I'm getting used to my life here. Instead of wide-eyed wonder, I react to the goings-on in the neighborhood with either indignation or a sigh of resignation. One sunny morning two days ago, I was whistling my way down the boulevard only to run into a drunken old man with his trousers about his ankles, finishing up his business on the sidewalk. All I saw really was his flat ass clothed in nasty black underwear, but that was enough to stop my whistling.
It's not that bad, though. I really like my gross neighborhood, more or less. It's affordable and hides little cute treasures in random corners -- like this café/brasserie around the corner with the coziest interior and what seems like a "Cheers"-like camaraderie with the clientele.
But I think this city might not like me too much. I've never had more problems just living, getting by, as I've had here. When I lived here 11 years ago, I was young, new to the single-life in the big city, free from any real parental or adult supervision -- things were bound to go wrong somewhere. I lost my key and my old bourgeoise landlady (Mme de la Guerronière) freaked out and was convinced one of my thug friends stole it, made a copy of it and was scheming to steal everything she owned. So I moved out and into a more modest neighborhood -- above a pharmacie in the 15th, owned by the father of the woman whose children I was taking care of. Well, he was a crazy grouch too who would abide not a peep of noise after 10pm, not even the sound of the toilet flushing. And when my friend from the States stayed with me for a few weeks, he threated to kick me out.
I'm rid of old French people. I don't have to deal with them, or pay them money, or creep up and down their creaky steps. Now, however, I have a toilet that explodes and refuses to stop exploding. Well, it doesn't literally "explode," but it made my life this past week much stinkier than I prefer. And I convinced myself that the gods (or saints?) of Paris would really prefer it if I were elsewhere. I wonder why and where.
2 comments:
It's going to be okay! The last time I saw a man going #2 on the sidewalk, it really ruined my day. I stomped around all day telling everyone who'd listen how demoralizing the squalid city was. But it only lasted about a day! You probably won't see that again while you're in Paris, and the cute, charming, exciting experiences will totally outnumber the grody ones.
I just moved to a cute one-way street in a cute urban neighborhood. Last week, I'm walking TO THE FARMER'S MARKET and there is a guy going number 2 about 20 feet from my house. On the sidewalk. I rush past him feeling so grossed-out, but make it to the farmer's market, run into friends, and forget about Mr. Poop. I walk back and see this enormous pile of shit on the street. I remember Mr. Poop. I think about cul-de-sacs for the rest of the night.
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