Sunday, August 19, 2007
Hello Humex, My New Friend
At last... the moment you've all been waiting for: I have just started the washing machine in my Paris apartment. This must be what it's like for guys when they step into the laundry room of their college dorm for the first time. I've been totally frozen in front of it for days, but I'm out of clothes so it's the moment of truth.
Arrived in Paris on Wednesday and have been fighting a relapse of my flu since then. Though I did manage to go on a Paris Walks Hemingway tour and a trip to Versailles with four fantastic characters from the walk - a 60-something Texan gentleman who's straight out of a Sherlock Holmes novel; a soft-spoken 50/60-something mom from New Hampshire, her lively 50/60-something advertising exec friend from Northern Cal, and a lovely French English teacher in her 40s who's been helping us with everything.
Paris is incroyable... they're going to have to pry me out of this little rooftop flat with a sharp baguette. It's on a street right in front of the Pompidou Centre (I can actually see part of it from my balconies), so it's about a 10-minute walk to Notre Dame.
The weather has been great... a bit of rain, but otherwise cool and sunny with big puffy clouds. And for some reason, all of the inhabitants of Paris seem to have taken happy pills. From the corner grocer to the woman at the metro office, they're all freakishly smiley and glad to help. My new Dutch friend Roel says it's because American tourism is way down since 9/11 and the fall of the dollar. Whatever it is, I'm grateful.
So far, I've learned how to tell when we're about to get a big downpour (ah ha ha - you may have ruined one baguette, French weather, but I'm on to you now!) and according to the French English teacher, my accent is pretty good. If only I actually spoke French.
My favorite new things: the French jazz station on the radio, BBC Prime, Picard (if the frozen section of Trader Joes were its own store, it would be Picard), Woolite, the gorgeous English-speaking pharmacist who gave me my cold medicine, and the 30 pounds I'm going to lose walking up 7 flights of stairs while the elevator is broken.
At last... the moment you've all been waiting for: I have just started the washing machine in my Paris apartment. This must be what it's like for guys when they step into the laundry room of their college dorm for the first time. I've been totally frozen in front of it for days, but I'm out of clothes so it's the moment of truth.
Arrived in Paris on Wednesday and have been fighting a relapse of my flu since then. Though I did manage to go on a Paris Walks Hemingway tour and a trip to Versailles with four fantastic characters from the walk - a 60-something Texan gentleman who's straight out of a Sherlock Holmes novel; a soft-spoken 50/60-something mom from New Hampshire, her lively 50/60-something advertising exec friend from Northern Cal, and a lovely French English teacher in her 40s who's been helping us with everything.
Paris is incroyable... they're going to have to pry me out of this little rooftop flat with a sharp baguette. It's on a street right in front of the Pompidou Centre (I can actually see part of it from my balconies), so it's about a 10-minute walk to Notre Dame.
The weather has been great... a bit of rain, but otherwise cool and sunny with big puffy clouds. And for some reason, all of the inhabitants of Paris seem to have taken happy pills. From the corner grocer to the woman at the metro office, they're all freakishly smiley and glad to help. My new Dutch friend Roel says it's because American tourism is way down since 9/11 and the fall of the dollar. Whatever it is, I'm grateful.
So far, I've learned how to tell when we're about to get a big downpour (ah ha ha - you may have ruined one baguette, French weather, but I'm on to you now!) and according to the French English teacher, my accent is pretty good. If only I actually spoke French.
My favorite new things: the French jazz station on the radio, BBC Prime, Picard (if the frozen section of Trader Joes were its own store, it would be Picard), Woolite, the gorgeous English-speaking pharmacist who gave me my cold medicine, and the 30 pounds I'm going to lose walking up 7 flights of stairs while the elevator is broken.
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