July 2018

As with everyone else, we were trying to find ways to dodge the heat of July. The first part of the month, we stayed in front of our fan and decided to work on creating this web site which we’d been promising to our friends. Certainly NOT as easy as it sounded. Oh, yeah – right up there with “Retire Overseas, It’s Easy.” Um hum. Several chats with support and a few days later, it was fully up and running. Still not happy with things like font or lack of choices in manipulation but we weren’t willing to buy a more advanced package to get the look we were looking for.

We mentioned last month that our wonderful landlords, who have become such incredible friends, purchased a new sofa couch, because the one that was here in the apartment was so uncomfortable. We also mentioned these sofa couches were different from what we have in the US in how they put them together quickly in separate parts, we suspect to be able to bring them up these very narrow stairs that are found throughout Europe.

What we haven’t mentioned is the ease with which these sofa couches open and close. One person is all it takes AND it’s surprising how comfortable this is. It’s a double, not a full and sleeps both of us very well!

This month was the month we caught the World Cup bug. It was impossible to avoid. Every bar and restaurant had the games on and patrons were crowding the entrances to see France’s team (Les Bleus) play. Pretty soon, we were joining them, taking an active interest in the action and cheering with the crowds. Very, very unlike us. Great camaraderie, great beer and great games. Final winning game, we were at a favorite corner bar, yelling with the rest, French flag colors on our faces. Surprisingly, no one kicked us out. It was terrific fun.

We’re getting used to the steady stream of people coming and leaving the apartment building. It seems to have quite a few units rented out to tourists and all of the units face the winding staircase, with the doors and windows situated at the edges of the turns. There is a continual hum of conversations in French, Italian, Spanish, Finnish and Russian. The age of the group is always evident with the speed and weight of the steps. Frequently the clomping, roaring traffic resembles Colonel Hathi’s brigade. Our landing seems to be the point where they all realize exactly how high their floor is because they stop to catch their breaths, swear profusely, and then continue their way. Well actually, the adults swear, the teenagers whine, and the smaller ones race ahead of them yelling, “Come ON!” impatient with slower adults.

Those sounds, plus the police and the churches who love their bells and whistles. When the churches here all let loose with their bells, it sounds like the church bells sounded in the little town, heralding the wedding in the original Frankenstein movie. Bells in multitude, all overlapping, at the same time.

This month was full. We finally met our immigration attorney. We found his humor enjoyable and hopefully let him understand what a help he’d been to get us here. We also got a local doctor who was on the network list. And we got a local bank account. Unlike the US, it took three steps which each took a week; application, approval and cards with codes. And we had our first haircuts – which turned out very nice and G got a treatment we’ve only seen in the movies; a shave with a straight razor and steamy hot towels placed on his face. Tres chic!

We took care of the last two pieces of the OFII (French Office of Immigration and Integration) visa requirements, an adventure all of its own. But here I would like to interject a loving word about GPS. Like all technology, it’s a blessing when it works and it really stinks when it doesn’t. G’s mobile GPS, for some reason, doesn’t like to tell him where he is.  I’ve told him he must have really pissed it off to make it act like he’s in Belgium instead of Paris, shows him being squarely IN the Seine or a distant park from our actual location. So we use mine. BUT, although I’m better at navigating, I just can not get the sense of North where I physically am, once on the street, to relate to the directions on the GPS map. As a result, I frequently march with mistaken confidence in the absolute wrong direction. Only confirming the streets I’m passing will clue me into my error.

The first of the two OFII pieces, was a medical examination. We arrived at the metro stop in the 20th arrondissement, which was the last stop for the train and not colorful or cheery as many of the metro stops. Then once up on the surface, it was impossible to navigate because all of the main roads surrounding the stop were under heavy construction. Hot, sticky, walking through construction dust in narrow pathways, flanked by temporary,  8ft high barriers, with a GPS that is telling us to turn right (right where? there IS no right). Fumbling about, trailing after other quick walkers in a variety of directions, we do finally manage to get out onto a real street, with a clear street sign, and make our way to the OFII building. We show our letters to security at the door, are allowed entrance and thank you, it is semi-air conditioned.

