Paris in the early days

Yesterday I went for the second time to Les Halles, an area of shops, including a big mall, near Châtelet in the center of Paris. Les Halles was the traditional open-air wholesale market of Paris. It was created in 1137, by Louis VI le Gros, and the first permanent structures were built in 1183. In 1632, L’Église Saint-Eustache was completed, located at the entrance to Les Halles (Louis XIV received his first communion there). Napolean III built more permanent structures , different pavilions for different types of products.

But today none of that exists anymore; the pavilions were destroyed in 1971 and the market moved to Rungis. In its place, a big, ugly, underground mall was built, and fountains and walkways placed on top. The Forum des Halles is cramped, crowded, dark, and very oddly laid out. And it is full of shops, in particular, shops I can afford. In fact, the whole area is good for that. One strange thing: many of the biggest stores have equivalents outside, above ground, mere meters from their mall location. I guess you reach the most people that way. The mall is quite popular, especially on Saturdays (like most places in Paris, it is closed on Sundays).

This is because Parisians love to shop. And I fit right in. There’s tons of eye candy in this city, in the form of gorgeous window displays on long blocks of stores. Of course, I can’t afford the vast majority of those places, which is why I’m glad for Les Halles – the shops are a lot cheaper, and there’s not one but TWO H&Ms. I went to the one inside the mall, which is enormous.  I later discovered on my way home that there’s an H&M five blocks from my apartment.

For those of you who don’t know (basically, my mom), H&M is a big clothing chain with inexpensive and trendy clothes based out of Sweden. Those Swedes. They really know how to do style on the cheap (i.e., Ikea). Go to their website, you can watch the clothes fly on and off a model as she walks down the runway in her underwear. (I thought this might not be the case on the US-based website, but it is! Click on different clothes under spring fashion to see.)

As anyone who has shopped in a different country knows, sizing can be tricky. I remember a (very slender) friend shopping in Japan and not being able to fit into anything, even extra large sizes, because the women there are so petite. And of course, we have size deflation in the US, and French women are skinny. (This is not universally the case, but for those that shop at H&M it’s pretty much true.) There are bonuses to this – I fill out the tops in unexpected but attractive ways. But skinny jeans? It ain’t gonna happen. I don’t have super wide hips, but I’m an athlete.  I’ve got gluts, quads, and calves. These pencil-leg pants just aren’t going to work. But that’s okay. I’m a strong believer in wearing things that make you look good and feel confident, regardless of the fashion of the time. Incorporating current trends into your look: great. Trying to squeeze a bootylicious bod into Kate Moss clothes: not so great.

Shoes were another difficulty. Amy would have serious trouble. I’m a size 9 US (40 European); that was the upper limit available, and many shoes did not come in my size. I managed to pick up another pair of heels and some flip flops. I’m rejecting the look of ballet-style flats. My mother will be horrified to hear this, but I much prefer heels, even though they’re killing my feet (especially with all the walking I do).

All in all, I spent a bit, got a lot, and also picked up a SIM card. So if you’re in the US, call this number: 1-425-296-2950 (should be local to Seattle). If you’re in France, it’s 06.64.99.94.29. If you want to talk for an extended period of time, get PennyTalk and call me directly on the mobile.

Yesterday was a very exciting day. After working till Sierra’s bedtime on the UIST paper, I awoke at 7 am – not exactly bright-eyed and busy tailed, but wide awake. I was (am) very tired, but my brain wouldn’t let me sleep. Kinda like when you have too much coffee late at night. So of course I went right back to work and managed to get a close-to-final draft of the paper done. Where “right back to work” means I worked on my laptop, in my pajamas, not bothering to turn the bed back into a sofa. Made some eggs on my horrible horrible burners. Left the apartment in shambles when I went to French class at 1:30.

French class was good. I should maybe jump a level, but I like my teacher a lot and I’m missing a week in Italy. I think it’s okay; good practice. But what’s even better practice is trying to speak French over the phone in order to obtain an apartment. For instance, today I had an appointment and I was very proud of myself for managing to make this appointment. Unfortunately, in relating it to a labmate, I said the time and he said “douze heure or deux heure?” And I just laughed. Because I had no idea. Later, someone called for me and we established that it was at 2, by saying “quatorze”. Saw the place today, on rue Cardinal Lemoine, which avid readers will remember is where Hemingway had his first apartment. This was within a stone’s throw, totally cute building, totally tiny and dark apartment – so, not taking that one.

But back to the larger story. I had an apartment rendez-vous at 7:45 pm, this one very close to work, 3 blocks away. Gathering my things to leave, I double check to make sure I have my keys. I do not. They are not in their usual pocket. They are not on my (already really messy) desk. They are not in some other obscure pocket of my bag, nor in my coat, nor in my jeans, nor in the bathroom, nor in a random drawer. My keys are gone. I indulge in a bit of cursing, grab my dossier (because I’m now going to be late) and run out the door.

