Autumn 2017: Paris pour la première fois (un)

When he found out I was heading to Paris, my favorite Frenchman from the islands took pains to disabuse me of any romantic notions.

The metro smells of piss and people are rude.

But I’ve always dreamed of going to Paris, I protested. In my head it’s a fairytale.

It’s filthy and full of pickpockets. Be careful always.

I was thinking of this Gallic pessimism as we landed in Charles de Gaulle on a gray Sunday; I’d pressed my nose to the window in hopes of catching a glimpse of that Haussmann elegance, but of course it was only rain and nondescript buildings that could have been anywhere else in the world.

Luggage claim takes a while – I told you so, responds the Frenchman from seven thousand miles away – and it takes me a few minutes to figure out where to queue for train tickets. Everywhere you look are lines, long lines of travelers, and I decide I don’t have the energy just yet to make the acquaintance of these French machines, and so make a beeline for the SNCF office instead, where the line is even longer but there is a human at the end of it, and maybe even some friendly assistance.

Bonjour, I say to the SNCF guy, who smiles warmly as I fumble around for the ten euros and change necessary for getting to the city. My first French word spoken in France! Little did I know what linguistic encounters the week had in store.

The RER B is comfortable enough, but the Frenchman’s description – it passes through some very interesting neighborhoods – keeps me alert, and I strain to listen to all those marvelous-sounding French stops.

Finally we arrive at the Gare du Nord and my stress level increases imperceptibly.

Go to La Chapelle on Line 2, take the Porte Dauphine direction, and get off at Pigalle. I have read the instructions from my Airbnb host so many times that I’ve memorized them, which is handy because I don’t think I want to whip my phone out here in these dark dystopian corridors patrolled by icy French troops. The heavy armed presence ought not to have surprised me – in fact that very afternoon, as I later found out on the news, there had been a terrorist incident in Marseille – but it is unsettling all the same.

My hands are full anyway, and I wish I were a tad more fit, because hauling luggage up all the stairs is an intense cardio workout I am unprepared for.

At the foot of yet another flight, I let out an inadvertently dramatic sigh, and a man in a hoodie slouching over his phone is quick to take my bag and bring it to the top. Merci beaucoup, monsieur, I call after him, and he waves back as he melts into the crowd.

Thought you said French people were rude, I tell the Frenchman – let’s call him by one of his names, Sèbastien – in my head.

The train ride to Pigalle passes without incident, and I am glad to huff and puff up the stairs and emerge blinking in the cool October sunlight.

Sexodrome!!! screams a sign in lurid pink, above the heads of tourists milling around the naughtier shops, and I know for sure I have arrived in Montmartre – on Sèbastien’s recommendation, naturellement – at last.

Feeling revived by the clear skies, fresh air and that tingly je ne sais quoi, I go on a breathless walk down the boulevard de Clichy (I may have even skipped a step or two), spot the correct corner, and cross the street to turn into a quiet alley.

There it is, a dark blue door, pots of vivid blossoms adorning the upper storeys, a list of the building’s residents. I push the button beside my host’s name, and am granted entrance into a rather fetching little courtyard. Another door opens into a dim hallway… and a spiraling staircase.

At which point I recall, not without a little chagrin, booking this third-floor flat (American fourth floor to us), knowing there was no lift, and choosing it anyway for the authenticity and all those images of picturesque Parisian garrets with attractive wrought-iron balconies

Well, authenticity is a sweaty business, and I am certain I am making enough noise for a herd of woolly mammoths as I drag myself and my much-abused luggage up. I can already imagine all the neighbors frowning with Parisian disdain behind their doors at the barbarian who dares to cause such an unholy racket on a peaceful Sunday afternoon.

Paris sure is hard work, and I’ve only been there two hours.

My lovely host Sophie welcomes me to her flat, doesn’t say anything about my disheveled appearance, and ushers me into a home just as charming as advertised. There are bright crimson flowers outside my bedroom window, a view of the rooftops, French TV in the background, a delicious scent of baking, and already I want to live here.

Sophie serves tea with lumps of sugar from a painted tin and a wonderful pear crumble she says she made this morning because one of the neighbors had a harvest of pears from Normandy, and I settle in for a leisurely conversation in the cheery living room, my feet propped up on colorful cushions.

It is my birthday, I am in Paris, and at this moment la vie est merveilleuse.

View from my bedroom window