The Paris Housing Hunt: Secrets from Behind Enemy Lines

Trying to rent an apartment in Paris is one of the ultimate tests of resilience, good humor, and skin thickness. Perhaps most unfortunately for some, it is also a terrifying game of luck. When I first looked for an apartment here in early February 2010, I visited four apartments in three days, and was lucky enough to nab the first one I saw, which was also the one I liked the most. But I've watched many suffer from the inefficient, cheaters-take-all system here, and get agitated just thinking about moving again.

To be fair: it is difficult to evict someone from an apartment in Paris; in winter it is actually illegal to kick someone out -- this is socially responsible, but it can mean that those who don't cheat, but who can actually pay their rent even if their dossier suggests otherwise, may suffer.


When people ask what it's like to live in Paris, or when friends come to visit, I warn them sternly: it's difficult to live here. From the metro tickets that get de-magnetized to the clerks at the post office who won't ring you up because they are only working as agents d' accueil (''welcomers'') -- even though they clearly have the skills and ability to help you make your purchase -- there are many opportunities to lose your cool throughout the day in gay Paree.

Side note: I'm still bitter about the post office drama that befell me today. There was a long line waiting to check out, and so I asked the agent d'accueil if I could pay him, but he refused. When I acted confused (considering that on a recent trip, his colleague at the same post was able to take my money), he said he only used the register when the line got backed up; his job was accueil.  Meanwhile, the customer at the main register had a giant stack of envelopes to stamp, plus certified and registered letters to prepare, and a package or two to collect; I sensed she would be a while, and I simply wanted to ship a small birthday package to my mom. I did my Frenchly duty, letting out exhausted sighs, puffing hot hair through my lips, and most certainly rolling my eyes a few times as well.

As I waited impatiently, I considered reverting to an old trick. Over the years, I have observed that it is easy to rip off the French post office. All the packaging materials (envelopes and packages) are essentially pre-stamped and put on display. The assumption is that you will pay for the packaging material before leaving the post office; but, this is in fact not required. For the record, you can pick up a Chronopost puffy envelope or box, stick your items inside, address and seal the package, and then slip it into any nearby mailbox or bin. (I may or may not have done this in the past.) It was certainly tempting to try today as the minutes ticked by, and I was in a hurry to get to work. (Well, not such a hurry. I was headed to the Musée d'Orsay and had no official start time, but the sun was shining and that is a  commodity I am loathe to waste).

Needless to say, eight or nine long minutes ticked by before the agent d'accueil realized that the line was not moving. Finally, he offered to ring me up at his station. I tried to hide my snarky ''I-told-you-so'' face.

But back to the issue at hand, which is perhaps even more frustrating than going to La Poste: finding a place to live in Paris. Typically, you need to supply the owner or landlord with a dossier, which is an assortment of financial paperwork showing your salary, the financial information of the person who will pay your rent in case you default (notarized, of course), and for foreigners, any paperwork related to your visa. And your dossier must be convincing. As I've since learned, many people falsify their financial documents, showing a monthly salary of upwards of ten thousand euros. Were I better at Photoshop, I'm sure I'd try it too. At that time, I was earning less than a thousand euros a month, I only had a ten-month visa (with only three months left), and I had no guarantor. My dossier was refused by real estate agents, and was quickly moved to the bottom of the pile by two of the apartment owners I met.

As part of my search, I visited a Miss Havisham-esque apartment in the 17th, minutes from the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs-Elysées. The wallpaper was peeling off, the ceiling paint was yellowed, the plaster molding needed some TLC, and the rugs were nearing threadbare. The woman warned me that I was merely renting a bedroom in the apartment, which meant that I would be able to use the kitchen, assuming I did so respectfully, and without disrupting her meal rituals. She had a yapping dachschund, and though I was tempted by the small balcony in the available bedroom, I was not convinced I would ever feel at home there. She told me that her current renter often joined her on the Champs for a Sunday evening movie; I had trouble imagining myself filling that role.

