Prefecture

n. – prefecture – official residence of a prefect (a person appointed to any of various positions of command)

I need a “carte sejour” (the French equivalent of a green card) in order to work or even stay here for an extended period of time. Since I’m married to a French man, it’s “my right” as the man at the French Consulate in New York explained and all I needed was to come in two months before our departure to get the visa in order to show that at the French prefecture within two months upon arriving in Paris. I went in person in to inquire because it wasn’t possible to get anyone on the phone to explain. I went back again in person because I couldn’t figure out how to secure the appointment on the web only to discover that it’s not possible on a Mac. So finally after my husband made the appointment for me from his PC at the office, I went back to the Consulate in New York to provide them with copious amounts of paperwork and proudly acquired my visa.

I was told there that all I needed to show at the French prefecture was my passport with said visa inside, but being ever the pessimist, I chose instead to go armed with the same copious amounts of paperwork just in case or “au cas ou.” So two months later and after returning from my first short trip to Germany, I marched over to the main prefecture, which happens to be located very close to our temporary Paris apartment.

Upon arriving, I explained what I needed and was told that in fact, that’s not where I was supposed to go, but rather to the prefecture de police or police station near Notre Dame, also not that far away. Upon arriving there, I was told that this was still not the right place and that I needed to go the prefecture de police in the 17th arrondissement since that’s the one that coincides with people living in our area, which is the 4th arrondissement. Interesting, since it’s pretty much on the other side of the city, but I’m learning not to question the logic of things. So I dutifully trecked over there (now by cab) and stood in line outside along with my fellow immigrants on what was probably one of the coldest days on record for Paris in early December.

After a long wait and another longer wait inside, it was finally my turn. I proceeded to show my passport with my visa and then without even being asked started bringing out my papers – photo copies of my marriage certificate, my husband’s passport, his ID card, our lease, etc. Well of course that wasn’t enough and clearly irritated by my ineptitude in procuring the proper documents, the woman dealing with me told me I needed my husband’s original ID card, not a copy. I explained he had it with him since he was in Germany. Even more irritated, she then told me that I couldn’t ask for a carte sejour in France if my husband was in Germany so I had to clarify that he wasn’t actually living there, but only there on business.

In any event, that wasn’t all – the lease since it was temporary also didn’t count and what I needed in addition to his original ID was a gas bill or some proof of permanent residence, which of course I didn’t have yet. And I’m not sure if I alone would be able to secure those things without a bank account, which of course I tried opening, but was unable to without a carte sejour! Ah well, like the arrondissements in the great city of lights, it’s one of those vicious circles, but I’m sure somehow just as I’m getting better at navigating myself around the city, I will be able to sort through the red tape that comes with re-locating to a foreign land.

Vol, Vérité

n. - flight
n. – truth

We arrived exhausted in Hamburg for my husband’s work seminar after a 7am flight. He hit the ground running. I retreated to the room for a nap. I’m happy to report the shower curtain has also not made its way to invade an otherwise pristine, yet at bathing time, wet bathroom! However, as the Germans have a reputation for being more efficient than the French, there was no tub and if you stood cautiously in the corner of the shower, you could avoid major spillage.

I was outnumbered by blondes and kept thinking whenever I heard German that it must be someone from my husband's company. Then I remembered that I was in Germany and that's the language everyone speaks. Among the international group, there were also Dutch, Spanish, Italian and of course French, so my international background was put to shame. Born in Spain got trumped by born in Peru and my two languages were often outnumbered by three or four at least.

The hotel was great, with spectacular views right on the water, but actually located near the red light district. So I was a little apprehensive about wandering even if my blondeness made me blend in. The first night some of us walked home from dinner. Our small group included my tri-lingual husband, French born and therefore more lean in stature as is convenient for his homeland; myself, barely bi-lingual and Swedish by heritage, but not exactly of true Viking stature; and the head of the Italian office, fluent in six languages and Dutch born, therefore rather well built and tall.

I only point out all of these details because at one point mid-way through our excursion in the middle of a completely isolated street surrounded by abandoned buildings, two men stood together facing us on the sidewalk. I thought that was going to be it - after all the pick pocket warnings in Paris and looking over my shoulder with my purse clutched white knuckled at my side - I came to Hamburg only to get mugged! Fortunately, they let us pass, perhaps intimidated by the international-ness of us all if not by our strength singularly or collectively.

But above all, I have to say that I was enormously touched by the warmth and inclusion shown to me by my husband’s new supervisors and colleagues. I was honored to be seated next to his boss and directly across from the CEO at the first dinner and even more so to be included in the former’s gracious toast.

So while my blog may be at times a bit tongue in cheek, I hope that whoever reads it (whether inside or outside my immediate circle) understands that in order to be funny, one must make fun, but in order to be genuine, one must remain true.

