streets like she owns the place. No longer growls at other dogs. Her French poodle ancestors would be so proud.

Ironically, the tragic events have had the opposite effect on me. They make me want to stay even more and support the French people. As they have supported us. Jim was walking the dog yesterday, at a little park we frequent a lot. For the first time, he happened to notice this plaque. It reads:

In tribute to victims of the attack of September 11, 2001 and testimony of solidarity with the American people, this tree was planted by Pierre Christian Taittinger and the municipality of the 16th arrondissement.

My poised, ultra polite sister-in-law, whom I've never heard utter a curse word, wrote to me yesterday and signed off with, "fuck the terrorists". Word.

A visit from some of our favorite people, Barcelona, and turning 17 in Paris. But first, this happened . . .

Last year, I was on an “American living in Paris memoir” reading binge. Obviously, we’re not the first people to do this, so there are tons of books out there. However, my favorite was Paris, I Love You, But You're Bringing Me Down, by a guy named Rosecrans Baldwin.

When I read the reviews, the people that disliked it, felt he was a privileged guy complaining about something most people only dream about. The people that loved the book had generally all spent some time living abroad, navigating real life in a city where you don’t speak the language. I reference the book here (other then recommending it as a really good read) to acknowledge that I don't have the same challenges Rosecrans Baldwin had. However, I do have my moments. And I might as well write about them.

Giverny. The pictures say it all I think.

For example, this week I received a letter from a collections agency. Basically, it said they will use all means legally available to take me down if I don’t pay a 69 euro bill for a service I never received.

A little background first. Upon renting our current apartment here, we were going to sign up with a local cable provider. We ordered the box and set up an appointment for the installation. But then, our landlords decided to keep the service they already had and just bill us for our usage. This was exactly what we were doing with our own renters, so it made sense to us. The lovely Samara (our concierge, mentioned in previous posts), promptly cancelled our cable appointment and returned the box. Still, a month later I receive a bill from the cable company for 69 euros.

A "selfie" at The Dry Martini Bar, in Barcelona.

I had high hopes that this error would resolve itself, as I'd just had a positive experience with customer service in France. We had recently picked up a box shipment from the UPS depot, after paying a 128 euros customs fee. A week later, I received a bill from UPS for 128 euros. I’d just gotten my new French phone number, so I call their customer service. I try my best to get a human, but fail. I’ve not told Jim this, but I made the executive decision to just pay the damn thing and be done with it. I chalked it up to one of the overall costs of this adventure we’re on. A mere two days later, UPS sends me back the check with a nice letter saying I’ve paid twice.

So, I was optimistic that the bill from the cable company might go away on its own. What I should have learned is just to pay whatever they tell you to, right or wrong, and fix it later.

Another month goes by and I get a second bill from the cable company. The little voice in my head says, “just pay it, make it go away”, but I don’t. Samara calls the cable company to explain the error (because they only speak French). No worries, they will make the correction, she’s told. Another month, another invoice, two more calls from Samara. Each time, the person on the other end of the phone telling her it’s been taken care of. Then, last week, I get the above mentioned letter from the collection agency.

A wine tasting dinner with some French, a Swede, a Canadian, and us!

I’ve always been a relatively good girl. When I was five, I stuck my tongue out at a girl who threw sand in my little brother’s face. My mother only saw the tongue incident and punished me for it. To this day, she is still puzzled as to why I never told her that I was defending my brother. I’ve never been that woman who leaves her car in the pick-up line at school because “I’ll only be gone a quick sec” (no judgement). That whole theory of “it’s easier to ask for forgiveness then permission”? I can’t even. The words “collection agency” don't sit well with me. So this letter freaks me out. I tell Jim I’m just going to pay the fucking thing.

For the record, in our relationship, I deal with all the paperwork minutia crap that it takes to keep our little household running. I like it. It works for us. I don’t really involve Jim in the details, because they make his eyes glaze over. Plus, he makes dinner, so we're more then even. So, when I stated I was going to just pay this bill for a service we hadn’t received, he didn’t know any of the backstory. He just saw that I was upset and tried to make a helpful suggestion. I didn’t respond particularly well. Poor guy.

Happy 17th to my beautiful daughter - who left shortly after this was taken, to begin her evening at 10pm.

Samara calls again and talks to someone higher up on the cable company food chain. They confirm (again) that I certainly don’t owe any money, but that any cancellation of service must be made in writing. Just send a letter and that should do it. Samara overnights a letter to them. The next day, I get a follow-up scary letter from the collection folks, threatening all sorts of torture on me if I don’t pay 69 euros.

Random Paris Scenes: firefighters on their morning run, lady in red smoking on her terrace, a really wonderful wine bar and a "Je Suis Charlie" tag near our local market.

Samara calls the cable company again and they assure her that they’ve notified the collection agency that the debt is a mistake. The letters probably just crossed in the mail. Samara asks for some sort of documentation to this effect, but is told, that since I’m not a customer, this is not possible. However, they give her an email address to another person in the cable company, and that person can send some sort of confirmation to me.

Samara composes a request in French for me to send. I send the email and it gets kicked back. Samara scours the cable company website for a better email address. I try again and that gets kicked back too. She finally fills out a form on their website with our request, but who knows where that ended up. That was on Friday.

Barcelona!

Today is Monday. We still have no documentation from the cable company. Samara and team have admitted defeat, or perhaps they sense I wouldn’t do particularly well in a French prison. Also, that outcome wouldn’t do much for their company’s marketing efforts.

They suggest I just pay the 69 euros at this point. Theorizing that it is less dangerous to deal with a cable company then a collections agency. So, today I paid the 69 euros, which I should have just done in the first place. Lesson learned. Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

Just before we received the collections agency letter, we learned that our apartment lease won’t be renewed for the second six months of our stay. I am optimistic a few stories will result from this. Please stay tuned.

á bientôt