I’m in a terrible mood, trying to figure out where on earth I’m going to sleep tonight, praying that I left the keys at French class. I have the door code so I get into the building, but the ad said it was on the 6th without a lift, and there’s a lift right in front of me. I take it, but it only goes to the 5th floor, and there’s nowhere further to go, and only one door (it seems there’s only one door per floor). So I get back in the elevator and go down, thinking there must be some staircase I’ve missed. I notice a door to the outside and peek out of it, but it seems to lead to an alley. I hear a guy come down the stairs and wait, hoping it’s my landlord. Which it is, it seems, and he directs me to what I thought was an alley but is just a passageway to the back of the building, where there’s a staircase. He tells me to go the sixth floor (ok I assume this is what he told me, I don’t ACTUALLY know what he said, but the information was conveyed) and he leaves. I trudge up seven flights of stairs because in France, they are good computer scientists and start counting at 0. But the building is promising, nice and old, in a great neighborhood, steps from the rue Mouffetard.

I make it to the top of the stairs and wait – there’s no open door or anything, and I’m starting to doubt that guy actually WAS the landlord. Maybe he was just telling me that the studette is on the 6th floor but I’m supposed to knock on doors.

I am not at all interested in knocking on doors.

I am about to descend back down the stairs when I hear a door open. The same guy comes up the stairs, but from the fifth floor. We go to an apartment at the end of the hall, still occupied.

It’s gorgeous. Small of course, but at 14 sqm it’s 40% larger than what I currently have. There’s a full bathroom and the kitchenette is far nicer, with a real stove top and a nice stainless steel sink. And it has high ceilings and a big window overlooking the courtyard (no vis-a-vis, like I have now, not that I’ve ever minded that sort of thing). It does not come furnished, he explains, and I nod agreement, and we establish that we will go somewhere else to work out some details.

Where we end up going is his apartment, which is on the fifth floor. Mystery solved. And it’s BEAUTIFUL. It takes up the entire floor, with a large living room, dining room (where his family is having dinner), and bedrooms in the back. This is the equivalent of 5 or 6 apartments above, maybe more. Lovely high ceilings, old windows, gorgeous moldings. To be rich and lucky! I can’t imagine it was an easy find.

So we sit down to talk details and he comes out with this perfect English. This is sort of baffling. He doesn’t think he speaks very well, either, but he does, and it’s much, much better than my French. The apartment is very popular but he wants to rent it to me because I’m American. He wants me to talk to his children in English. Which I agree to do. I’m not exactly sure what this will entail, but I guess we’ll see! His daughters are young (maybe 7 and 4?) and very very cute.

Upon leaving the place, I’m in a much better mood, because I appear to have found a great place to live. There is still the problem of the keys, though. On my way back to the lab, I run into Jan, a Dutch postdoc, who I talk to for 15 minutes or so; he offers up his place if I still can’t find the keys. Long story short, I can’t, so I walk about 30 minutes down to rue Tolbiac and Jan’s shared apartment. And his place is also quite nice – large, as big or bigger than my Seattle apartment, and shared with 2 others. There are 3 bedrooms, a shower room with washer, a toilet room, a large kitchen (by French standards, roughly the size of mine in DC), and a living room. The period details are nice too, and their living room looks out on Église Sainte-Anne de la Butte-aux-Cailles. Speaking of Butte-aux-Cailles, we had dinner there, and it was great – a neat little neighborhood, lively, sans tourists, good food, good bars. It would be cool to have Jan’s situation, a nice big place with French roommates, but it seems difficult for me to achieve, as I don’t speak French very well and I have two cats. Ah well.

I woke up early as usual and walked to Alliance Française. I conducted all my inquiries in French and discovered, to my great pleasure, that the security guard had found my keys! No need to bother the concierge, or the agency, or poor Nathalie (the secretary) with the loss of the keys and all the mess it would entail. I went home and the cats even still had some food left. I was so grateful to be there, I took an hour to make it clean and livable again.

On tap for the weekend – some clothes shopping at H&M (elementary school girls dress better than I do), some ultimate watching at French nationals, grocery shopping, getting a SIM card, sleeping, maybe checking out a church. Writing. Taking a Velib around town. It will all happen, I swear.

I’ve been working quite a bit, what with UIST and another deadline, plus getting up to speed on my project here.  It’s actually great, but it means I have a long list of things to do that I haven’t gotten around to yet.

1.  Sit in a café and write letters and postcards.  OK, this may seem like a gimmee, but I bought tons of postcards and writing materials my first day and haven’t had a chance to sit down for a few hours and write.  Blame work, ultimate, and this blog.

2.  Explore churches. I’d like to find a place to regularly attend but I’d also just like to experience French catholicism.  There are tons of churches, everywhere – it seems like a neat way to explore history and art would be to visit services at a different one each Sunday.  (There’s actually a ton of famous art in old French churches, but you have to seek it out.)  Alas, thus far I’ve only managed to sleep on Sunday mornings.

3.  Go dancing.  I would like to find some cool places to dance, ideally before people start visiting me, so I actually know where to go.

4.  Go to shows.  There’s definitely a live music scene here but I’m not at all tapped in.  There’s a blog (linked to from here) with upcoming indie shows, but it’s not exactly threeimaginarygirls.  Oh how I miss you, Seattle.

