Paris, day 1

After dragging my suitcase off the narrow wooden tube of a lift, I dragged it down three steps of primeval oak stairs covered with a red Persian runner, then around a corner, up a few more stairs to a hairpin turn and yet another flight of spiraling stairs. I could hear Grace’s kitty, Mystic, mewing as I trudged and huffed and bumped up the last few steps, fumbled interminably with the keys, then spilled into the foyer in a burst when the lock finally turned. Mystic skittered around a corner and I followed, dropping my gear and stepping out of my shoes without stopping as I headed for where the toilet must be. I found the kitchen, living room, bedroom and the place I assumed I would be able to pee, the room through the bedroom where I could see a sink and a tub. Imagine my surprise when I stumbled into the room, my zipper already down, to find no toilet. I turned around at least three times to make sure. Nope. No toilet. Back through the apartment I went with Mystic following, mewing and threading himself between my feet as I looked for the elusive porcelain throne upon which I desperately needed to perch.

I opened every closet door in the apartment with increasing panic and finally, there it was, the most beautiful toilet ever in its own little peach-colored closet with triangular walls and ceiling. I have no idea what the deal is with the French locating their toilets in a separate room and often on the opposite side of the house from the rest of the plumbing, but it’s a little weird and annoying, especially since I really do like to wash my hands after using the toilet. I felt like Frankenstein walking around the apartment with my arms out in front of me as I hurried back to the other side to wash my hands since using the kitchen sink would be gross.

Afterwards I drank a beer and collapsed on the bed and when I woke a few hours later, Mystic was settled in next to me, his body curled around my arm, his tail on my cheek.

Grace burst through the door about an hour later and after screams and hugs and a lot of laughing she said she had just gotten a call on her cell from her doctor whose office is right around the comer, offering to reschedule Grace’s earlier appointment which she had canceled. We flew around the apartment and grabbed jackets and wallets then down the stairs and out onto the street, my first evening in Paris. Grace’s doctor’s office was indeed just a short walk from the apartment and I was happy to tag along, curious to see what French medicine looks like. The fact that her doctor would see her at 6:30 in the evening impressed me. The office was tiny and very utilitarian but decorated in warm, sunny melon tones with lots of stainless steel. There was no receptionist or nurse, just the doctor, who greeted Grace warmly and went right to working on the fitting of the orthotics she made for Grace’s shoes.

As I sat and looked around the room, Grace launched into a torrent of French to which the doctor responded. I sat there with my mouth hanging open. The fitting/conversation went on for 15 minutes or so with Grace carrying on not like a girl from Queens at all. Who was this creature? She got on a plane not so long ago armed with just her ballsiness that I so admire, her cat carrier in one hand, her heart in the other. She spoke no French. Now she’s speaking it with a Parisian accent, albeit with a bit of New York thrown in. Wow.

After the meeting with the doctor, we strolled to a café and sat at a table on the sidewalk and ordered ice cold pints of 1664 blonde ale and I smoked one of her Dunhills. The waiter, Pasqual, was a delightful little bald guy with an impressive beard and quick wit but body odor that about knocked me out. But no matter. As I leaned back and looked around Grace reached across the tiny round table and clinked my glass and said “We’re in fucking PARIS!!!”

What a long strange (wonderful!!) trip

The first few days I was in Paris are sort of a blur.

I do remember the ride to the airport and standing in line to check my one bag packed with just a few changes of clothes for two weeks and lots of items from home that Grace was craving -- jars of Tiger Balm, bags of raw cashews and dried blueberries, which she can easily get in Paris, but they are very expensive. I also toted a jar of jalapeno jelly which my mom cans each year from peppers in her garden, a fancy bottle of Tupelo honey with a long elegant neck that was as large as a wine bottle, an edible honeycomb, and a wine bottle opener shaped like a hopping toad. I waited behind two brothers who were returning to Nigeria with 14 suitcases between them. I was curious about what was in all those bags, surely two guys wouldn't be hauling over a dozen bags filled with clothes (or an entire suitcase devoted to shoes and boots as one of my fashion-conscious girlfriend's routinely checks). The bags were filled with items requested from their friends and family members at home, mostly small electronics like MP3 players and toiletries, the men told me. They had pretty much cleared out a few Wal-Marts, they said. I asked how long it would take before they actually walked through the door of their homes. About 36 hours of solid traveling using a variety of modes, the final leg utilizing a cart drawn by cattle, they told me proudly. Wow. My solo jaunt to visit Grace seemed pretty pansy-ish after hearing that.

I sat on the plane next to a pair of very sweet and young newlyweds from Utah. They did not have physical contact with each other once that I noticed during the 10-or so hours in the air. Again I say wow. The ride to Grace's apartment was interesting because the cab driver did not really speak English and my French sucks. He did glean that I was American and beamed at me as he said haltingly: "Obama -- America!!!! George Bush-- NOT America!!!!" I got what he was saying and we smiled and nodded at each other a lot and when he let me out in front of Grace's building he kissed my hand and bowed. It was sweet. Grace had sent me very specific and detailed instructions on how to get into her place which made me feel like a secret agent:

"The zip code is important, because it tells them I live in the 15th arrondisement; all Paris zip codes are 750, then the last two numbers are the particular section, or arrondisement. Mine is the 15th.

I will probably have left for work before you arrive, unfortunately. But the van will drop you off at my door (take a print out of this email and the email I forwarded on van service with the reservation number).

At my building (a corner building; there's a bakery directly across the street from the front of the building; if your facing my door, to your right across a smaller street will be a motorcycle repair shop), there's a numeric code to open the outside door (a black grill door w/glass plating). The external code is: 19-A-68.

Enter the building, and you'll see rows of mailboxes to your right. My mailbox, with my family name on in, is on the first row closest to the door, second or third from the top. Open the box, and I will have keys for you inside.

There's a black oval key -- totally black, it's more like a black oval plastic thing than a key -- will get you in the second, internal door. There's a keypad just beyond the mailboxes on the same wall; it has all the names of the apartment's occupants on it, and just below a black circular pad. Touch the black oval key lightly to the black circular pad, and you'll get a green light (if you get a red light, try again). The green light means the inner door is open.

Walk through the inner door, and you'll see a little elevator in front of you (it's a real french-style elevator, with an iron grate door to open, and small). Stuff your luggage inside and take it the top 5th floor. Exit on the fifth floor and walk about 3 steps down, then jog left, and walk up two flights to the top and 7th floor, dragging your luggage with you (unfortunately). My door is the first door you get to at the top of the stairs on the 7th floor. The name on the doorbell is Isabelle LaClaire. (yes, my french alter-ego; otherwise known as the woman who owns the apartment).

Use the silver key with black spots on it to open my apartment door. Go in and make yourself comfortable. The bed is yours; I'll have put fresh sheets on it and left towels for you to take a shower or whatever you wish. Wine will be chilling in the fridge (along with some beer). They'll be some cheese and sausage to snack on. And, of course, there's the bakery just across the street, which makes excellent croissants, pain du chocolate, and whatever else you need..."

Thus began my Parisian adventure. More later but I leave you with a photo of the infamous elevator in Grace's 100+ year-old building. It's gorgeous, tiny, and it works beautifully. But I often thought as I rode up and down in it that if it were to stop between floors and break down, there would really be no way to get out of it because it truly is like an iron cage the size of a casket. Creepy but pretty.