Next I made an appointment to visit a studio on the chic Avenue de Suffren, steps from the the Champs de Mars and the Eiffel Tower. This apartment was on the sixth floor. First you walked up five flights on the main (indoor) staircase; then you went outside and took the exterior steps to the sixth floor, which had five or six apartments. There was a separate key for the WC because it was shared among the inhabitants of the floor. The studio's owner, who lived in a posh 1,000 sq. ft. apartment in the connecting building, suggested that I keep my toilet paper in my room, otherwise I'd be subsidizing the TP needs of my floormates.

I later learned that I had visited a chambre de bonne, or a small apartment connected to a luxury apartment building; in the past, the chambre de bonne was typically given to the family maid or nanny, though now these apartments often provide some of the cheapest housing in Paris (and provide their owners with a small rental income). The room is usually a 90 - 100 sq. ft. box, with one small window, hot plate, shower (if lucky), and a clic-clac (cot). I couldn't imagine myself living with so little sunlight, and left feeling overwhelmed and disappointed.

''Easy,'' you might be thinking. ''Use Craigslist.'' Sure, the idea is a good one (I recently bought myself a lovely houseplant and juicer that way), but just this afternoon I nearly got embroiled in an apartment scam on that site. While looking for an apartment for an American student arriving in February, I was told I could secure the apartment by wiring my security deposit to a UK account, and then the owner would come meet me in Paris with the keys. Next I was given the contact information of a former renter, Mr. Wayne Thibault (the name raised some concern, but in the melting pot of the US, such a name seemed plausible), apparently an American student from Mesa, Arizona. This ''American'' had some vocabulary issues. In an email, he told me that the apartment was ''a neat and homely place.'' He added that the owner ''took him out to dinner'' when they first met and that ''he is always checking on my welfare by calling during my stay.'' Clearly his notion of time was suspect, since he later said he was back in the US, and therefore, wasn't available to let me see the apartment.

I wrote them both back, stating that I knew they were trying to scam me, and bid them good day. Now I'm back home, in my own 8th floor shoebox -- it is made up of three chambres de bonnes which have been joined into one cohesive, homey whole. Here, radiator heat blasts uncontrollably, meaning that I often sleep with the windows open, but I don't have to unlock a door to get into the bathroom. I have plentiful sunlight and direct access to my apartment from an indoor staircase (when I'm feeling sporty) and elevators (when I'm not).

After all that, do you want my advice about moving to Paris? Don't move to Paris; come for a visit and find yourself a nice hotel (as for the post office: you're on your own).  

Shaping Up (or they will ship me out!)

This morning I was rather calm for someone who was running fifteen minutes late to meet a new student. ''Karen'' happens to work in the IT department at my language school, so when I arrived at the office, everyone was aware that I was late. The problem is, I didn't really care. I go to the office very rarely, but when I do go there, I exchange pleasantries as quickly as possible before leaving again. I see most of my students at my university or at their offices in La Défense, the business district.

This morning I had emailed and called ahead, so instead of being worried about my lateness, I was annoyed about having to ''faire un déplacement'' (to travel) for one student. Usually I refuse one-off students, and cancel lessons when I am travelling for only one person. I'd rather make no money than divide my hourly salary in three to account for travel time. This behavior is somewhere between unprofessional and simply Johanna-esque (the latter can be dangerous, as I'm learning). Since I am paid per lesson taught, however, there are financial repercussions to these decisions.

I enjoy the freedom of being an independent contractor, of building my own business, of saying who, when, and how much (though there's much less wiggle room when it comes to how much). But is it really a life of freedom if I'm in a constant tug-of-war with my long-term financial security and monthly budget?

