20 Rue Paul Bert

20 Rue Paul Bert, that's my apartment on the first floor above the optician's shop

View to the right, outside my apartment

Supplies at the Italian grocer next to my apartment

The saga has ended. Well actually, I'm not sure it's ever going to really end. There's a voicemail on my telephone that I haven't had the strength to listen to, addressing what to do with the second WiFi box that was installed last week at what was supposed to be a reduced price, but in the end will cost more than I should be paying because it includes a years worth of TV coverage which I won't ever watch. So I've got that going for me. Every single thing is like that, every thing. Challenged by logistics in my own language, it's pretty much never ending. Next up, registering for health insurance. Wish me so very much luck. That aside, some things must have gone right because I have a home with an address and a mailbox and a buzzer with my name (sort of) on it. 

Getting there.... I have so many small things like this to fix

This process has been that of a village helping, starting with my dear friend Carin, who not only held onto my boxes in Brookline for far too long, but had to unpack them when I was notified that the French customs officials would treat Annie's macaroni and cheese as a not allowed dairy product, along with a leather bag which apparently falls into the meat category. And then there's the address labels I was so careful to print out and affix that I late in the game realized said TBD for the delivery address. She had to fix that... Bless you, Carin. Last year it was my socks she had to get to me....

Those boxes were added to the luggage I had left in France last year, which was added to the luggage I brought this year, which was enhanced with some household things I proactively purchased here, rounded out by all the belongings Julia kindly passed along before buzzing back to Brisbane. So much for traveling light. 

When I turned 50, I wanted the newly published New York Times cookbook, so bought it for myself and copying a friend, wrote on the front page, To: Anna, Happy Birthday, I hope you enjoy this for many years, Love Anna. It was a cookbook that got a lot of hype and one of the things I read either in the book or prior, was that Amanda Hesser, the editor mentioned that her mother's fitness regime consisted of cooking, cleaning and manual labor around the house. I often thought sheepishly about this when scampering off to the gym while the Brazilian cleaners carried vacuum cleaners and other things into my wee apartment in Brighton. So as I believe I've mentioned, I'm trying to turn over a new lease here in France. 

So I got the idea to carry my stuff from my old place to my new place. With six days of crossover, it was .8 of a mile, uphill, why not put my clothes in garbage bags and haul them up instead of going to the gym?  For two days I did this, four trips a day, falling into bed at night with sore muscles and a need for deep sleep. But on day 3, I started doing the math, likely something most would do prior to beginning the project, while also wondering whether I could carry that box of cookbooks on my head and would people stare at me. When rain entered the forecast, I threw in the towel and called a cab, one of the few cars able to penetrate the pedestrian barrier where I live. This most wonderful and cheerful guy showed up in a car I was convinced wasn't big enough, but he told me of his recent trip to Paris, moving his daughter, and within minutes, had every bit of space filled, and we were on our way. Minutes later, we had unloaded into the lobby of my new building and he was on his way, though not without having to walk around the neighborhood outside my apartment with his card reader, looking for a signal. 

Ugh, I didn't even ask his name, he was a very nice guy

As I listened to the rain patter while I carried all my things up a flight of stairs, I thought about how nice it would be to be in my new, cozy apartment, but alas, the key didn't move in the lock. So, I'd go down, get another load, try again, to no avail. Prior days, it had been a struggle to get it to open, involving some unknown combination of pulling, pushing, holding the key hard and then soft. But this time, no results, with all my things blocking the hallway. 

Over the years, the spectre of the ugly Americans has haunted me and I have taken my PR responsibilities seriously, wanting to do what I can for the reputation of our blighted citizens.  Apparently the relationship between landlord and tenant is somewhat different here, with tenants responsible for more than they might be in the US. So, after struggling for a few hours, I took a chance and apologetically texted my landlord who responded immediately, ordering a locksmith, saying the guy would arrive in an hour. I went out for a walk, and of course it started to rain again and I got soaked. Came back, tried, the lock again, to no avail, got a call from the locksmith, he'd be another hour. Went to a cafe, had to have a pain au chocolat, another hour, he still wasn't there. Eventually he did show up and didn't seem to notice my sorry state, body slamming the door to open it, which I guess bypasses any sort of lock problem. I explained that this wasn't necessarily an amenable solution for me, and he pulled out his power tools and did some things that made noises and pronounced the lock fixed. It is better, but still gets stuck and honestly, I'm traumatized. So, since then, driving my poor dear friend Ank crazy, I've resorted to what shocked my neighbors in Boston, and left my door unlocked. Everyone happy.  Phew. 

At night the radiators make that noise, I deliberate about whether to say something, eventually decide to, get a plumbers appointment a week later, they come, bang around, make the radiators leak water on the floor, don't stop the noise and put the thermostat up to about 87 degrees, forcing Ank and me onto chairs with YouTube videos. 

I tell you these shockingly uninteresting stories to illustrate how incredibly complicated every little thing is and to rationalize my re-watching of Schitt's Creek, which is somehow the balm that soothes my tired head. In any case, I'm on the other side of the mountain, and while there will surely be rubble and perhaps a few avalanches I'm putting the crampons away. The apartment is lovely and funky. It had been an airbnb and so there was a fair amount of de-cluttering to be done, which got me thinking that perhaps Airbnb was solely responsible for the birth and growth of all those stories that sell random home shit.

Just please let me in

There were five parrots and a penguin. I decided I rather like the parrots, and the penguin watches over Nat's room. But this baby's going out.

So is this

And this

Off to London tomorrow morning for Christmas week. On the way back, I'll be diving into house cleaning and I'm sure there will be some adventures there. 

Happy happy whatever you celebrate and hope you have the week off!

Lobby

Wee dining room area with Rue Paul Bert in the background

Nat's room and perch

Adopted the parrots

When viewing the apartment for the first time, these flowers clinched it for me. They're on the kitchen and bathroom cabinets

Christmas decorations over the stove and the Le Creuset that Carin shipped

Bon apetit! Christmas colored meal