After weeks of not much French influence to report….we’re here! We’re in Paris, in a lovely flat in the Marais for 8 nights.
Tip #1: Don’t go with a taxi driver who greets you IN the airport even if he speaks good English. We met one. I hestitated because they’re not a good deal in San Francisco, but the powers that be scare you off with insurance threats etc. David was game, til we heard the price. 90 euros. We were going to the Marais. That’s closer than the Latin quarter and I know a taxi to there should be about 50 euros. See ya later! If he was a good taxi driver why wasn’t he in the taxi rank anyway?
So we got a taxi with Haitian, filling up his taxi with our largish suitcase each AND the massage table, carry-ons squished into his Mercedes between us in the back seat.
What’s next? Staying awake to enjoy our dinner despite jet lag? Stay tuned….
Pretty easy to find 17, Rue Sevigne. The stairs are narrow and dusty, lacking the grand scale and elegance of the two flats I’ve rented previously. Oh, well, this is the Marais, it’s old and authentic–so old in fact that almost every apartment we pass on the way to ours on the third floor (that’s three flights of stairs, this is Europe) was being renovated. The fine print in the contract that had warned us that the leasing company could not predict renovation which could happen in any building at any time, out of their control. Out of their control, perhaps, but not out of their knowledge.
I ask them what time they start in the morning. 8 a.m. Hopefully the noisier stuff is a few floors below…otherwise as I know from the contract, they’ll relocate us to another apartment which is available. If it’s more expensive, the difference is on us; if it’s cheaper we get a refund. I didn’t want to think about it when reading the contract, and I don’t want to think about it now either! What would it take for this to work for us? It’s a great neighborhood and I painstakingly selected a flat with a large enough living room to hold a class in.
This qualifies! A sofa, three occasional chairs, and a separate dining area with 8 more chairs around a full size dining room table. Please let it work.
The Italian agent greets us and shows us around. So far so good, I’m happy for her to leave so we can have things to ourselves, but David discovers the hot water is not working. The construction caused it to be turned off this morning. They put notices under the door here, but since no one was staying here, no one knew. The agent calls many folks and finally they agree to send someone out in the next 4 hours. She agrees to wait to greet them.
After an hour and a half of waiting around, David and I escape to buy stuff for breakfast, suss out the neighborhood, and, of course, make our first stop in a cafe (Cafe Dome, St. Paul) for coffee. David offers coffee, when I realized when they delivered it in a thimblesized cup he should have ordered cafe CREME in order to get the milk he’d like. We ask the waiter to bring milk, which does not arrive. Oh, well, it’s Paris, we’re sitting in a cafe, looking at delicious signs.
Across the street from us is the Atelier de Chocolat–the chocolate workshop. Doesn’t it tempt you? A few doors down, the Duc de Gascogne with foie gras and cuisine de saison advertised above its keyhole sized space.
There’s a supermarket just down the street as well, where we stock up on essentials. It seems expensive. Bananas from Cameroon are 2 euros 50 a kilo, or well over 4 dollars a pound. But we pick some cheese, some yogurt for breakfast, some coffee, some milk. David reaches for the creme anglais but I inform him that’s not English cream but custard, not what he would probably like in his morning coffee. This flat is not as well equipped as our favorite–so we don’t assume there is a coffee grinder. When we return David does discover a French press which pleases him far more than the drip Mr. Coffee appliance the greeter showed us. We also buy butter, a baguette, some water in French liter bottles.
When we get back, the gas turner-onner still has not arrived. The agent leaves us to it and goes downstairs to greet him. She’s not sure he could find this apartment. It’s not so hard–escalier A, third floor, door on the left. But given the history we’re not sure everyone involved is oh so smart.