When I lived in a shared apartment and had a very affordable rent, this inconsistent work ethic was tenable. Now that I live on my own (and my expenses doubled), the consequences are greater. And, since I chose to dip into my savings rather than work for most of April, May, June, July, August, and, yes, September, too, I'm running out of patience with myself. Yet I'm still refusing work. In early September I was hired to teach at a university within walking distance of my apartment. I turned it down, for reasons I still can't enumerate. Yesterday I was asked to take on a full day of lessons in a nearby suburb; I declined. In part, I'm hoping something better will come along (although I struggle to define ''better''); in part I've been spoiled into thinking that the money I need will arrive without my having to actually do anything (this happened this summer when my old bank sent me fifteen hundred euros to compensate for an administrative error on their part -- the money was mine; I'd just assumed I'd already spent it).

The truth is, yes, the money will arrive, but I have to EARN it. And there's nothing special about me for doing just that.

But back to my new student, who I accepted after panicking, à nouveau, about my declining savings: within minutes of sitting down, Karen spoke easily and openly. She mentioned a six-week backpacking trip to Mali and Burkina Faso. I was full of curiosity and questions. She talked about the late ethnographer, Amadou Hampâté Bâ, who inspired her trip. I made a note to look up his work (once I'm finished with The Epic of Gilgamesh, which I heartily recommend: super powers and sexual shenanigans galore, in a very appealing journey back to the land of the Tigris and Euphrates!).

Upon arriving in Mali, Karen found a local guide and began her journey, traveling from village to village on an old, rickety, window-less bus, changing guides almost as often as the bus broke down. The village men kept her separate from their women as much as possible (being told the women didn't speak French), although she later realized she was kept away from them for fear the women would talk too much about the inequalities they suffered. She described her open-air mud-hut shower stalls, and how when one local dish made her sick, she had to buy rice for the locals, since the villagers couldn't afford to buy it themselves. When I thought about the bountiful jars of rice, quinoa, and soba noodles sitting in my cupboard, I began to feel guilty.

Karen and I briefly compared the advantages of that lifestyle with the métro, boulot, dodo routine (commute, work, sleep) here. They had no money, and they had no electricity, but she countered that with ''no one is alone or lonely there. Ever!'' She added that they enjoyed the sense of community  and solidarity that arises out of necessity in bush country -- in comparison, both are lacking in our more ''civilized societies.''

After talking with Karen, I see that I'm being very self-indulgent and lazy. I have chosen to live in a world that is ruled by money; as such, I've got to play by the rules of that world, even if I pride myself on doing things my way. As I type, my hand is reaching for the telephone to call my boss and accept the full day of lessons. I can't expect those new students will make me smile as much as Karen did today, but at least I will know they are helping me ensure my continued life here in France -- a life I've been proud to create, refine, and share -- and when I'm wise and centered, it is also a life that makes me smile.

Confessions of a train ticket scam artist

Why is it that humans break rules all the time, but, almost universally, drivers get out of the way when an ambulance blares its siren? Is this a moral question, a human survival instinct, or a Pavlovian response? Sometimes I’m afraid France has corrupted my sense of morality; other times I think my time here has brought out my true self.

When I first moved to France, I had very little money, and lived in zone 6 in the Paris region. I tell this to French people and they often respond, ‘’there’s a zone 6?? That must be very far.’’ A round-trip from my former little village to Paris cost about 16 euros. The ride took about an hour. At that time, my budget was 20 euros for the day; the train tickets were interfering with my ability to buy pastries and a demi-carafe of rosé (the occasional museum ticket, too). Fortunately, I was coached by some French friends who told me to ride the train without paying.

Taking the Long Island Railroad as a child, I was accustomed to seeing train conductors on every train. In France, however, the conductors (here called controlleurs) appear on suburban trains sporadically – often hopping on at random stops, and walking through the train in packs of six, asking to see your ticket. Otherwise, you are ostensibly ‘’free’’ to use the train system, able to travel at least one hour in any direction outside of Paris, for free.   