The rest was quite a ride. We, bathed in sweat, along with a group of others, were herded into a waiting area, like a tour group, where we waited for our names to be called. The vending machine was out of everything cold, of course, except a sugared tea drink, of which we inhaled two cans. Then separately, G and I went through three stages of a duplicate process.

The first stage we were motioned into a half closet-sized room, with an opposing door (hard to open both simultaneously), with pictures on the walls showing what is expected, we disrobed waist up for a chest X-ray. Through the second door is another, larger room with the technician at the X-ray apparatus. Then back to the little closet to put your clothes back on and return through the first door, to the waiting room.

The second stage, back in another little closet, with no pictures, so we stood. Then the opposing door opened again to a larger room with a technician who poked your finger for a blood sample and gave you an eye exam. Reverse back out through the little room and then the waiting area.

The third stage, yet another little closet, disrobe waist up, into a larger room where a doctor at a desk had the X-ray up on his computer screen. He listened to the lungs with a stethoscope and asked a few health questions. He was alarmed at our blood sugar until he found out what it was we drank as soon as we arrived. Honest doctor, we would have HAD water, if it’d been available (we really aren’t the type to mainline chocolate truffles). Then you reverse back out, redress and return to the waiting area.

Stamp, stamp, stamp and your done. Except for the part where we know what to do with the documentation we’ve just received or how to get back to the metro stop, deep in the construction jungle.

The second and last piece was a documentation check at the OFII administration building. The letter announcing the appointment required us to download government stamps on-line, at €250 euros each, have a copy of our lease, have extra passport photos (which we had), our medical examination approval letters (ahh, THAT’s where those go) and our passports. We carefully checked through our documentation and put it in order and headed there, a 25 minute walk, by foot. Because it was in the afternoon, the height of the day’s heat, we arrived completely drenched, to sit in a room with plastic chairs, with no air conditioning or fans.

As we sat, waiting our turn, perspiration dripping down our faces, we heard the word, “passport” and immediately stiffened. All the worrying about all of the paperwork and we’d left our passports in the apartment. G bolted out of the building in a tear. I sat waiting for our names and when called, I got up to let them know we’d forgotten the passports but that he’d gone back to get them. They nodded and motioned me to sit until he returned. Since it was a 25 minute walk, I knew that it would be close to an hour before he returned. People were called up one by one, their papers were processed and the room emptied until I was the only one in it. At this point, one of them asked if I, at least, had MY passport and I shook my head no. They glanced at their watches. They were closing in ten minutes. G texted me that he was almost back. Which I relayed, as they stood and started straightening their desks to leave. At five minutes to closing, G burst into the door, wet from head to toe, waving the passports. They all shouted his name in unison, to which he replied, “Oui!!” and we all laughed. As we approached the counter, I turned him around and there wasn’t a dry inch on his shirt, front or back. We all laughed again, poor guy. Documents process took all of ten minutes but it was the mileage that hurt. When we left the building, we left as official long term France residents. It had a nice feel.

During August, anyone who can, will leave Paris because it is the hottest month, although July was clearly breaking records. Many business’s close, including some government offices and basically what is left working in the city are retail shops, restaurants and tourists. So we decided to spend the month of August in Lille, which is on the border of Belgium. Cooler than the city and a place we had included in our hunt for a bigger, cheaper apartment. We made reservations and for the entire month of August, the studio costs €450 euros, as opposed to €1300 euros for one in Paris but is without a clothes washer. In advance of August, G and I decided to go on a day trip to Lille.

Ahh, the Lille trip. We took the metro to Gare du Nord train station and promptly in our inimitable fashion, got completely lost trying to find where to buy tickets to the right train. All of the information booths were empty but one we found that was empty, had three attendants chatting and laughing on the side. We apologized for the interruption and asked one where to purchase train tickets to Lille. He instructed us to get back on the metro and take it to the next stop. As we walked back the way we came, we came to the conclusion that it was not correct and eventually found a security guard who was more than happy to give us the correct instructions to the ticket kiosks where we were able to figure out the rest.

We took the morning train with one quick stop in Arras and arrived in Lille, stopping for a coffee before setting off to find the apartment we were to stay at in August. We were unable to locate a metro stop on the map that would take us there so we settled into the 45 minute walk since it was still a bit cool. We found the building and neighborhood but were dismayed on our walk to see interjected amongst the nice, Flemish influenced architecture, an occasional ‘modern’ (maybe 50’s?) big cubed building, and always in a dilapidated state. It was as if there was a lapse in building codes once and these structures were snuck in.

