On a recent visit, my husband and I took a break from sightseeing, choosing a sunny sidewalk café with a variety of milkshake flavors on the menu. Settling into our prime spot under the awning, we ordered what we thought were chocolate shakes. But when our frosty glasses arrived, they held frothy chocolate milk! Technically the drinks were chocolate, contained milk and had been shaken, but they weren’t my idea of a refreshing ice cream treat.
7. Parisians have learned to live in postage stamp-sized spaces.
In college I lived in dinky apartments, some with communal bathrooms. I traveled light and moved often. In Paris, it seems everyone lives like a college student. They don’t accumulate many possessions because there’s no place to put them. Even hotel rooms are miniscule, though the prices don’t reflect that! Café tables are crowded together, and many streets are barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass each other. To make up for it, there are beautiful parks and broad tree-lined avenues. And the Louvre! If you ever start to feel claustrophobic in Paris, a trip around the palace and grounds will remedy that.
8. Always say bonjour, s’il vous plaît and merci.
The French have a reputation for being snooty and unfriendly. I’ve heard stories of Americans who had trouble booking a hotel room, ordering dinner or getting directions from Parisians. Perhaps it’s their approach. Rather than demanding “I need a room for next month,” how about asking nicely? “Bonjour, parlez-vous anglais? Can you please help me?” I’ve never had any problems with the French. They’re admirably patient with all the clueless tourists invading their city. Good manners go a long way!
9. There’s no place like home.
While France is fantastic to visit, I’m always happy to return to my comfortable, roomy home. I know where everything is. All my favorite restaurants and shops are nearby. I speak the language. My friends and family are here (well, most of them). I can sleep in my own bed and eat in my own kitchen. This feeling lasts a few weeks, and then I’m eager to visit Paris again.
10. There’s no place like Paris for Vicki.
Though I couldn’t ever live in Paris, Vicki’s home suits her. She complains about the bureaucracy and cultural differences (enough to fill several books about it!) but it’s where she belongs. As her mother, I only want her to be happy. She loves her life there with her handsome French husband and adorable French-American kids. Even though I miss her every day, I’m glad she’s in Paris.
(Mis)Adventures at Sacré-Cœur
Amy Lynne Hayes
We’ve all got those places. You know, the ones that are the scene of every wild story. Paris, and more specifically the Sacré-Cœur, is the backdrop of many tales from my 20s.
I first visited Paris in the spring of 2008. I was in design school in London, and had popped over on the train for a weekend trip… my ex-boyfriend in tow. Sounds complicated already, non? Word to the wise: If you plan to visit the most romantic city in the world, where roses and wine and lights and amour fill the air, don’t do it with an ex. Especially if said ex has a new girlfriend. Can we say awkward?
Standing on the steps of the Sacré-Cœur, overlooking one of the most beautiful cities in the world, all I could think was, “This is rich. My first time in Paris, and I’m here with someone else’s boyfriend. Thank God there’s wine.”
Still, the undesirable social situation did little to dampen my impression of the city. The sun was shining, les jardins were in bloom, and I bumbled my way around town speaking what sounded like half French and half Spanish (this is what happens when you grow up in south Florida and study Spanish starting in elementary school—it becomes your go-to foreign language). C’est la vie.
Fast-forward a year. It was February 2009. And it was freaking cold. I’d finished my studies in London and moved to Paris in the name of additional higher education. At least that’s what I told my parents. I enrolled in Paris American Academy in the 5th arrondissement and arrived with four months’ worth of suitcases—right after a blizzard that rocked the transportation systems of much of northern Europe. I’ve got a knack for timing.
The winter weather blanketed the city in this damp, white material commonly referred to as “snow.” We don’t get much of the stuff in Florida. That, in itself, was an experience.
As part of our orientation, the school arranged city tours for us. One of the first spots was, naturally, the Sacré-Cœur. Climbing the steps with light, powdery snowflakes falling is a different adventure. The crisp air knocks the breath out of you by the time you reach the entrance to the Basilica. And there I was again: a new year, a new address in a new country, a new group of people. All part of a new beginning as fresh as the snow falling at our feet.
Little did I know that a semester abroad would turn into nearly three years living in the City of Light. I’d return many times to the Sacré-Cœur, though not as often as one would imagine. When your life centers around the 5th, you find the 18th arrondissement to be quite the hike. As in, a saved-for-special-occasions sort of hike.
I next visited the Sacré-Cœur near the end of that semester abroad. Those strangers who’d stood with me on the snowy steps had become close friends, and we wanted to commemorate our time together in a special way. Sunrise at the Sacré-Cœur sounds idyllic, doesn’t it? But if Paris teaches you one thing, it’s that she teases you with promises of perfection and then leaves you with lessons in flexibility… and the importance of a sense of humor.
It was a Friday morning in May. Two friends and I hauled ourselves out of bed before the crack of dawn, hoping to catch the golden morning light wash over the city. Public transport wouldn’t dream of being up and running this early, so we took a taxi. We beat the morning traffic (there being next to none) to Montmartre and raced up the hill.