Of course, you are expected to purchase a ticket for every train ride and to validate (stamp) the ticket before getting on board. However, many stations have open platforms, which means you can walk on without going through a turnstile; otherwise, people simply jump over the turnstile. Meanwhile, the station agents say nothing. Jumping turnstiles is too much effort for my less-than-graceful self; I use a ticket in these stations. 

During that first year, I was stopped by controlleurs several times. My routine was simple. As the grey-suited controlleurs approached, I pulled out my Time Out Paris guide and waited. As soon as he or she began speaking to me, I would look startled, and then feigning confusion, I handed over my ticket. ‘’I’m sorry, I don’t speak French,’’ I began. The controlleur would take the ticket, flip it over, looking for the date stamp, and then hand it back to me. ‘’This ticket is not valid,’’ I would be told. ‘’Yes! It’s a ticket! You are the controlleur, you will stamp it for me!’’ I responded in my fastest, most incomprehensible English. We circled like this for a few more rounds, before the controlleur would sigh, lean in towards me and explain, ''it’s alright this time. But next time you will get a fine. You must validate your ticket at the station.’’

‘’Ahh, I didn’t know that! It’s not like that in the USA!’’ I answered proudly, smiling. ‘’Thank you very much!’’ Things got more interesting when one controlleur changed up the routine.  His first comment to me (before inspecting my ticket) was, ''Are you married?’’ which he followed quickly with, ''do you have a boyfriend?’’ When I said no to both questions, he took my ticket and walked away. Upon returning he said, ‘’here’s my number. You’re very cute! Call me!’’ Our discussion about tickets and fines was seemingly over.

During my second year in France, I met a quirky French guy living in Paris. I named him Billy the Kid as it was a liberal translation of his Franco-Italian name. Billy’s job was to monitor the controlleurs. Each week he received the master list of train timetables, as well as the controlleurs’ daily schedule. He knew when controlleurs were supposed to be on different trains, and his job was to take those trains to make sure they were doing their job. While we dated, I could call him on Monday, get a run-down of his list, and ride the trains in tranquility. Eventually Billy the Kid and I split up, and I was back to my train shenanigans. I was running late one day, and got on a train to nearby Fontainebleau. Usually I had an unstamped ticket to my destination, but this day, I had no ticket whatsoever. As the train doors closed, I saw a pack of grey suits hop on. ‘’Damnit,’’ I thought to myself. ‘’How will I get out of this one?’’

I wasn’t so afraid of the fine – I was more concerned that my pride would be tarnished (as it eventually was, when I received a fine on the metro) by getting caught. I saw the controlleurs approaching and slipped into the nearest train bathroom, buying myself time. ‘’Aha!’’ I thought. I realized that if I sat in the bathroom for the whole journey, I could escape the controlleurs. I reasoned that if I didn’t lock the bathroom door, they would have no reason to suspect that there was a passenger in there. I took out my makeup pouch and began to apply eyeliner. One or two people tried to enter the bathroom, but no controlleurs.

But there was still one problem. Since this was not my typical train, I didn’t know how many stops until we reached Fontainebleau. Each time the train stopped, I had to lean on the door and listen for voices before peeking to find out where we were. Forty minutes later, I arrived at my destination, and applauded myself for my latest bit of train-riding fraud.

Now that I live and work in Paris, I pay for my monthly metro pass. I realized that it’s quite exhausting to look over your shoulder, each time the train doors open, to see if a controlleur has gotten on. And it’s a big waste of time when you have to stop and pay a fine (or, in my case, try to argue your way out of a fine).

