"Thank You for Trying"
Some 15-ish years ago, my wife and I
were simultaneously struck mad and, at the height of our insanity,
decided it would be a grand idea to buy a 1-bedroom flat in Paris.
We had just welcomed a baby boy into our lives and thought,
“What better time than now to embark upon an ill-planned
and extremely expensive adventure?”
In fairness to our younger selves,
we did have several things going for us.
I’d studied high school French
and could inform people that I was going to the beach
or tell them whether it was or was not currently raining.
My wife had an impeccable fashion sense
and knew how to point to things that she liked on a French menu.
Both of us were surprised but undaunted when neither of these skills
proved adequate to negotiate
a foreign real estate contract.
Fortunately, the universe and, apparently, France, smile upon idiots.
We watched an episode of House Hunters International
and learned of a New Yorker who specialized in helping Americans buy
Parisian property.
She found us an apartment we could (mostly) afford
and introduced us to an expatriate couple who’d sold
everything they owned to move from Texas to Paris,
arriving with little more than a stack
of French flashcards and a willingness
to do whatever it took to live their dreams.
We asked them if they’d like to manage vacation rentals of our flat,
newly acquired in the heart of the Neuvieme Arrondissement’s
bars, brothels, and strip clubs.
They marketed the neighborhood as
a “lively and authentic French experience”
and welcomed countless visitors over the years that followed.
After that, we did have occasional bouts of lucidity and
would ask one another, “What have we done?”
But each time, the food, wine, and beauty of Paris would romance us
and drive us mad once again.
In the early days, we treasure hunted the brocantes,
sailed toy boats with our son around the Jardin du Luxembourg fountains,
and carted him on our shoulders through the streets
for the Fetes des Vendanges.
Later, we would host dinners for friends, take in plays,
and enjoy concerts.
We would negotiate for water with the confused drag queens at Chez Michou
who didn’t understand
that there was only so much champagne we could drink.
We would drag our jet-lagged selves to Corso Trudaine,
because we had to have that one special dish the minute we got to town.
Slowly we transitioned from repeat tourists to entrenched residents.
Paris stopped being a beloved destination and became our second home.
Our mastery of the language improved only marginally.
I was forced to add “that is broken” and “there is a leak” to my French vocabulary,
but still kept my verbs in the present tense and responded to most questions
with an enthusiastic, if half-witted, smile.
This mystified people in the States.
“If you aren’t fluent, aren’t the Parisians really rude to you?” they would ask.
This always puzzled us. “No,” we would say. “Never.”
But nobody believed us.
Once, at an ungodly hour of the morning,
in the back of a cab headed for the airport,
the driver, having learned where we were headed, said,
“Parisians are terrible to Americans. They hate anyone who doesn’t speak French.”
“Have you ever been to a store or a fast-food restaurant
where one of the customers didn’t speak English?” I asked him.
He shifted a little uncomfortably and said that he had.
“I promise you no one in France has ever treated me as badly
as the Americans treated that person.”
There was some more uncomfortable silence
before the driver admitted, “I see your point.”
We have watched the proprietress of a cozy café listen patiently
while our American 4-year-old nattered on and on
about his favorite cartoon characters.
We’ve described needed repairs to locksmiths and electricians
with awkward pantomime.
We’ve arranged furniture deliveries relying on
scribbled addresses and confused shrugs.
Every time, the Parisians were nothing but lovely.
Once, dining on the Ile St. Louis, the restaurant owner
came to our table and said, in English,
“I want to thank you for speaking French.”
“You are very kind,” I answered in French. “
But we don’t speak it very well.”
(The literal translation of what I said was probably closer to,
“Nice is what you are and very good.
I am and she is speaking,
but it is in a bad way that is not good.”)
“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “Thank you for trying.”
We’ve learned much from owning our small flat.
For example, even if you plan to spend hours watching a small child
bounce himself to exhaustion on a trampoline in the Tuileries,
you should still drink your wine from glasses—never plastic!—
because we are a civilized species.
We also learned that the best restaurants are those
you find unexpectedly down a barely traveled street.
But ultimately, for us, the best lesson from
our Parisian experience has been the reminder that,
even in this most beautiful, elegant,
and glamorous places, people are all too willing to help.
In return, they ask only what any of us want from one another,
no matter our creed, color, or country.
They only want us to try.
Leave a Reply