Met my host family. Also - Paris in the rain.

I lugged the smaller of my suitcases across Paris on the crowded metro. You have to take two lines from Rue De Birague to Rue De Boulainvilliers, so by the time I arrived at my host family’s apartment at 11 a.m., I was already wiped. That didn’t keep me from noticing how cute calmness of the 16^th arrondissement. Few people walked past me as I wheeled my suitcase down the street; I saw more construction workers and garbage men than pedestrians.

I rang the doorbell at the address Laetitia had told me, and the door opened. Standing there was Gael, my host father, and my two adorable little charges. (Laetitia was at work and Gael was on holiday). They gave me a kiss when I walked through the door and Josy immediately wanted to show me her room and to play. Gabi went to the television and shyly curled into a ball when I asked him questions, but over the next few days, after many tickle fights, bouncy ball games, and Uno matches, I’d venture so far as to say he’s already my little buddy.

 The first day meeting my host family was wonderfully exhausting for many reasons. For one, I wanted to make a good impression, of course, and exerting that much energy toward trying to be perfect is exhausting. (Gael and Laetitia graciously made me feel comfortable enough through many gestures of kindness to where I could drop that tiring endeavor).  But it was also physically and mentally exhausting because we packed so much into the first day, since there’s so much to know.

First, we went for a walk to Monoprix, the big grocery store here. Gabi pushed the stroller with Josy in it while Gael and I dropped some things into the grocery basket – coffee, cereal, hand soap, cleaning supplies. While Gael paid for the items, I took the kids out of the store into the mall to wait for him where they wouldn’t be so crowded – my first time being alone with the kids – and I made the grave mistake of unbuckling a struggling Josy from her stroller. She wasted no time; she booked it to the office supply store across the mall courtyard. I had been alone with them for hardly a minute before I was chasing Josy through the store while holding Gabi’s hand as he laughed hysterically. Of course, Josy had no apparent goal in mind, and randomly stopped in the post-it note section before I’d caught up to her. I didn’t let her leave my sight, but my heart was beating like a war drum when I scooped her up and carried her back to the stroller, making sure to buckle the straps, just as Gael came out of Monoprix carrying the reusable grocery bags lumpy with all my necessities.

Back at the flat, the four of us jumped into Gael’s car for another tour. This time I could relax, since Josy and Gabi were both securely fastened in their car seats. The 16^th, the arrondissement where my apartment is, as well as theirs, just borders the 7^th, where the Eiffel Tower and many other famous sites are. We drove past Hotel des Invalides, Trocadero, the American Embassy, and, of course, the Eiffel Tower and Parc du Champ de Mars, the huge lawn in front of the Tower where people, mostly tourists, sit on blankets amidst a sea of cigarette butts and make out because they’re in the City of Love.

Gael also showed me my apartment that Laetitia picked out for me, a ten minute walk from their house. It’s nothing short of perfect. It’s a tiny studio apartment, but it’s pretty big for a studio apartment in Paris, especially in this area. I wouldn’t have it any other way, anyway. I love that it’s tiny. I have a couch-bed, a table, a kitchen that is barely wider than my hips, a big closet, wood floors, and windows that open inward and look out onto the quiet street. There’s a white ladder that leads to a loft where my mattress is, and above that is a moon roof. I can climb out of it and sit on the roof of my building and look at the Eiffel Tower whenever I want; I just have to remember to close the moon roof at night when it rains … learned that the hard way. I even have a washer! It only took me a half hour to figure out how to use it. And the building itself is so French. You walk through a heavy, iron-grated door first, but when you’re leaving you have to press the button that says “Port” (“door”) for the door to open. When you’re walking in, though, you then have to go through another door, this one a glass French door, and press an old-fashioned button with the word “Lumiere” (“light) written above it so that you can see where you’re going before ascending four flights of winding, carpeted stairs or taking the one-person glass elevator.

I’ll post photos or a video when I’ve had time to decorate a little.

The last week has been extremely busy; I’ve been with the kids every day since I left Maia and Matthieu’s. Saturday the whole family and I took a train to Futuroscope, a theme park outside of Paris. You know those high-tech, 3D games and films where you’re securely fastened to roller coaster seats that move all over the place and you’re splashed with water and you feel like you’re inside the game? That’s what the theme of this park is. I’m not sure what the word is for that, but I’m just going to say it was wicked fun, especially this one ride where you feel like you’re flying over a beautiful landscape for a few minutes. I got butterflies as I descended and landed gracefully in a field of dandelions. It was like lucid dreaming. I definitely recommend going if you ever have the chance.

We came home Sunday night, and I watch the kids every day from 8:30 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. until Friday; school starts next week, so I won’t be working all day after that, but my classes start soon, too, but I’ll have more time to explore and go out after this week.

Last night I left my apartment at 8:45 p.m. for a walk; I walked for fifteen minutes before crossing Pont d’lena and standing directly underneath the Eiffel Tower as it sparkled, letting me know it was 9 p.m. I was surrounded by throngs of tourists and lovers and vendors trying to sell me colored mini Eiffel Towers and cheap wine, but somehow all that made the moment even more magical. I sat on the lawn for an hour soaking in the fact, for the hundredth time, that I’m here.

I’m sitting on my couch drinking wine that Gael picked out for me jokingly; apparently Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt have a house in France and make wine, so I’m currently sipping a Brangelina rosé called “Pink Floyd” … The confusion of the situation dissipated after the first glass. I was listening to Ella Fitzgerald and a song about Paris came on, and I wasn’t even surprised. Then it started raining, so I turned off the music so I could listen to it fall on my tiny balcony.

I now understand why so many romantic poets obsess about Paris in the rain.