Why France? Part Deux
A year of firsts as we find ourselves in our new Parisian apartment set in the middle of what could have been a comedic version of the film Rear Window and how we almost didn’t make it out alive.
Stepping out of the taxi onto Rue Jacob with two large suitcases and our Schnauzer, Max, we made our way to our new apartment building. Bleary-eyed and hungry, we pushed open the large double entry doors, dark green with withering paint, thankful to be off a plane. We realized as soon as we stepped into the magical courtyard that we had found ourselves in the same spot seven years prior during a vacation to Paris. Maybe an omen affirming our leap into the unknown?
However, unbeknownst to us, we had just entered the start of a year-long French scavenger hunt. Our first challenge was to figure out which unmarked corner of the apartment building was our entry. We were to meet an agent from the rental company to obtain the keys and go through a detailed inventory of everything in the furnished apartment.
Image credit: Kathryn Ivey – The courtyard in our building on Rue Jacob
All we wanted was a decent breakfast and then to collapse. The previous six months had been a whirlwind. After the wedding that previous July where we had met our future French friends, the ball started rolling and didn’t stop until we were seated on the plane headed for Paris. That autumn, we sold our house in Washington, DC, a 100-year-old row house that we had painstakingly renovated. The cost both in time and money to manage an old home abroad and feeling fairly confident that DC was not where we wanted to be long-term, we let it go. At the same time, I had garnered a few big press opportunities for my interior design business, which prompted me to consider if I was committing career suicide by moving to Paris. We were rolling some big dice, but it felt right.
We made our way to the far right corner of the building, past a majestic stone statue of a deer, and made our way up to the third floor, lugging our over-stuffed suitcases and Max trailing behind. Our agent was waiting at the front door and we jumped into the excruciatingly detailed inventory list with him, checking that every fork and spoon was accounted for. We also met our landlords, a pair of sisters in their late 50s who lived in our corner of the building. In fact, they actually owned the entire building along with their brother. With a nondescript first impression, we would later learn that our landlords carried a lot of familial baggage that would be strewn all over the property sooner rather than later.
Our plan for at least the first 6 months was to take a true sabbatical and also use the time to settle into the French way of life and figure out the basics…where the closest market was located, how to operate the washing machine, where to buy bed linens, and most important how to get a french mobile phone number and wi-fi. Although we had stepped back from our careers, these quotidian tasks felt like work, maddening work. For example, to set up internet you need a gas bill and to get a gas bill you need internet. The scavenger hunt ensued.
At this point, our level of French comprehension consisted of four words—albeit four very important words: bonjour, au revoir, merci et de rien. Speaking was one thing, but trying to understand was a different language feat. We decided that we needed to start with a French tutor tout de suite!
Because we didn’t have internet set up yet at our apartment we spent a large portion of those first days hanging out at cafés where you could access wi-fi. I realized I could stretch out an espresso for at least 3 hours if I needed to to get my internet-required checklist marked off. I did some Googling to find a tutor and out of the eight people I contacted, Madame Marie was the only one to respond. We had a brief phone call and set up a bi-weekly lesson where she would come to our apartment.
On the morning of our first lesson, our doorbell rang and I was greeted at the door by a woman who looked like she had just been running down the street while trying to put on her lipstick simultaneously. She was bright-eyed, a bit out of breath, and unbeknownst to her, she had colored outside the lines while attempting to apply her Parisian red lipstick. I was glad I hired her to teach us French and not for make-up lessons.
In the following weeks, we came to learn a lot about Marie. Unlike most French people, Marie was not a hard coconut to crack and the details of her personal life were quickly revealed to us. I would always have a pot of tea and cookies on the table to help soften the often frustrating and exhausting lessons, and it became apparent that Marie was really here for the snacks and for talk therapy about her on-again off-again fiancé.
Our first year on rue Jacob was filled with a cast of characters like Marie. Our apartment, the building itself, served as a theatrical stage where numerous plots unfolded. The U-shaped building consisted of residences except for a few boutique shops, an architect’s office, and an art gallery on the ground level. There was a Japanese atelier on the left that sold beautiful woven baskets among other things, of Japanese craft. Like a portal to ancient Japan, the shop possessed a serene and gentle ambiance, and the shopkeepers wore traditional kimonos and geta, the platformed-thonged sandals. Throughout the year the courtyard would fill with people accompanied by music and drinks whenever the art gallery held a vernissage (a private art exhibition). Our landlord, Mathilde, ran a little épicerie, where we discovered one of our favorite white wines that we now religiously enjoy every Christmas with oysters. And in the middle of the courtyard was an old, very large oak tree whose branches extended to all four corners of the building, attempting to unite the various neighbors under its protective umbrella of thick foliage.