Evidently, the entire city had decided this would be the ideal spot for an impromptu party the night before. And no one knew how to use a trash bin, or cared to try. Broken bottles littered the steps, bits of baguette and other scraps from last night’s picnic gathered in soggy blobs. And the smell… oh, the smell. Coco Chanel and Pierre Guerlain would have cringed in unison.
And the gorgeous sunrise that was meant to bathe the city in light? Yeah, it was hidden behind a building. From every. Single. Angle. So much for that plan. This is where the all-important sense of humor kicks in, because what else could you do but laugh? That and head down to the café at the bottom of the hill for much-needed espresso and croissants. We could watch the morning light bounce off the Basilica quite fine from that perspective, sans odeur.
Another year passed, and again, there was a party on the steps of the Sacré-Cœur. Only this time, I was a reveler, singing along with my friends, creating a sizable din. I’m sure the neighbors loved us. The wine-soaked evening lasted into the later hours, and we graced the ears of our fellow partygoers with a chorus of raucous laughter.
What is it about a group of girls having a fabulous time, sans hommes, that invites male harassment? Seriously, dudes, we were doing just fine without you. But alas, one decidedly forward young Frenchman thought it appropriate to grace us with his presence… and pestered us until dawn.
His chosen method to worm his way into our hearts? Stealing one of our bottles of wine! Quelle merde! Granted, at this point, we probably didn’t need that bottle, but it was still infuriating. So we picked up our other bottle of wine—the empty one—and threatened this young man with it until he gave us back what was rightfully ours. We celebrated our victory by washing down said bottle of wine. And paid for our folly ever so dearly the following day.
From tourist to newly arrived student to quasi-comfortable resident to bonafide local, all with the serene Sacré-Cœur keeping watch. There’s a magnetic attraction to this corner of Paris: the old bohemian neighborhood, now taken over by a mix of locals, tourists and vendors selling mini Eiffel Towers or woven bracelets. It gives the 18th arrondissement a unique flavor. The pinnacle of the experience is a trip up those steps to the top of the hill, and a walk around the beautiful
Sacré-Cœur. It’s got the best view in Paris.
Just don’t try to go at sunrise.
The Best Thing About Living in Paris
Lisa Webb
Everyone kept saying how lucky I was. They couldn’t believe I’d actually get to live in Paris. “It’s the chance of a lifetime,” they told me. So why couldn’t I stop crying?
Sure, Paris was beautiful. I’d been there before, and I knew that. But leaving my comfortable, well-established life was a different story!
I’d been married for less than a year when my husband came home from work one day with a funny look on his face and asked, “What do you think about Paris?”
The job offer was too good to pass up, and the voice in my head was already telling me we had to go. But the selfish parts of me were screaming, “NO WAY!” I loved my life the way it was: my family, my friends, my career. I couldn’t bear to leave it all behind.
A few months of planning and a lot of goodbyes later, I boarded the plane to Paris. Clenching my husband’s arm with my right hand, and pulling a suitcase full of anxiety with my left, I tried to see it as an adventure. But I was having a hard time getting past all the sacrifices I was making.
We spent the first week exploring our new city. There’s no denying that Paris is magical. Every corner is a hidden gem, every street impressive. We picnicked, ate, drank and dined. It was the ultimate vacation until reality brought it all to a screeching halt.
My husband had to go to work on Monday—out of town.
I didn’t want to be a baby about it. I’d be the strong independent woman he married. I held my head high as I wished him “Bon voyage.”
With my husband gone, I sat in our mostly empty apartment and wondered where to begin. I lived in Paris now! But I was unemployed and friendless. What the hell was I going to do with myself? I could only be a tourist for so long. I needed to create a new life in my new city. I decided to start by taking myself out for dinner.
I was nervous. Not only was I going to a restaurant alone for the first time, I was doing it in French. I’d taken a few lessons before we moved, but now, face-to-face with a Parisian waiter, I quickly realized how heavily I’d been relying on my French-speaking husband. Without his flawless language skills to hide behind, I was forced to open my mouth and give it a shot. “Une table pour un, s’il vous plaît.”
I ordered a glass of wine and tried to be that confident woman I used to be a few short weeks ago. I summoned her to keep me company, because that chair across the table for two never felt so huge and empty. I was sure everyone else was talking about the foreign girl eating by herself.
This was not me. If anything, I was over-confident in most aspects of my life, perhaps to a fault. But there I was, one person at a table for two, unable to stop the toxic self-commentary about how I’d royally screwed up my life. I had worked hard to get where I was before we moved: I’d built a successful career, made great friends and was never lacking for things to keep me busy. Now I had left that all behind. What had I been thinking?
And that’s when it happened. The tipping point. As the waiter stuffily asked for my order, I looked down at the menu. Unable to understand a word and feeling completely overwhelmed with my unraveled life, I started sobbing into my glass of Bordeaux.
That dinner was a long, painful one, and unfortunately not the last of its kind. But I slowly took that sad girl in the restaurant and got her back on track.
If I was going to succeed at a non-tourist life in Paris, I’d need to learn French. I began with group classes, but found it was too easy to become a bystander, so I moved on to one-on-one classes. Those were better, but unless my French teacher was going to be my one and only friend, I needed to meet new people.
