He heads back to the bar to finish his beer and read his paper. Before long Philippe is chatting him up.
When Philippe sits to enjoy his lunch I ask him to sit closer, so I can ask him questions. About a vacation. It’s a disaster. I think he said St. Malo is good. Five days is not too much. Good food. Good wine. But he wouldn’t sit closer. I don’t want to intrude on his lunch. And he doesn’t want to intrude on my work. I ask him if he knows Thierry.
“Non, how do you know him?”
“In a past life.” I blow it off. That seems a little upsetting to him. Perhaps my Cardinal Richelieu tactic was as big a disaster as it was for him, securing Ninon. But he got Marion. And me?
Question: Why is Thierry drinking a beer at 2:12 at GCA on Wednesday and not at Le Clou? Part of a mystery. Why GCA? This is the second time I’ve seen him pass by GCA, but he lives in the 13ème. And he works two blocks away. Why isn’t he at work?
Question 2: Old man sits at Philippe’s table while he’s eating lunch. Who is he? He was here earlier. Why did Philippe decline sitting at the table close to me. He’s facing me. Just 10 feet away. So obviously… what obviously? He goes from happy and flirty to annoyed and seeming a bit jealous. We can’t have a decent conversation in French… or English. My four hours here has been a roller coaster ride. I know no more than I did when I came. Maybe less.
Question 3: Shall I have a boule of ice cream? And where do I go for dinner tonight. It’s too damn hot. I believe my internet is working, per Stephanie. But who knows?
An Alcohol Fueled Day
I had an interesting day yesterday but maybe most interesting is the way it affected me. I had made a lunch date with Evelyn, a woman I met through an old childhood friend. Evelyn, like me, had recently retired and decided to move to Paris. While it may seem like we have a lot in common, that may be where the commonality ends.
We both had held executive positions and had faced the challenges a woman finds in climbing the career ladder in Corporate America. We both were single, me long time divorced, she widowed, I don’t know how long, she didn’t really seem to want to talk about that. We both had grown children and grandchildren. But most significantly, we had both somehow chosen Paris.
Everyone comes to Paris for different reasons. Everyone stays in Paris for other different reasons. It can be very hard to articulate the reasons.
We agreed to meet at the brasserie at Hotel de Crillon, one of Paris’s select five, six, whatever the lofty number of stars is. Evelyn’s requirement was that we choose an air conditioned restaurant. Air conditioning in Paris is a rare commodity and is often considered an indulgent luxury, typically required by tourists and foreigners. For example, I am sitting in GCA right now writing. It’s 95 degrees and blistering hot in Paris. But there is no “clim”. The windows are all open, people sit on the terrace and Philippe has, as a concession, opened the awnings all the way to create maximum shade. I will admit, it was awfully nice to walk in the front doors of the luxurious hotel and feel the blast of cool air.
The Crillon is indeed beautiful. Flowers abound. Comfortable sitting areas are artfully and cleverly arranged and I made my way back to the restaurant. Most of the guests were dining on the courtyard terrace in the center of the hotel. Although the tables were all covered by huge umbrellas, it was still 95 degrees. I asked to be seated inside, where it was air conditioned! After all, that was the criteria in choosing the venue. I was about fifteen minutes early and asked for une carafe d’eau and a glass of wine, something like a Côte du Rhône. What was presented and poured was called something different, but at 20 euro a glass, it was obviously decent. (I’m paying 20 euro right now for the bottle of rosé I’m enjoying at GCA). I tried to connect to the wifi and while the server was very helpful, it wasn’t happening. No problem. I’ll just take a taxi home.
Evelyn showed up right on time at 2:00 pm. We did la bise and exchanged pleasantries. Then she launched into the “What brought you to Paris?!”
I laughed, “Right to the point. And the million dollar question that is difficult to answer! I was going to ask you the same thing.”
The waiter arrived and asked if we knew what we wanted. “Whatever that is she’s drinking,” she said.