However, despite the charming and tranquil scene, there was often drama brewing. Being new neighbors we wanted to stay out of the debacles, but we lent an ear when one neighbor or another wanted to vent about someone else. We became the unofficial in-house therapists.
The building, dating back to the 17th century, was owned by an aristocratic family and is now managed by the family’s oldest siblings, the two sisters and brother who lived across the courtyard from each other, divided by the tree, like siblings forced to share a room. Reminiscent of Miss Havisham’s mansion in Great Expectations, you could tell at one time it had been a magnificent hotel particulier, but over time and with the family’s wealth imprisoned in the property itself, it had started to unravel. Chunks of limestone would fall from the facade every so often and neighbors would walk by on the street, sighing with a muttered “C’est dommage.”
Our apartment was sparsely furnished, but fortunately, there were some particularly magnificent pieces throughout, and I was excited to find a few items of my own to make it more personal. The father of the landlord siblings had been an architect and, over the years, amassed several beautiful mirrors, beds, and armoires that he then used to furnish the rental properties. In our dining room hung a grand Rococo mirror that reflected the light from the windows across the room, and an antique French Directoire-style daybed lay beneath it. There was a massive marble fireplace topped with a tall gilded miroir de cheminée and an ample oval table to seat six.
Image credit: Kathryn Ivey – Our lovely dining room where I added pillows I picked up in Positano while on vacation and a tablecloth and pendant light above.
Without knowing the specifics, it was apparent there was a 2 on 1 dynamic between the sisters and the brother. For the most part, we maintained a fairly good relationship with the sisters, having been invited a few times to enjoy an apéro with them, and in return, we had them to our place for dinner. Unfortunately, other long-time neighbors were not in the graces of our landlords.
Frank occupied the large ground-floor apartment at the far end of the building. Standing in the courtyard, the back wall was a tall ivy-covered gate, and his entrance was guarded by the majestic deer statue made of stone. It was a secret garden that tempted you to pull back the ivy to see what was behind the gated wall. Lucky for us, we lived two floors above, and our L-shaped living room and dining room windows overlooked his garden.
It was a meticulous and beautiful Japanese-style garden. We would watch Frank, 90 years old, shuffle out in the mornings wearing a Japanese kimono and a black beret to dead-head his flowers. We formally met one day while passing each other in the courtyard after checking our mailboxes, and realized Frank was American! We chatted a bit, and after a few weekly exchanges, Frank generously asked us to come enjoy an apéro at his place. I was delighted because I figured if his garden was so beautifully kept, then his apartment must be sublime!
Image credit: Kathryn Ivey – Entrance to Frank’s apartment
During our first apéro, Frank served us chips and champagne. It was a delicious combo that was just a taste of what was in store from Frank. His home was filled with well-appointed and sophisticated furnishings collected from his travels and his apparent love of Japan. In the living room was a beautiful Asian screen and a large antique French desk that sat in front of a wall filled with books from floor to ceiling. Like small children with their attention captured by a story, we sat for almost two hours listening to Frank share anecdotes and snippets of his life.
He came to Paris during WWII as an American GI and worked as a typist for a prominent American general. One of his duties was to deliver messages, and while out on a delivery one day, he ended up meeting what would become his “adopted French family.” Supposedly, the family was the makers of one of Queen Elizabeth’s favorite champagnes, and so not only did he become an unofficial family member but also gained access to a life supply of top-rank champagne, which he generously shared with us that evening alongside potato chips à l’Ancienne.
After the war, he chose to stay in Paris, falling head over heels in love with France, and even decided to give up his American citizenship. He later became a consultant in designing libraries and was involved with designing the national library in Japan. He also became an integral volunteer with the American Friends of Versailles. He was a man of many interests and age didn’t have a hold on him.
Frank had been renting his apartment on rue Jacob for over 10 years from a Texan billionaire. He made it his own over time, along with creating the Japanese style garden. However, he swore that Mathilde, one of the landlord sisters who lived adjacent to his apartment and whose kitchen window overlooked his garden, was purposely poisoning one of his trees. The only possible evidence was that the tree was the only withered plant in the garden and suspiciously located within arm’s reach of her window, but he warned us to keep away from her. After a few more subsequent apéros of champagne and chips, Frank shared that he was planning to move out of his apartment to Versailles to live out the last decade of his life. However, he didn’t want anyone to know and planned to move in the middle of the night, so he asked for our confidence. And that is exactly what happened.