Leaving to return to the center of town, we did locate a nearby metro stop and rode back, arriving about noon. G located a recommended lunch place a 15 minute walk away, “Au Vieux de la Vielle” which served food and beers exclusively from the region. We shared an incredible cheese tart that melted in your mouth, wonderful handmade sausages with their very tasty blanc beers. It was so relaxing, with a decent breeze on the day, which had warmed up. It did not prepare us enough for the rest of the day’s adventure.

Despite having good walking shoes, the cobblestone and mismatched concrete eventually became painful. We got turned around and the walk back to town took an extra 40 minutes. Hot and tired, we located an office to see if we could take an earlier train but since we would be charged 200 additional euros, we decided to wait.  When we saw our train wasn’t listed on the marquee, we went back to ask why. That’s when we found out that there were TWO train stations in Lille and our tickets were for a train out of the other station. Fortunately they are located next to each other and with another 10 minute walk, we were in the right place. Knowing that we wouldn’t have the energy to stop on the way home, I purchased a chicken sandwich and salad to have for dinner. The salads were labeled and I chose ‘Ham’. The clerk said, “Tuna?’ I replied, “No. Ham, Jamon.” She nodded and pulled the one out from behind the ‘Ham’ sign.

Next, before boarding, I noticed that there were two train numbers listed on the tickets. I asked the train attendant if we needed to change trains? No, he replied, it is the same train. Seemed very odd. The tickets we purchased had assigned seats but when we got on the train, there were people already sitting in our seats. I stopped a train conductor,  a hefty, balding fellow, on the train to ask about what to do and he rudely brushed me off with a terse all-in-French sentence, walking away. Confused and still not sure where we’d be allowed to sit, I continued to follow him. As I passed a couple of people in uniforms, off duty, they told me that the trip to Arras was not assigned seating but from Arras to Paris they were. Again, very odd.

We arrived at the Arras station and the train emptied completely. G and I looked at each other in stupefied confusion, found our seat numbers and sat. And watched, alone, out the window as it pulled out to return to Lille. Yes, we were that tired and stupid and now stunned. I tried to talk to the same conductor who had been rude before and he completely ignored my presence, refusing to look up from his newspaper to answer any questions. I was absolutely furious by the time I returned to our seats. G got up and found another passenger who explained we did indeed need to change trains in Arras, in order to continue to Paris.

We sat in absolute silence on the return ride to Lille and the return ride to Arras, in our same, wonderfully numbered, seats. I was sitting quietly, fearing that the nasty conductor would come to us, yell at us for not having tickets for this return ride.  He would either demand extra payment on the spot, or he would throw us off in between towns, ala ‘Silver Streak’. G was sitting quietly, afraid that I would physically assault the conductor and was wondering if our immigration attorney would help him bail me out of jail.

Pulling into Arras once again, we disembarked and walked down into the underground corridor, where there were no people but where there was a marquee, which informed us that there was an hour wait for the train to Paris. So we walked up, South, out on the streets to find a very quiet, no amenity, town. After several as always, hot, sticky blocks, this grumpy couple found a little shop with a small bar which had a handful of locals, enjoying beer. G ordered two blanc beers and I went to use the toilet. The toilet was exactly the type I expected, so no problem there but when I got ready to leave, the faucet on the sink was in disrepair and shot a low hard spray right below my belly button. Standing there in the smelly, dirty bathroom, with a wet crotch and a nasty disposition, it was a VERY good thing that the conductor wasn’t frequenting that same bar.  Was this going to get more miserable? But then, rejoining G, I found a delightful, cold blanc beer waiting for me. Which I drank standing up, merci beaucoup.  *Adjustment here – a later trip to Arras gave a much better and expanded view, August 2021

We boarded the train to Paris, found our seat numbers (the ones that really counted) and rode in air-conditioning. A turn for the better. They had never ever checked our tickets yet – on train or metro. Until now. Sure enough, as the train was well on it’s way, here came a cheery conductor, checking tickets. The cabin was only half filled at that hour. We held our breath while he looked at our expired tickets. Then he shrugged (probably thinking, another pair of crazy tourists who missed their train), scanned them and continued on.