And to eat?
“I’m sorry to be such an American. I want the steak and fries.”
“Not a problem” the waiter responds. “Steak frites are very French!”
“With béarnaise sauce please”
I order the poulpe with chorizo and a salad. And ask if we can just get a bottle of the wine.
“Bien sûr!”
Then she shared with me that on our previous meeting I had ambushed her with questions. I was completely taken aback. I’m sure that a wall of some kind went up but I found myself putting on my professional face and looking like I would like further elaboration. In reality I was thinking, “WTF? We had just met, we had similar circumstances and I was trying to get to know you!” But clearly that wasn’t something she was used to or comfortable with.
She asked me what I thought about Judith, the other part of the-living-in-Paris group at the dinner.
“Well, I don’t think I will have an ongoing friendship with her.”
“But what did you think!”
“I thought she was nice enough but like many Americans who have been in Paris for a number of years she believes she knows everything about living here and I found that some of the things she said are just wrong.”
“So what did you think of her?” She wasn’t going to let me get away without a frank and preferably harsh critique.
I shrugged.
“She was completely self absorbed! She’s one of those pretty girls who gets away with being pretty and getting what they want for years. Then the day comes when they aren’t necessarily pretty anymore and then what? What will she do then? She went from husband - who evidently she’s still using to promote her business but who cheated on her - to boyfriend. She lost her job and told us far far too much personal information, and by the way, the French do NOT talk about their personal lives. Then she moved in with this Luis character who evidently is happy to support her. Again, getting along on her looks. And for most of what she said being wrong, it was ALL wrong.”
OK, I guess she had a stronger opinion than I did.
“We went for drinks after dinner on rue de Bac, I don’t know… somewhere where Mitch wanted to go. You had gone home. After awhile I had to leave and go meet my family. I couldn’t show up coming from the metro. My son-in-law is very well placed and it would not do for them to see me arrive in any manner other than their view of me. So I had ordered an Uber Black. And I was concerned that the street was too small for the driver to find me. It seemed to be a walking only street.”
“Were you perhaps on rue Cler?” I asked.
“Yes! Exactly! So the driver was speaking to me in French and I asked her to please talk to him. She told me, ‘you have to walk over to this spot so you can find the car’, but the driver was standing right next to me! Right at my shoulder! So she obviously didn’t know what she was talking about!”
Unforgivable? I guess.
“So, what brought YOU to Paris?”I asked. Haha, I cleverly sidestepped HER questions. And she fell for it. I guess I wasn’t ambushing her anymore.
“Well, I retired and I had to decide where I was going to live. I have a home in Atlanta, I have a beautiful condo in Marina del Rey. But if I live in Marina del Rey I will always be that Corporate Director of XYZ Corporation. I wanted to open a fresh door. Somewhere where nobody knew who I was. Where I could do whatever whenever.
I have a son and four grandchildren in Georgia. I have a daughter and grandson in Ibiza but it’s just too hard to get out of there; a taxi, a bus, a boat, a plane. I thought of Madrid. I thought of Barcelona. I thought of London, of course. But it was always Paris.”
OK, that doesn’t real
ly tell me why, other than there are direct flights.
Our food arrives.
Evelyn has an absolutely fabulous apartment in the Marais, adjacent to the Port de l’Arsenal, a pretty bit of waterway that runs from the Canal St. Martin to the Seine. Her apartment is huge, 140 meters (mine is 54), three bedrooms, a massive salon and dining room, big windows, modern kitchen, two full American style bathrooms. When I put in the digicode to enter the lobby I knew it was going to be something grand. Marble. Everywhere. A lovely old fashioned cage elevator with a bench in it. And a concierge! I would love to have a concierge; someone to accept my Amazon deliveries! Someone to arrange a handyman when I needed something done. Someone to ….
The same group of us who had met for lunch in the 7ème were invited to her home for lunch. We were instructed to leave everything on the tables. The cleaner would take care of it all. Then she rushed JoJo off to a pre arranged appointment to get her hair cut, colored and a much needed facial.
