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.
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