This all being said, sometimes I position myself on the right side of good citizenship (some French would argue that scamming the train company is a sign that I am an upstanding citizen). All along the Seine here in Paris, you are apt to run across a middle-aged man or woman who will lean to the ground, pick up a gold ring, and hand it to you right as you walk by. The scammer will try to convince you that it’s yours, that it’s real gold, and that you should take it (in exchange for some euros). When I see this familiar routine, I often interrupt, looking directly at the tourist and say ‘’do you speak English? Walk away. This is a scam.’’ When that doesn’t work, I find their eyes and shake my head as I motion for them to leave. Then I get yelled at by the scammer, the tourist thanks me, and everyone walks away. It feels good each time I do it, though I wonder how anyone could possibly get fooled by that routine. (This from the girl who basically invited a gang of three guys to steal her phone on a recent trip to Rome).

Does one good deed balance out all the dishonest ones? My beloved high school English teacher often asked us to determine the ‘’moral center’’ of the novels we read. I like to think of morality this way: grey and revolving, not rigid. Friends and I talk about how we are essentially being dared to break the rules here; but choosing to act with honesty and integrity, while not always the route I take, feels good. Lately the same applies for work. Instead of doing the bare minimum to get the job done, I’ve watched myself attempt to do the best job possible; that, too, feels good, even if the outcome isn’t as glamorous as might be desired.

Top Five Misconceptions about les français

5. French people eat a lot of baguettes.

There is a big difference between a baguette and a baguette de tradition -- typically called a tradition (tra-DIH-see-ohhn) around here. The latter is more expensive, but also more delicious. So this is actually a technicality. Baguettes and traditions are both eaten quite regularly.

4. French people don't shower. And they smell.

Stereotype! Smelly people and clean people can be found in all corners of the globe.

3. French people don't work hard.

I don't always work so hard, but that's not a culture-wide phenomenon.

2. The Sorbonne is the best school in France.

Before coming to France, I'd heard about the Sorbonne, and was made to think that anyone who had a degree from there was really something. Nope. Perhaps in the US it is the most well-known French university. However, the most prestigious schools here are called les grandes écoles and they include Ecole Polytechnique, Ecole nationale d'administration (a factory for churning out future French politicians), the écoles normales supérieures, and several others.

1. French people like to say ''oh la la!'' or ''c'est la vie'' and ''crème de la crème.''

While they do say ''oh la la'' quite a bit (I love to say it for dramatic effect in a variety of situations, too),  I have never heard the other two expressions used.  You're more likely to hear ''C'est top!'' or ''C'est fashion!''

Monday

A few days ago my Great-Aunt Nora died. Nora lived in a trailer park in Maine, and did her shopping at the park's convenience store, unless she got a ride to the supermarket from her friend Amber, or someone in our family. Nora had a sweet tooth and a zest for life; she celebrated both with a splash of Bailey's in her coffee, and a scratch-and-play lottery ticket whenever the budget allowed (probably even when it didn't). I remember her modest home filled with Pomeranians and stray cats, giant cans of Chock full o' Nuts coffee, stale cigarette smoke, piles and piles of magazines and promotional flyers, and best of all, her bubbly, rolling laugh. ''Heee-heee-heee,'' she would giggle, tipping forward with her dowager's hump. My father loved Nora -- she was my mother's aunt -- and always insisted on visiting her before going home, even though that pit stop meant an hour-long detour before an eight-hour drive.

As my brother and I discussed the flowers we would send to the funeral home, my mind drifted towards the autumnal horizon, which will forever be linked with the anniversary of our own father's death. His passing was swift and unexpected, though when I had seen him the day before, I said, ''Goodbye, Captain,'' and somehow knew that it was a final goodbye. The next day I woke as usual. Before going to class, I called home. No one answered, but I left a message, thanking my parents for bringing me homemade applesauce and cinnamon raisin bread. We shared love through food, and my belly was the best emblem of this love. That evening, I had a three-hour lecture, from 7 - 10pm.

Sometime before eight, while sitting in the lecture hall, I started to panic and feel agitated. I tried to wait for the class break, but suddenly, and without knowing why, I gathered my things, left the lecture hall, and immediately called home. When no one answered, I called my mom on her cellphone. At that moment, she was driving down the lane to our house. Richards Lane is a narrow road with barely enough room for one car to pass. In early November, there are few remnants of the plush tree canopy that beckons you down the hill, and since the lane is privately owned, there are no street lamps. Our house, built by my grandfather in 1936, is at the end of the quarter-mile path.

