by Savannah Birnbaum
The semester so far feels a lot like walking up a down-moving escalator. I must do everything! Go everywhere! Have the most effortlessly awesome Facebook photos! But school and time and life and money and—agh! I have the best problems, I know.
Feeling very understood…
Of course I’ve lately been consumed by adjustments to a bilingual course load (and about that, just wow), but I’ve also done a healthy bit of running amok in the city with friends new and old. Our apartment’s gigantic orange living room set, complete with full sized sofa and twin Lazyboys boasting full horizontal extension, has already been host to a steady stream of couchsurfers. Within the first week we’d adopted an Australian girl named Sarah as our own, and became such fast friends that we were a bunch of old maids squished in the bathroom brushing our teeth in unison by bedtime her first night. Since then I think we’ve really perfected the whole hostess routine.
I feel so shamefully lucky to have found such a terrific living situation that I sometimes expect something horrible to go wrong like some fine print in the lease contract to coming to light in a kind of nightmarish turn of events. Maybe our sweet, shy landlady will reveal our haven in the sleepy 15ème to be a hellish trap like something out of Rosemary’s Baby. But for now, our main concern is keeping quiet so we don’t disturb our elderly neighbors, and working up the courage to ask the concierge whether we could trouble her to take a look at the houseplants, because they’re all dying on us.
I spent a few crazy days working at “Who’s Next 2015,” a trade show housed in the gigantic convention center at Porte de Versailles. For those who may not know, a trade show is a place where retail buyers come to look at brands’ new merchandise and make orders to stock their stores for the upcoming seasons. I worked as an intern this summer for a designer who goes to the show every year, so it turned out to be quite convenient for both of us that I’d be in Paris in the fall. It was really pretty cool working there, and though practically everybody spoke English, I can at least say that I got to use my French a little. Mostly ordering the coffee—but hey, it all counts. I rattled off a lot of prices though, which is good because in case you didn’t know, the French counting system is completely ridiculous and sometimes involves mental math (the number ninety in French is quite literally “four-twenty-ten”). I’m not the only one with a job, either! One of my roommates, Jenna, had a lucky chance meeting and has been teaching English to two French kids who live on a houseboat on the Seine. I know: disgustingly cute.At the end of a crazy weekend and taking down the show, I was sent on my way with two armfuls of the stunning flowers we had overflowing in the booth. On my way home, I was nearly fainting from dehydration and struggling with all the bouquets, so I sort of stumbled into a cafe. It was the first I’d seen in blocks, and I broke into a run as I saw a waiter beginning to lock up. I made it to the door and saw one straggler still inside, so I knocked on the window and mime-begged the Tabac lady to let me inside. She motioned to the other door and I clumsily squeezed myself and my flowers through the narrow opening, leaving a pile of leafy detritus in my wake. The three employees and one tipsy-looking patron appeared thoroughly entertained by what I’m sure was a dramatic entrance, and we all had a good laugh at my expense. But they were all sweet and willing to joke with me, so I got to have a charming little Parisian moment at the end of a very long day.
I should punctuate this by confessing that my cute bouquet of thistles nearly poked someone’s eye out on the metro home.
Your living vignette,
Savannah