Goodness, was she paying for this extravagance? Did JoJo know what she had in store for her? Clearly Evelyn didn’t do anything on the cheap. She left Mitch and Judith and I in the apartment telling us, just lock up when you leave.
Mitch, JoJo’s easy going agreeable husband, had worked for Evelyn in a past life. He clearly held her in great esteem. After a short time I asked Judith, “So what do you think this place costs?” Evelyn told her that she had hired an agent to find her an apartment. He wanted desperately to put her in the 8th or the 16th, both chi chi residential areas, resplendent with embassies and five star hotels. But she felt too removed. When she found this apartment in the Marais she knew she had found her home. She took a three year lease and had her belongings shipped. She arranged with the concierge to hang her art and replace the lighting fixtures she didn’t care for.
But back to the question at hand, “What do you think this place costs?”
Judith responded, “Probably 2500 euro!”
“What? No way!” I blurted. “I pay 2500 euro. This has to be 5,000 at least!”
“No! How big is your apartment?” I give her the details and assure her that I feel it’s appropriately priced and she is aghast. “No, way, you’re being ripped off! You should pay no more than 1500 euro!”
“But it’s furnished and all the utilities are paid for; phone! water! electricity! Wifi! And I get a weekly cleaning (I lied, trying not to appear too ripped off, it’s only bi-weekly). In my defense, I have looked at the area comps and most one bedroom furnished apartments in my quartiere are in the same ballpark, maybe slightly higher. But most importantly, I love my apartment. I love my location. I love my view. Simply no other apartment will do. The comps in the neighborhood are slightly more expensive and they are NOT in my perfect location!
But more importantly, there is no way this massive and elegant apartment in the Marais is 2500 euro. So I had to find out.
As Evelyn continued to trash the absent Judith, I mentioned a couple of things that she was wrong about. I didn’t want to out right ask her what her apartment cost but…
“She thinks I’m am being ripped off on my rent.” I dropped.
“Well, what are you paying?”
“2500 euro, but it includes…”
“For how many square meters?”
“54”
“Sounds reasonable.”
The waiter comes by to see how we are doing. “Can I have some more of this béarnaise sauce?” she asks.
“Bien sûr Madame!”
“Would you mind me asking what you pay?”
She squirmed but responded “4500 euro. Plus I pay power of course. And 45 euro a week for the cleaner.” (Honey, you are ripping that poor woman off!) So bottom line, she’s probably coming in around 5,000 euro. I pretty much nailed it.
Evelyn has a three year lease. She asks me, “So tell me about this visa business. How did you get a long term visa?”
“You don’t have a visa?” I asked, surprised.
“No, I didn’t think it was a big deal. I just have to leave France every 90 days.”
“And stay gone for 90 days!”
The restaurant staff was hovering. We were the only ones left in the restaurant. Maybe we should take this to the bar. She took her wine. I wanted a Sidecar.
Seated in the bar our conversation turned to men. She told me she would love to find a nice relationship. But she’s a sixty something year old grandmother.
“Are you kidding?! I ask. “How old do you think you look?” Evelyn clearly has the visage of a woman who has been pampered; facials, best hair care.
“I don’t know” she answers.
“Seriously, you could pass for 45.”
“NO! Do you know how old I am?”
“I assume you’re around my age.”
“And that is?”
“67”
“OK. But no.”
“Yes! So tell me about this restaurant manager you mentioned. The one who is always glad to see you and who brings you your glass of red wine in the late evenings.”
“Oh, he’s in his 40s, pudgy, but he’s a restaurant manager!”
“But you just told me you want to be somewhere where all the windows are open, nobody knows who you are, you can do whatever you like. Maybe you like to flirt with a 40 something year old restaurant manager!”
She tells me about a professional organization she’s just been invited to participate in. She’s had several lunches with the former ambassador to someplace and they were somehow summarizing their relationship.
