On a (Much) Lighter Note

Realized I haven't done any 'So, I'm in Paris' posts. Here goes. So, like, I'm in Paris!

My apartment is located in the north end of the 9eme arrondissement, just on the border of the 18eme. For those who aren't familiar with the layout of the city, it's a spiral. A glorious expanding spiral of 20 districts or arrondissements all contained by the Boulevard Peripherique and the perimeter wall. One (Le 1er) is in the centre and is home to things like the Champs Elysee and the Louvre.

My district can only be described as the Marriage District. Or more specifically, the Discount Wedding Dress district. There are approximately one billion wedding dress stores where I live. There are also lots of immigrants from North Africa and the Middle East. It is the opposite of touristy, which makes it kind of gritty and real (probably why I wasn't swooning when I arrived). Apparently it's an up-and-coming area though, so give 'er a decade and it will be fabulous.

I live kind of near the Red Light district, which is where the once-chic-now-Vegas-cheese Moulin Rouge is located along with such classic spots as Sex O! and Pussy's. This area is actually more dangerous for men walking alone than women. The clubs send their bouncers and dancers out to physically drag men off the street. They completely ignore the women walking. It's funny.

The entrance to my apartment building is next door to a weird sports bar/lottery ticket vendor hybrid called Tabac Des Sports. On the other side is a Middle Eastern restaurant, which smells delicious all the time. To get into my place, I enter a code into a door, walk through another building and a courtyard and into my building. This is urban density, friends. I live on the sixth floor, 104 stairs up, on the left hand side. I will have the firmest ass in Calgary when I get back.

My place is somewhat rare in that it has a bedroom. Most (affordable) flats have a futon in the living room and that's it. Mine has a bedroom, a bathroom, a toilet (separate from bathroom, which has the world's smallest shower and a sink), and a kitchen/living room. I cook on a hot plate, which sounds worse than it is. I have a large blue(!) fridge located in my living room. The washer/dryer is in the kitchen. Things are different here.

It is spring here, but still surprisingly cool. I wish I had brought a fluffier jacket. April is a notoriously rainy month and yesterday, there was snow on the windshields. However, the cherry trees are all gloriously in bloom and up on the hill at Montmartre, many of the rose bushes were in bloom. Must be because it's closer to the sun. I am woken up by the birds every morning, and not crappy ravens or magpies like at home. The chirpy, springy kinds of birds.

There is a Middle Eastern bakery a couple of doors down, where I buy my pain au chocolat most mornings. I've tried the other patisseries on my street, but this one has by far the flakiest, softest, most delicious ones in my area. Generally, I make my own coffee in the mornings with the Italian stovetop espresso maker and some milk heated on the stove. But, now I've found "my" cafe, so I will likely be drinking their cafe creme from now on.

Locals order cafe creme (or 'un creme'), which is pretty much exactly like a cafe au lait or latte. Rumour has it that ordering a 'cafe au lait' marks you as a tourist and you'll pay more. Me, I just love the decadence of walking in and saying 'Un creme, s'il vous plait.' Under what other circumstances can you order 'A cream' for breakfast? Love it. Drinking your coffee or beer at the bar in any cafe will get you cheaper prices. It costs more to sit and even more to sit on the patio. I pay to sit because I need room for my laptop.

Some French etiquette that differs from ours: you must, I repeat MUST, say Bonjour when you enter any shop or cafe. Shops and cafes are considered to be extensions of the shopkeeper's home and it is rude not to say hello. I forgot this afternoon when I walked into a boulanger for a sandwich. The lady behind the counter's Bonjour was pointed to say the least. I'm surprised she served me.

Serving staff will never, ever ask you if you want the bill. They would consider it impolite to rush you through a meal, so you have to ask for 'l'addition' when you are ready to go. If you talk too loudly, you will be either told to shut up or given dirty looks.

My cafe, la Fourmi, is the antithesis of everything you just read. They do not look at you when you arrive, which makes it difficult to say hello. I'm still not sure if it's okay that I seat myself, but since they won't look at me, I see no other choice. My first time there, I was yelled at twice: once for sitting in a reserved area and a second for being a single sitting at a four-person table. Space is at a premium in Paris.

Despite this, I freaking love this place and I haven't yet figured out why. It's effortlessly cool and kind of bohemian. It's the kind of place where you can imagine art students in the 1920s arguing about expressionism until 1 am, smoking and drinking espresso. Now, it's got serious graffiti and the staff has dreadlocks. And there was an Ozzy Ozbourne-looking transvestite begging for change in there this morning. That was weird.

I don't think the staff is mean or snobby, just playing hard to get. Except the manager lady. She is downright surly. For the record, the only Snobby Parisian experience I have had was with a Japanese woman.

For lunch Parisians either sit in a cafe and have le menu – a set lunch menu of two or three courses which changes regularly – and wine or they grab ridiculously delicious baguette sandwiches from street vendors and boulangeries. The sandwiches are so fresh and the bread so mind-blowingly good that I think I shall never eat at Subway again. Why can't we have sandwiches this good in Canada? Why?

Dinner is still a mystery to me, as I've been eating in most nights. Tonight, I've been invited for dinner with my visual artist friend at her studio/home with her 4-year-old son. I am very excited about this. Although, one of these nights, I should pony up and go out for dinner.

Paris can be expensive, or not. Buying your coffee in and around famous places is asking for it. You can spend upwards of 10 Euros ($15) for a coffee in the Louvre and at the famous cafes where Hemingway used to drink. If you have money to burn, go for it. If not, avoid drinking coffee in super-touristy or swanky spots like Rue de Rivoli, the Champs Elysee, Montmartre and anywhere near the Eiffel Tower. There are around seventeen billion cafes in this city, I'm sure you'll find somewhere. This morning, I paid 4.00 for a creme and a croissant and then 3.45 for a baguette sandwich. I've been generally eating lunch at home, but getting a whole baguette isn't working for me. Too much bread to eat while it's fresh.

Living alone is familiar to me, so this experience has a somewhat simple, domestic quality to it. Which makes my impulse-answer to 'How's Paris?' something like 'Same as Calgary, except busier and Frenchier.' I am here as an artist, not a tourist, so when I go see the sights I find myself irritated at all the slow-moving, map-toting, camera-pointing, postcard-buying, I Heart Paris t-shirt wearing yutzes. But then I realize, I'm wearing a Mountain Equipment Co-op Jacket and I'm pointing my camera too.

Despite the fact that many of you, including (frighteningly) my boyfriend, are convinced that I will be falling in love with someone named Jacques or Pierre, I find the women to be far more impressive than the men. The women are beautiful. Elegant, feminine, stylish. Long, beautiful hair, frequently with bangs. Skinny jeans tucked into boots. Tailored coats and scarves. I feel like a total schlump next to them with my backpack, vest and sneakers. I look more like the men here than the women, which was not on my 'Things I Want To Experience Before I Die' list. Memories of puberty. However, on the upside, I suppose it keeps the Jacques and Pierres away.