I don't remember what my mom and I were talking about until she said, ''that's funny, daddy didn't leave the lights on for me.'' We chatted as she parked the car and walked up to the backdoor. ''Hmm. There's a note on a business card: 'Taken to the hospital - call police.' Johanna, something's happened to daddy, let me call you back.''

A few minutes passed and my phone did not ring. So I called her back. ''Johanna,'' my mom said in a frazzled voice, ''I haven't found your father yet. I am going to have to call you back.'' I sat on the steps behind my dorm and waited. Then my phone rang. ''Johanna,'' my mom began. ''I have some terrible news. Daddy died. . .When they couldn't find him in the ER, I knew to call the morgue.''

These melancholy memories were only heightened last night when I watched Sir Terry Pratchett's documentary, Choosing to Die. It chronicles his interviews with a few people who, like himself, were considering Dignitas, an assisted-suicide facility in Switzerland. Prachett currently battles Alzheimer's, and wants assisted suicide to be legalized in the UK.  Towards the end of the film, a woman sits by her husband as he drinks the poison, then begs for water (he is denied by the Gravitas staff member, who urges him to relax), falls asleep, and dies. The whole process takes fifteen minutes, but is condensed to two or three in the documentary. Sir Prachett is in the room as it happens, and as the viewer, so are you.

Lately I've been reading French Children Don't Throw Food by Pamela Druckerman, an absorbing, yet frustrating comparison of Anglo-Saxon and French child-rearing habits.What's most difficult about living in France is that I miss both: births and deaths. A good friend gave birth in Los Angeles on Thursday night; another gave birth nine months ago, but who knows when I will meet either baby. Coming home for Nora's funeral is hors question, but sending flowers feels like an unsatisfying ritual. Does it matter if we choose a colorful bouquet or standard white lilies?

With my balcony doors open this morning, I can once again hear the steady cries of the children playing at school across the street. The voices will change and the sounds will vary, but the gaiety remains strong all day long. I keep thinking that my life will morph into a neat, and easy-to-digest Hollywood ending (one of these days), but instead, I'm starting to think that messy and bittersweet are here to stay.

How to make a bad impression

As far as work goes, I've been feeling pretty good about myself lately. Not because I've been working a lot, per se, but because of what I'm doing: I just started researching at the Musée d'Orsay for a museum back in the US. My job is to comb through files in search of any pertinent information on the French painters in the US museum's collection, and any published or unpublished material on the paintings in the US museum itself. The documentation center at the Orsay is on the fourth floor, and my preferred seat is by the window, overlooking the Seine. Surrounded by shelves and shelves of brown acid-free boxes, long white tables, and overhead lamps that hang too low, I've become friendly enough with some of the documentalists, so going to work has been satisfying, to say the least.

Last week I was working on Léon Lhermitte, and despite my background in the decorative arts, I knew nothing of this painter. I quickly became intimate friends with him and his series of wood block prints and pastels. Things got good and exciting when I had to start cross-referencing his files with separate files on 19th century Parisian Salons. He'd won an award or two, and I wanted photocopies from the Salons which proved those distinctions. Next I mined exhibition catalogue bibliographies for other references to his work, and happily copied the relevent pages from those other works. I carefully flipped through crumbling gallery catalogues (in which his work was featured) that survived from the 1890s, and copied those fragile pages as well.

Lhermitte is known for painting real figures in his life, and I wondered about the tired faces and ample bodies that he painted. It seemed fitting to be learning about Lhermitte's fascination with farmers and farming (potatoes and wheat, notably) just as I was vamping up my own home garden with kale (the first sprouts have shot up!).