“I think you are very protected.” he said, correctly. “We have had several lunches now and you don’t let down your guard.”
“We have had six lunches, monsieur, and I can tell you where they all were.
“You can tell me where we ate lunch?” he asked.
“Yes, we ate at L’Oiseau Blanc at the Peninsula Hotel, at the Ritz, at Le George V, at Le Meurice, at the Plaza Athénée…”
“You can tell me all of these restaurants, but you can’t tell me about you. About who you really are and what you want.”
She sidestepped the question and avoided completely where Monsieur intended to take this conversation...to the bedroom.
“Why?” I asked. “Why don’t you allow yourself a little pleasure? Why not be a new person?”
“Do you know that you are very quick to jump in with reponses?” she asked.
Well I have no idea how to respond to this. Is it a criticism? Constructive advice? I think I said nothing. What could I say?
“Maybe if you gave people longer to complete their thoughts...”
“I’d get more information?” OMG, I just did it Finished her sentence. But nobody anywhere had ever called me on this before.
Then she started telling me about an important man from Saudi Arabia who was, what.. courting her? He had three wives but he could still have one more! He was handsome and incredibly charming and she seemed to be drawn to him.
I kept completely quiet. What could I add? And I was still bruised from her admonition that I was too quick to finish her sentences.
I ordered another Sidecar.
Over the course of the Sidecar she continued to talk about the Arab. That I was “pretty enough, cute blonde hair, obviously needed to lose...” but she wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. What was the most difficult conversation I had during my career? She once wrote a short story and actually won a contest for it.
I just drank my Sidecar. It was good, but at 27 euro per they should have been good!
“Oh look!” I said, glancing at my phone! “I have to run. I have a rendezvous with mes amies at Le Terrass at 6:30.” (Had we really been there for four hours?)
Evelyn was headed back to the US for a month. She had to get this visa thing straightened out.
“I guess our next lun
ch will be in September! I’ll be gone from the 2nd to the 10th but then…”
We kissed goodbye. She headed to the métro. I grabbed a taxi to Le Terrass to meet friendly fire.
I woke with a fuzzy head. A shared bottle of wine at Le Crillon, two sidecars, two bottles of champagne at Le Terrass followed by a bottle of much less expensive Pinot Noir and a short swim home. I peeked an eye open to get an idea of the time. It was quite light; maybe 8 or 9 am.
I closed my eyes and ran through the happenings of the previous day. Evelyn who put me in a very strange place. My lovely friends at the Terrass who adore me. My phone beeped. An invitation to dinner with Elliott and friends. But the conversations with Evelyn wouldn’t stop running through my head. Why was I allowing it to dominate my feelings about myself and my life in Paris?
You need to lose some weight. You jump too quickly to finish sentences. You’re missing so much.
Canicule
I learned a new French word this week. Heatwave. And what a bizarre one it has been. For that matter, what a bizarre summer it has been.
Before I forget, here’s another new French phrase; Avoir le cul bordé de nouilles. It means essentially “to be a lucky son of a bitch”. Literally? To have an ass full of noodles.
Parisians eschew la climatisation (or more familiarly la clim), claiming that it’s really only hot one or two days a year. So far it has been hot one hundred and two days this summer! OK, maybe that’s a petite exaggeration. But it has been hot hot hot way too long.
So yesterday when I headed out to work at GCA my phone told me it was 97 degrees, about 37 degrees c. La clim in my bedroom is set for 17 degrees c. I could have worked in my room. But no, in my imagination the words come ever so much more freely when the lovely Philippe is in my line of view.
I collected my bisous and took my usual table, where miraculously a (hot) breeze seemed to circulate around me. The windows were all thrown open wide, the awnings on the terrace extended to their maximum to protect people on the terrace from the direct sun. The marche at Place d’Anvers was going full storm. I considered a brief shop there but was too lazy to walk across the street.
Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir Page 16