5.  Go to Lyon.  For all those of you who feel terribly neglected by me (I’m pretty sure that’s everyone, since I’ve been totally out of communication), it may make you feel better to know that I have yet to see my relatives in Lyon.  Which is two hours away.  I really need to plan that out someday soon.

It’s Thursday, thank goodness, because this has been a rough week, what with the French classes and my new early schedule.  This weekend I’m going to watch Yaka play (win) French nationals, go to Rum-Rum, and otherwise probably explore a few more neighborhoods.  Oh, and sleep.  Paganello is like a beacon of hope – a whole week off (my first days off since Christmas, come to think of it), Emily and Dave coming all the way to Europe sans (lovely!) children, a chance to see Drew and Zucker, beach, sun, ultimate – I really can’t wait.

This is somewhat of a test post so I’ll keep it short.  (To those on Facebook: my real blog will be hosted by my brother and WordPress, which means I can control the way it looks and have nice big pictures.  http://www.cherniavsky.net/neva  This is a test to see how well things import.)

It looks like my schedule is going to be quite rough on the days I take French, more so on Mondays, when I also play ultimate.  The class is 1:30-4:30 but it takes me 15-20 minutes to walk there.  So, in at 7, lunch at 12, back around 5, leave at 8 is my aim.  On Mondays I have to leave earlier to get out to Noisy-le-Sec, so I’ll probably come in a little earlier.  Eeek!  Worth it I think, though.  I already feel a lot better, after just one lesson.

Lunch here is mandatory, a tradition I quite like.  In the States, we tend to eat at our desks to make it clear that we’re still working really, really hard.  It’s all a lie, of course.  The French are actually more productive per hour than Americans.  Chalk it up to lovely long lunches and coffee breaks – when you’re working, you’re working, and when you’re not, you’re not.

Today I explored the Marais, another expensive arrondisement with lots of shopping and museums. The feel of the Marais is different from the Saint Germain, mainly because it is a little older. It has tons of museums, that I’ll explore some day – it’s hard to justify spending my time at museums when there’s so much of the city I haven’t seen.

I began by taking the metro to the Place de la Bastille. Naively I thought the Bastille still existed (umm, no). In its place there’s a tall gold pillar, the Colonne de Juillet, a monument to the revolution of 1830 with the names of dead revolutionaries inscribed upon it. On the Place de la Bastille is the Opera Bastille, a building that the French regard as unlovely. It does, however, have a Mahler concert going on according to the banner, and I do love Mahler.

I went down the rue Saint Antoine in search of the Hotel Sully, which I found, though apparently it was actually a hotel and not the museum I was looking for. After a rather unpleasant conversation with the manager, I never found the proper place, which was irritating – apparently it has a bookstore with all kinds of Parisian history books in both English and French. I would like to know more about the history of Paris. Oh well, next time.

The Place des Vosges was my next stop, and quite impressive – certain to be on the list of personal tourist suggestions to my friends. It is a square surrounded on all four sides by a palace built in the early 1600s.

From there I went walking along the rue Francs-Bourgeois, a narrow, medieval-style street lined with expensive shops underneath very old buildings. I got a little tired of taking pictures of old buildings because there are quite a few, but here’s two.

It was quite crowded, because it was Sunday, and the only places open on Sunday are in the Marais. This is because historically the Marais is the Jewish quarter; today, it hosts a Holocaust memorial museum and a museum of Jewish history in Paris. The Jewish population of Paris dropped from 300,000 to 180,000 during World War II, but there has been lots of immigration since (from Africa, amongst other places), and the population is now in above 700,000, the largest in Europe.

Arnie had suggested I get some fallafel and there’s no better place than the rue des Rosiers. For 5 euros, I had a delicious meal, which I ate slowly as I wandered up the rue du Temple.

One stop I had planned to make was the Enfants Rouges, but I was too late. A block away is a place I might rent next, at 10 rue Picardie. I visit tomorrow but I wanted to get a feel for the neighborhood. The neighborhood is fine, but not as nice as my current place. I think I need to talk to my agent and see if we can come to some accommodation. I think my place is too small right now but maybe it’s not. Or maybe he can help me find some place else.
What didn’t help was walking up from rue Picardie to whatever road that was on my way to Republique. A little smelly, some vacant buildings, a lot of graffiti (including, shockingly, on the statue of the Republic itself). There was also some kind of gathering happening – a protest, a concert, a biker gang convention (there were a lot of bikers), who knows. It certainly felt very French.

I wandered away and hopped the metro home, then went around my nearly deserted neighborhood, hoping to be able to do laundry. I was in luck, for a little market, the laundromat, and a boulangerie were all open. I was able to get the cats some more food so they didn’t keep me up all night, get myself some good bread for dinner, and do my laundry (where I’m currently writing this note).I have some work to do tonight and then a busy day tomorrow – work, see this apartment, go to French class, back to work. I need to skip ultimate because of the apartment appointment unfortunately. If I get up early enough, I’ll run instead.