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.