That’s when “language speed dating” became my Thursday night ritual. Ten euros would get you a glass of wine and a few hours of practicing your French with potential friends. Anglophones were along one side of the table, francophones along the other. We’d start by talking with the native French speaker across the table for 10 minutes. That doesn’t seem like a long time until you try it. Then we’d switch, and the French speakers would practice their English with native English speakers.
One evening, I learned I wasn’t quite as Parisienne as I was hoping to be by now. I was chatting with a friendly Parisian who bluntly pointed out the obvious, as the French always do…
“You’re from North America,” he said as he greeted me and sat down across the table. When I asked him how he knew I wasn’t from the UK or another English-speaking country, he replied, “You’re all dressed up like ze Christmas tree.” He nodded his head toward the brightly decorated tree in the corner of the room. “You North American women dress like Christmas trees, highlight your hair and wear lots of makeup and jewelry.”
I had a quick look at myself. My highlights and curled hair were my tinsel. Dangly earrings, necklace, bracelet and rings could easily be my decorations. And I had a full face of makeup with lips as red as holly. Touché, monsieur. I glanced at the French side of the tables. The women were put together, but understated. Their hair and makeup were natural. Their shoes were flat, and they probably didn’t have blisters like I did. A Parisienne knows she’ll be walking a lot, so she sports stylish, yet practical and versatile shoes. Limping down a cobblestone street isn’t exactly fashionable.
Later that night, as my sore feet carried me home, I started to think Parisians may be on to something. Functional fashion was where it’s at.
My Thursday night language exchange also introduced me to a woman about my age who had just moved to Paris. Something she said has always stuck in my mind: “The best part of living in Paris is saying you live in Paris.” I didn’t disagree. When you tell people you live in Paris, their eyes light up, and you’re always met with a “wow.”
It seemed impressive, but in reality it was hard work. You had to learn a language, walk everywhere you go and carry your groceries up too many flights of stairs. Family is a long and expensive plane ride away, and if you want to call them, you best be working out a schedule to account for the time difference. Friends were difficult to make because many people were transient, passing through or only there for a short time. Nothing was as glamorous as it sounded to an outsider.
Paris was hard to break through, but as the months went on, I found my way. Paris and I eased up on each other. We took the good with the bad and started to bond. I’ll never forget going on vacation at Christmas, and as the plane descended, I got that, “Ah, I’m home” feeling that you get when you’ve been gone for a while. But this time I was landing in Paris. Something somewhere along the way had shifted, and Paris snuck into my heart. It became home.
Paris and I had our moments of difficulty. As I’d pass shops and restaurants where people smoked on the sidewalk, I’d hold my breath, concerned for the health of my newly conceived baby. How dare they expose my unborn child to their second-hand smoke! But eventually quirks like that stopped bothering me, because I stopped noticing them. Instead, I’d enjoy the catchy tunes of the man playing the saxophone in the Métro, grab fresh flowers and carry on, not even realizing that I’d navigated through two line changes. I went from being the teary-eyed girl with sore feet to a local with stylish flats, getting stopped by tourists for directions.
I learned to love all things Parisian. The markets, the walking culture, the food, the wine, the picnics, the little old ladies with their dogs in the restaurants. I loved it all. My husband and I would spend lazy Sundays along the Seine and warm up with vin chaud on damp winter nights. We morphed into the French way of life, building relationships with the people in our neighborhood shops, and we became quite loyal to our boulangerie.
I still live in France, but I’m now a long way from Paris. I miss the pulse of the city, the eye candy of the architecture and the treasure of unknown restaurants scattered on every street. Maybe it has something to do with becoming a mother, or maybe I’ve taken a bit of Paris with me, but I downplay my Christmas tree l
ook these days. And when I pass a group of French workers on their cigarette break, I no longer hold my breath. Instead I breathe in through my nose and, strangely, enjoy the smell of cigarette smoke. It reminds me of Paris, where I arrived in tears and left in tears, but for different reasons.
And to the girl who said the best part about living in Paris is saying that you live in Paris, I have to tell you: I think you’re wrong. The best part about living in Paris is living in Paris.
Métro, Boulot, Dodo:
Commute, Work, Sleep
Driving Me Crazy
Jennie Goutet
I wish I’d known getting a driver’s license in France would be so hard. If I had, I wouldn’t have come.
Or perhaps I would’ve set up temporary residence in Pennsylvania, one of the many states with a reciprocal driver’s license agreement with France. New York, however, is not one of them—and that is of course where I lived.
Had I known, I would have driven with my New York license (permitted for the first year) to familiarize myself with French roads and make getting a license here a lot easier. Heck, I would have gotten an international driving license! It’s simple to do in the States, and then I could have transferred it to a French one when I arrived.
I could have done all of this. But I did nothing.
I first realized the need for a license when we lived in Sceaux, which had limited public transportation. I was pregnant, already mom to a toddler and was stuck at home day in, day out. After I gave birth to a baby and the better part of my judgment, I handed over 850 euros to the driving school across the street.
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