We arrived in Gare du Nord, took two metros and a ten minute walk, which felt like 30, to the apartment. It was only four hours later than we were supposed to arrive. We opened the curtains, turned on the fan and I opened our dinner. The salad was topped with tuna, not ham and the lettuce was completely wilted, from the heat, no surprise. It got tossed. The chicken sandwich was a 5″ loaf with four chicken pieces, the size of miniature marshmallows. A lot of bread and mustard. We’d never experienced a bad meal yet so I guess we were due. Quite the day.

The month continued it’s hot, sticky trend (can we sing it in unison now?). We would hole-up in the apartment, hugging the fan and work on the computer on the various tangles we’d yet to iron out. Social Security and health insurance issues got straightened. However, the insurance’s pharmacy carrier would not take electronic paperwork or receipts for our reimbursement on our prescriptions. Many hours on the phone and being passed between the insurance and the pharmaceutical branch, in this day and age, they demanded the physical paperwork and receipts. Sending the paperwork via post was too cost prohibitive as was the cost of sending the medications from the US. It became clear that we would have to find an alternative.

The month of July in Paris is filled with activity. The Bals des pompiers or the annual Firefighters’ Balls in Paris are held on July 13-14 in different districts of the capital. We went to ours and discovered the line to enter wrapped around two corners and just kept getting longer as the night progressed. The inside was visible from the street, with music and dancing but we decided to have a nice dinner instead and watch the crowd…

… by the time we finished the dinner, line had spread to ten blocks.

We had an old friend visit us on Le Quatorze Juillet-Bastille Day, which was a welcomed respite. A wonderful dinner out at Le Canard, followed by the annual fireworks display at the Eiffel tower. Incredible crowd, filling the streets and metro afterwards. At least we were not caught in a tight space as we had once been on a trip in New York but was with that memory clear in my head, there was no way I was getting on the metro with that throng. In order to avoid the metro, it required us to grab an Uber since the taxi’s were all taken. We had another chance to visit her over lunch before she headed back to the states. Other than her visit, our forays were generally in the cool of the evenings, down to share a bottle of wine at the guinguette on the Seine. What we love about these day-evening events is that they are family and friends social gatherings.

We’re fortunate to rent on the Ile St Louis since it is so central to everything else here in the 4th arrondissement. We can quickly get over to to the Left or Right banks of Paris on the Pont de la Tournelle or Pont Marie, so walking everywhere from here makes sense. One of the areas we walked to in the 9th arrondissement was the Les Galeries LaFayette and the Opera Garnier.

There is a cleaner who does the apartment twice a month, which makes us need to vacate occasionally.  But she would frequently cancel and move the appointments. On the good side, it made us get out more, even if it was in the mid 90’s. On the bad side, it is never pleasant when someone has you rearranging your schedule simply because they can do so. It happens in the US to us as well and I haven’t determined if people decide since we “aren’t working” we shouldn’t have anything else on our schedule. In any case, as a result, before July came to a close on one of the cleaning days, we also ended up taking in the Pere La Chaise, their most famous cemetery.  We passed many notables such as Chopin, Murat, Piaf and Morrison, in the narrow, shady walks. The sculptures in the cemetery were breath taking and the age of dates on the stones, some two centuries old,  just incredible.

Getting ready for Lille, we spent the last day’s of July catching up on laundry, emails and of course, the web site. What amazes us, as we come to the end of our second full month (it’s only been 8 weeks!),  is how fortunate we are to be here, in this place, at this time, in this moment. July had its hiccups, which you’ve read about. But you get to read about all the great things too – we love living on the Rue Des Deus Ponts, with the Seine right around the corner, with the Notre Dame (Ile de la Cité) the next Ile over, and Paris’ best (YUM) ice cream (Berthillon) served here on the Ile.  On July 27, we had driving rain and HAIL (seriously? In THIS heat??), which cooled the temperatures by 20 degrees!

We went out that evening like a lot of other people (some with their expensive cameras) to view the lunar eclipse but with the storm cloud cover, had no luck (included a picture of the non-moon anyway) and then we took pictures of our neighborhood just for show.

See that dark frame? That’s the lunar eclipse. Yep, really, really!