Today I was a bit less excited to start on Monet because there are more than 80 boxes. And, to be frank, because it's Monet. This summer I visited his house in Giverny, and only after seeing his magnificent gardens am I willing to look at his work with a little bit of pleasure. Monet completed about 2,000 paintings, and many of them center around his homes, including those at Giverny and Argenteuil. A little bit boring, non? I started to think that if Monet had been around in the time of Facebook, he probably would have photo-bombed his page with photos or paintings of Giverny much in the same way that many of us photo-bomb our own pages with personal photos, too. The main difference is, he was able to afford some fine bottles of Bordeaux because of the success of his repetitive canvases; I have not yet reaped similar rewards.

As I rifled through boxes on Argenteuil this afternoon, I kept seeing files labeled with ''Wildenstein'' and then a number. I sensed there was something important in this coding, but didn't think to figure it out on my own. And there is no such thing as a stupid question, right?

Proud of my fearlessness (stupidity?), I walked up to the documentalist and asked what that coding meant. Today the front desk was occupied by an unfamiliar face. The man was seemingly disgruntled to be disturbed from his work, especially to be disrupted by an outside researcher. Who was a woman. And foreign.

I pointed to the mystery code on the front of the file and asked for help. ''Well,'' he snidely began, ''that refers to Daniel Wildenstein, who is the author of the catalogue raisonné of note for Monet's body of work. It is the ultimate reference guide when doing research on Monet.''

I cringed as I realized I'd been caught. I tried to imagine what he must have been thinking about me, and the countless hours I'd spent researching in his department, while seemingly knowing nothing of 19th century French painting. Gathering from his reaction, researching impressionism and not knowing about Wildenstein is a little bit like studying American movies of the 20th century and not knowing about Siskel and Ebert (or, since I clearly don't study film either, insert your more academic movie critic here). Fortunately, I didn't have too much time to feel self-conscious, because my upset stomach, which has been surprising me with bouts of trouble since Thursday, revved into action.

So in addition to feeling foolish about my mediocre knowledge, I also began to feel self-conscious about my inefficiency at work. Whenever I walked by the grumpy documentalist to get to the ladies' room, I imagined him scoffing and uttering a very soft, ''putain!''

Last week I was explaining this job to a friend here, and he remarked, ''that's great! And then you'll get to write up your findings, right?'' I paused for a minute, wondering if I should feel bad that I didn't have to draw any impressive and intelligent conclusions about these painters. Then I said, ''no. That's not my job. I'm just doing the research, which I send to the US. I don't really feel the need to have any big ideas. I'm simply happy to be learning.'' And that is the truth. I don't want to be an expert on Lhermitte or Monet. I simply want to go back in time, pretend I'm living in the late Victorian period (sans oxygen-restricting corset, of course), and see that a lot of the painting that came out of this time was not overwhelmingly sophisticated: it was a bunch of guys sitting in their backyards, thinking it looked pretty, or feeling sad that industrialization was taking over, and setting paint to canvas.

I'll be back at the Orsay tomorrow afternoon, scouring everything and anything written by Monsieur Daniel Wildenstein. More importantly, I'm looking forward to moving on to Renoir later this week.

Driving in France: Part One

Just the other day I strolled into a driving school to sign up for driving lessons. I want to learn how to drive a manual transmission (mostly because it scares me more than it should). You may not know it, but we Americans are ridiculed over here for not knowing how to drive stick. In France, it's mostly the sick or disabled who drive automatic transmissions. I've been told that that's the assumption, anyway.

I was delighted to learn that I could just take a few lessons à la carte to learn how to control a car the old-fashioned way. All was looking good until I was told that the information I'd received last week was incorrect. It turns out that you can only take those "perfectionnement" lessons if you already have a French license. And at that point, I'm assuming you already know how to drive, and therefore don't need the lessons?

