An American in Paris

These are all backlogged. I write in my little journal everyday like Doug, but I have limited internet time. So here are my first 2 or so days.

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24 Septembre 2008
Jeudi

So, upon deciding to begin writing a detailed account of my new life in Paris, it pains me to begin writing this a day early. Like the rest of my summer days and nights, I’m sitting at a starbucks awaiting call(s). To make matters worse, my temporary phone is dying, I cannot go back and retrieve another phone/charger, and nobody is returning phone calls. Last night in America and I’m as alone as I will be in Paris.

The hotel I’m at in Orange County was way more posh than I had expected, complete with a separate room and couch with my name on it. My parents suggested I bring friends over to drink, but it’s a problem when windows are sealed shut, preventing obligatory smoking breaks. Ideally, smoking and drinking with faggots and pretty girls shouldn’t be done with parents snoring 10 feet away, lest one has a sick relationship with the ones that clothed and fed you when you couldn’t poop into a toilet. So I opted to travel to a proper transit point, ie starbucks. And now I can pine in peace.

25 Septembre 2008
Vendredi

This was the day that didn’t end. Thanks to the flight to Paris, it was scheduled to be a 28-hour day. The before and after of the airport experience was one big showing of the Refuerzo’s lack of direction, but since we planned ahead to allow us time to get lost and fuck up, spirits were still high. I escaped America without showing much of any emotion just because I refused to think about what was about to happen, nor could I grasp it.

Within moments of stepping onto the airplane, I experienced my first “What the fuck did you just say to me” moment. A young man asked if I could trade seats so his friend sit next to him. I mustered as many French phrases as I could remember from in-class dialogues and worksheets.

“Hello, I was sorry, my French are not good. How goes it? Repeat yourself, if it pleases you.”

The American woman next to me, tired of the situation, asserted to switch for the extra leg room. She unabashedly spoke English and everyone around her paused to look. Speaking English is like admitting defeat now, and she proudly waved that white flag.

I caught the two friends next to me holding hands, but then they saw my peering eyes and quickly gave each other a laugh and a hearty handshake. I’m not sure how to say “Gotcha!” in French, but I’m sure it’ll come with time.

I tried to pinpoint the exact time it hit me, this nouveau Paris life. I think it was when I asked a man, “Where is the toilet? Thank you so much!” And as I sat there pooping for the first time in Europe, I realized I have a new life now.

My taxi driver, Éric was his name, was very distant when I bashfully gave him my address. He complained about traffic, and when I added a few words to his complaints en Francais, his eyes lit up. He began to speak about his Louie Armstrong CD and how I would love it in Paris. Before I could carry out my first real French conversation, a motorcyclist slammed into a car next to us. My taxi driver drove by slowly, pointing out the damage. I hope this happens every time I struggle with language, so I can mutter one of the few French phrases I know by heart. Voici, quelle dommage (Look, what a shame!)

During the 30 minute trek to my house, Eric stopped at a Thai grocery mart to purchase “Noix ole Cola,” which he explained was an African vegetable that would give me vitamins and strength. I bit into it and remembered all the disgusting things I’ve tasted in my life. He handed me a Red Bull to wash it down, which has somehow seeped into the traditional African diet. Whenever I would get confused with his fast-paced French language skills, he would get frustrated with me and trail off. The moment I’d say something in French again, he’d get happy. In the end, he helped me move into 2 separate town houses, one wrong, one right. He explained to all the concierges that I was just an American student and had no idea how to get around. That saved me so much time and face.

After settling in and eating my 4€ microwavable dinner, I decided to call it a day an hour early. I’m not sure what I got myself into. I can’t even remember that I’m here for film school. At this point I feel as if I spent $30,000 to be lonely and confused. I have yet to explore, so I’m sure my opinions will get better. But as of right now, it’s not one of the loveliest cities in the world if you have nobody to share it with, besides Microsoft Word.

27 Septembre 2008
Samedi

The French seem amused when I butcher their language, quickly answering me in near-perfect English. It seems unfair that I’m raised in an American educational system that frowns upon learning other languages at an early age.

I wandered north of my studio for about 10 minutes and nearly walked into the Bastille. I found it strange to live next to a revered symbol. In Irvine, a 10 minute walk left me at a Rite Aid, and in Clovis a 10 minute walk left me next to a house that sold lawn ornaments, depending on which direction I went. Before I decided to deface French history by planting my butt on its steps, I wandered into a tour group for a chance to hear some casual English just so my mind could stop straining to understand anything. I found it suspiciously quiet, and when I bumped into someone in the tour group I decided to practice my French and at least say “Excuse me, I am sorry. What tour group is this?” He gestured with his hands “Don’t worry about it,” and I proceeded to the next person to repeat my rehearsed French. The same thing happened, and I realized I had wandered into a deaf tour group, touring Paris. At last, I could practice my French with no abandon or embarrassment.

While guffawing at a Sedaris novel tonight at one of the millions of cafés, a stranger approached me and spoke to me. Alarmed, I instantly put one hand on my bag in case an accomplice tried to steal anything. He repeated himself, and assumed he wanted a cigarette. I finally looked up and realized he was roughly my age, impeccably dressed, and beautiful. I instantly distrusted him more. Then I imagined he was saying, en Français, “Hello, poor American. I am a rich Parisienne, that wants to help you get to know the city, buy you a TV, install the Internet at your place, sign you up for a phone service, handle your residency papers, and ultimately, be your first French boyfriend.” I responded that my French wasn’t very good, and he replied in near perfect English, “May I have a cigarette?” I obliged and thought about writing my number on his cigarette, with the words “HELP ME ASSIMILATE , PLEASE” on it, but realized it couldn’t fit. I thought about handing him two to accommodate the phrase, but understood that it would just burn into emphysema.

Within seconds later, a distressed woman approached me asking what the difference was between Métro Rue Oberkampf Nord and Métro Rue Oberkampf Sud. Why I understood this and not beautiful-boy, I don’t know, but I explained to her that I didn’t know. Quelle dommage.

On my way back home, I encountered too many beautiful people per square inch. This is the gayest I’ll sound, but the average French person’s pores are nuts. Their skin is as smooth as a baby’s. I walk three steps and would run into another naturally pretty person. Even a dog running away from its owner seemed cuter and more composed than American equivalents. The dogs I’ve grown to know and love roll in its own crapulence, then eat it afterwards. But on a strict diet of vin, fromage, et baguettes, Paris dogs develop a sense of superiority and beauty.

Still, I’m homesick as hell. Paris is beautiful, its people surprisingly nice. It’ll never be home to me, though. Home is where those close to you live, and if that means being next to a tacky shack selling lawn gnomes, so be it.