A few weeks later, Frank was gone. He slipped out one night like a cat, and we thought we would never see him again. Fast forward a couple of years, we spent the weekend in Versailles staying with some friends, and serendipitously, we ran into him on the street! A few years older and a bit more frail, he seemed to be enjoying the softer surroundings outside of Paris. We later learned that he passed away in 2020 at the age of 95, and found ourselves grateful for our brief friendship.
After Frank’s departure, we didn’t know what would become of his apartment, but we heard rumors that the Texan billionaire who had been living in Rio de Janeiro was planning to return and take back the apartment. Months passed, and we watched as Frank’s beautiful garden began to perish. Then one day, movers appeared and started unloading boxes and furniture into the apartment. We watched through our windows, curious to see the new resident, and a few days later we heard a LOUD American voice yelling in broken French with frustration at a poor delivery guy.
The Texan had returned.
Not wasting a second, the following weeks were filled with sounds of drills, hammering, and various workmen in and out of the apartment. He completely ripped out the garden and replaced it with bright green Astro-turf dotted with a few pieces of modern “lawn art.” We awoke one night to a bright spotlight illuminating his garden and the entire courtyard and blaring music pouring out of his windows. He had brought Rio to our quiet, charming, dysfunctional Parisian building and he didn’t care who he pissed off.
Our other neighbor friend, Louise, was apoplectic about the Texan’s disregard for others. Unfortunately, her small studio was located on the third floor catty-corner to the Texan’s front gate, where he had installed a large, security spot-light that turned on at dusk and didn’t go off until 8 am the next morning. The light shone directly into her studio at all hours of the night, making it difficult for her to sleep even with her shades closed.
Louise was no pushover. She lived one floor below us, so we would often pass by her door on our way out. She was in her late 70s, with wild, wiry hair, and always wore a boho version of a French beret and a pair of wrap-around glasses with yellow lenses. Our initial introduction was by way of her scolding us for our attempts at French. She tersely reprimanded us and insisted that we had to learn like a child when learning another language. Maybe we should have hired her as a tutor. However, with time, Louise softened with us, and she became a dear friend. We would have her over to our place for un café and like Frank, she regaled us with stories of her past as we sat and listened.
Louise was a fascinating and impressive woman. She had been one of the first female editors for the prominent French publishing house, Gallimard, in the late 60s and a biographer of the famous dancer and choreographer Merce Cunningham. She lived in the US for several years after marrying her husband, who was an American mathematician at MIT. Now widowed, she had kept her studio in Paris that she had shared with her husband, and we would see her flitting about town, always in the know about the latest spectacles and films, and always eager to discuss both French and American politics with us. Louise was a strong woman with a very independent mind; she had to be bold and confident to edit the brightest thinkers and writers of her day. Still, she revealed a tender side when she spoke about her deep love for her husband and the beautiful marriage they shared.
But with the Texan, her determined and direct personality was unleashed. She shared with us that she had confronted the inconsiderate neighbor multiple times without any success of getting him to switch off the light during the night. Unsatisfied and thoroughly pissed off, she took matters into her own hands one night. The security light was unfortunately installed high above his gate, requiring a ladder or scaling the gate itself. She chose the latter route. Early one evening, she recruited a willing delivery guy to shimmy up the gate and turn the light so that it faced inside the Texan’s garden, giving him a taste of his own medicine. Unfortunately, her attempt was unsuccessful, and the next evening, the light was turned back to its original, irritating position. The battle un-won.
It seemed we had met or become aware of most of our neighbors to some degree or other after several months. However, there was one neighbor we had hoped to cross paths with, but we were only informally introduced by the name on his mailbox. Unfortunately, we never caught a glimpse of his comings or goings…
At one point, the exterior of the building was attempted to be repaired I am sure because of city regulations. But because the sisters were either too frugal or too house-poor, they hired a questionable team of workers who set up scaffolding on the exterior that faced the street. I clearly remember sitting at my desk one day, working, and Ron had just stepped out to head to a doctor’s appointment. About 3 minutes later, I heard a loud crash coming from across the courtyard, and before I could get to the front door, Ron ran in, out of breath and eyes as big as saucers. Exasperated, he belted out, “I, I , I almost died!”
Once he was able to gather himself, he further explained that he was just about to step out from the main door onto the street, but jumped back in when the entire scaffolding system collapsed just a few feet in front of him. The workers surfed it down and miraculously no one was injured, but the scaffolding crushed a couple of cars and broke the windows of the facing shops on the narrow street.
The writing was on the wall that we had better start looking for another apartment if we wanted to get out alive.
To be continued…
Introducing Contributor, Kathryn Ivey
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