I bundled up my passport, a copy of my lease, my visa letter, a paper that certifies that my long-stay visa is forthcoming, the application forms for my French license, a French translation of my CT license, and five passport photos. Side note: if you watched Amélie, you might have noticed the central role of the photo booth in the film. And I think that's because you need official photos that come from those very photo booths to get most administrative tasks completed here.

I took this hefty pile of paperwork and went to the French version of the DMV, which is located in the northern edge of Paris at Porte de Clignancourt (not far from the famous and fab-u-lous Parisian flea markets and some really fun ethnic food markets. Those impossible-to-find black beans are not so impossible to find after all. And a giant tub of Greek yogurt? Quite tempting at only two euros). There was a long line at the ''DMV,'' of course, and the applicant at the window was engaged in a heated discussion with the staffer, which made me nervous, as the anger he caused was going to remain long after he'd left.

About ten minutes later it was my turn. The woman took my passport, pecked at the keyboard, asked me a few questions, and then began to frown. ''If you had come back in 2010, when you'd been in France for less than a year, you could have easily exchanged your Connecticut license for a French one. Sans problème. But now there's nothing I can do. You must go to French driving school.'' We talked about my other options. She said I could apply anyway, but then her boss would be obliged to reject my request. That didn't seem particularly promising. 

She and I soon agreed that a more hopeful course of action would be to re-do driver's ed here and then take the written test (there are over 11,500 possible questions to review and be able to answer, plus all that technical vocabulary I've never learned. Comment dit-on ''day time running lamps'' en français? No idea.). Once I pass the ''code de la route'' I will be allowed to take the driving test. I love to learn, and it's true that the road signs here are quite different from what I'm used to back home, but the full driving course costs over 1,300 euros, and that seems a bit steep.

A friend here suggested I take driver's ed in Germany, where it's most certainly cheaper. When I suggested there might be a language problem, she said, ''It's Germany! Everyone speaks English!''

Then, after calling a driving school up the street, the woman gave me an alternative solution: apparently I can apply to get my license as an "external candidate," which  means I must submit an application (in person, back at Porte de Clignancourt -- why didn't they mention this option when I was there last week??) to take the driving test without going to French driver's ed. However, I will have to be able to drive a manual transmission to take that test. Recap: in order to learn how to drive stick, I need a French license. To have a French license, I need to know how to drive stick. Not only that, but if I apply to be an "external candidate," I can expect to wait at least eight or nine months to have an appointment for the test. That's enough time to learn how to drive the car, I suppose.

When I returned to Porte de Clignancourt this morning, I went up to the fourth floor, took a number, and waited. Finally a man came to the desk, visibly perturbed that his empty waiting room was no longer empty. ''You realize you have to wait a year?'' he cautioned me. ''Yes,'' I replied. ''But I have no other option, right?'' I suspect his attempt to dissuade me was actually an attempt to keep his workload light.

More paperwork in hand, I left the office and hopped on a vélib (those city bicycles that you pick up and drop off as you wish around the city) and headed home. After a few seconds, I realized my bicycle was broken, so I returned it to a nearby station and started walking, too impatient to wait the few minutes before my account was cleared, allowing me to take out another bike. About twenty five minutes later, my feet began to hurt, and the two kilos of beans I was carrying were getting heavy, so I went to take out another bike. When I swiped my card, the machine buzzed and the release button stayed red. I waited a few seconds and tried again. Sighing, I pulled out my phone and called the information number.

Apparently when I returned my first bike, the return was not registered properly. I was given the bike's ID number, told to return to the station back near Porte de Clignancourt, and see if it was there. If not, I would be fined 150 euros. Reluctantly, I walked back, found the bike, and saw that the whole station was ''off-line,'' which is why the computer didn't register my bike's return. Annoyed at having retraced my steps when my feet were already hurting, I took another bike and came home, where I promptly walked into a pole and hurt my ankle.

Armed with an ice pack and a glass of wine, I'm taking it easy this afternoon. I think I'll take the métro when I go out to dinner tonight.