Pipes burst

The pipes in my shower burst back in August, and the plumber finally fixed them in November. It wasn’t until this month, though, that the painter came around to fix the brown, peeling, bubbled paint.

I wasn’t expecting anyone at 8 a.m., so when I woke up to a foreign male voice below my loft saying, “Bonjour?” my heart dropped, naturally.

My apartment is close quarters, but I didn’t feel like leaving at 8 a.m. to walk around the neighborhood for hours to allow the guy to do his job, especially since nothing would be open for another two hours, so instead I sat at my table. The table happens to be right outside my bathroom, which is so small I can’t even change in it), and I tried to make small-talk with him. The best part was that he was from Ukraine and didn’t speak any English and his French was lower than elementary level, so our communication consisted mainly of elaborate hand gestures and him pausing often to stare into space desperately searching for a word he knew in English or French that could point me toward his meaning. I was able to figure out that he had left Ukraine a year ago for Paris when he was drafted into the war and he had a 4-year-old son, whom he proudly showed me a photograph of when I offered him a cup of tea and we drank it together. I tried to ask about the kid’s mother, but it was surprisingly difficult to convey the word “mother.” I tried rocking an invisible baby and saying it in sign language, but I didn’t go so far as to mock giving birth. I rubbed my belly to show “pregnancy” in a last feeble attempt, and he said, “You?” and pointed at me. “Oh GOD, no! I’m not! Thank god…” And we left it at that.

This Ukrainian plumber/painter also sanded down my countertop for me, and his co-worker came by to see his work. This man was French, so it was a relief to be able to converse easily with at least one of my guests, although I felt bad for my Ukrainian friend who stood awkwardly to the side, not understanding us at all. The French guy told me about his friend from New York who now has a pizza shop in Paris; he drew me a map of how to get there, but he claimed to forget the street name. “Give me your phone number so I can text it to you later when I remember?” As soon as we said goodbye at the door I realized how dumb I was.

I also looked down to see a little package the mail lady had meanwhile delivered for me. “La poste!” the Ukrainian said, happy to finally have vocabulary for something going on around him.

“Oui! La poste!” I repeated, smiling at him.

When they left I ripped into my package – it was my Christmas present from Katie! She sent me a book called “How to Be Parisian Wherever You Are: Love, Style, and Bad Habits.” Knowing me as she does, she wrote a little note with it about how she doesn’t expect that I’ll try to be Parisian but that it can give me “more insight into why the hell these people act the way they do, all the while laughing as you go.”

She knows me so well.

I finished the book by the end of the day, filled with new knowledge. I never knew the importance of  having  “a way of looking out the window” that looks like I’m not trying to look out the window, but really I am trying to look like I’m daydreaming while trying to look like I’m not trying to look that way … And who knew that a real Parisian woman wears high heels even when 9 months pregnant? Or that “a newspaper clipping with a witty headline” on your mantelpiece makes you classier? I sure didn’t.

Appearance is of utmost importance in Paris. At least, that’s the pervasive attitude of the culture in this city. You have to always look good, but not like you’re trying to look good, but you can only look a certain kind of good. There are all sorts of rules about how you should appear to be in public, too, that I won’t get into. It’s very funny, and I get a kick out of breaking them every day in subtle ways; I’m over the whole “looking like a local” thing. I’d rather look like a foreigner and not be miserable from worrying so much about how I look. I'd rather smile at people and wear lots of jewelry if I want to. Of course, not everyone here actually gives a damn, just like anywhere you go. I’ve met several Parisians who don’t fit that mold at all, including Gaël and Laetitia, Maïa and Matthieu, Maxime.

After I read my book, I sat at my table by candlelight and ate some baguette and heavenly cheese Maxime bought me from the town where his country house is, in Corrèze. (For Christmas he bought me a HUGE chunk of it, and a super warm, fuzzy scarf and the new Pink Floyd album.) I’m not sure if I looked out the window dreamily, or how purposefully-tousled my hair was, but nibbling a baguette and cheese was enough to make feel as Parisian as I’ll ever get.