Boucher

n. – butcher

We saw our friend Peter who has been here for the last two months doing an internship with a famous French pastry chef. I decided he will be my inspiration for getting past the habits from home and embracing Paris for what it is - a beautiful city filled with endless discoveries, among them, the hot butcher.

There are many lovely little galleries and shops on the Ile St. Louis including of course the fromager (cheese shop) and the boucher (butcher). The proprietor of the cheese shop looks as aged as many of his products, but the butcher, one of three, looks like something off of the cover of a romance novel. Tall, dark and handsome with wavy hair and a strapping physique, I think he may be what draws most of the woman of the island to the store rather than the exquisite cuts of meat. And while I know many a "double entendre" can be drawn from that last sentence, interestingly enough the real word in French is actually "sous entendu" and either way, we're not going to go there.

As Peter and I watched from the outside with our noses pressed to the glass, my husband ordered an “onglet de veau” a special cut of veal which the butcher suggested pairing with shallots and cooking with the lid on. Peter said, if the hot butcher tells you to do something, you just do it! We did and had a lovely dinner on the eve of our trip to Hamburg.

Portable

n. – cell phone

My husband bought me an I-phone for Christmas. I have no idea how to use it properly and the French number I was assigned is the most random selection of digits that I fear I may never memorize it. They don’t give you a choice here – “pas le choix” which for a while was my pat answer every time someone asked how I felt about moving to Paris.

The I-phone comes with GPS which my husband was excited about since he knows I have no sense of direction. Of course, I’ve been warned at least three times about pick-pockets so between trying to figure out how to use the thing and then being terrified of getting mugged over it, I cast quite a pitiful figure hovering around the streets with eyes darting back and forth over my shoulder!

Plombier

n. – plumber

Five days after arriving I had my first visit from a French plumber for what we thought was a leak under the sink. Turns out it wasn’t a leak at all, but rather caused when we take our baths because the shower head while resting in its cradle drips water slightly over the side of the tub.

We conducted the whole conversation in French and the only time I made an error was when I referred to “taking a bathroom” rather than “taking a bath.” I realized right after I said it, but since I wasn’t expecting him and he woke me up, I was a bit caught off guard.

My favorite part of the conversation was when I asked him why more French bathrooms don't have shower curtains because it's true that you have to be careful not to have the water go everywhere when you have a hand held shower head that must be navigated with one hand while soaping and lathering with the other. His simple explanation – shower curtains aren’t pretty - “les rideaux de douche sont pas jolis.” He did however agree that they're practical (I suppose because he was young and more forward thinking) and that a wet floor isn’t pretty either!

Demenager

v. – to move

Moving to Paris in winter doesn't help motivate one to venture out in the cold, grey rainy days, but Ile St. Louis where we’re staying for the next two months is lovely. I don’t know if we’ll stay here long term as it feels a bit off the beaten track - even though it's right in the center. The close conveniences you end up paying a premium for, which is normal. There is a teeny, tiny mini-market that’s so small I've knocked something over every time I've gone in. I had to buy a broken bottle of olive oil the other night so I must make a mental note to wear less accessories when I go there.

A feeling of smallness pervades all of Paris. The people are smaller in general than Americans and therefore so is their sense of space. Restaurants can feel almost claustrophobic and again since it’s the winter, my coat almost needs its own table.

The apartment is exactly how we envisioned it so no bad surprises there. Lovely old stone walls, tile floors, high ceilings and plenty of wooden beams throughout. It even has a Nespresso machine so these are the little things like that give me inordinate amounts of hope for the future. I tearfully parted with the one I had at home because there was no point in moving electronic appliances that won’t work here. Of course there are many things that don’t work here even if they’re supposed to so with each day, there’s another adventure for my blog! 

Police

n. - font

Part of the challenge of creating a blog is figuring out how to use the program. I speak French adequately enough, which is a good thing since I'm now living in Paris. So I think I'm on the way to navigating this properly, but it did strike me funny when realizing that the word for "font" in French is "police." I don't know why, but there are many things about the language I don't understand - the randomness of the gender identification for starters - the word "jour" for "day" being masculine, but the word "journee" also for "day" being feminine. The same applies for the difference between "soir" and "soiree" for "evening" masculine and "evening" feminine respectively. At least they don't have the third option for neutered words as in German because as I understand there are just as many of those words as there are masculine and feminine and the assignment is equally random. I save German for my husband who speaks that in addition to his native French and English. It's a good thing since he is now working for a German company heading their Paris office which is what precipitated our move and now this blog.

D'abord

Definition:  adv. - first, in the first place

Where do I begin?  With a collection of emails I've gathered in anticipation of creating this blog and will dutifully post in whole or in part in the coming days.  It's been a long, hard road to Paris and it's only just beginning so settle in, hang on and get ready for the ride! 

A bientot...

Dawn