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!!!”