Welcome to my blog! My goal will be to add a post at least
every three days in order to keep all of you posted about my life in Paris,
France. Please know that this will be an example of genuine,
stream-of-consciousness writing, as in my nightly journal, so don’t expect it
to read like a formal, well-polished essay. Oh, and it won’t be politically
correct either; I can pretty much guarantee you that God (as in, the God of
Christianity) will be all up in it, just as He’s all up in my life. I will
offer no apologies for these choices of style and content. Feel free to
check-in as often as you’d like to see what I’m up to!
Official Disclaimer: I have been
asked to acknowledge in advance that, although I am a recipient of a Fulbright grant
for the purpose of teaching English here in France, this is not an
official Department of State website, and the views and information presented
here are my own and do not represent those of the Fulbright Program or
the Department of State.
>>>Tuesday, September 18<<<
I woke up to rain, my toiletries and other last-minute items
took up more space in my luggage than I had imagined, and I found out when I
arrived at my gate that my first flight to Chicago was, in fact, delayed, even
though the website had indicated that the flight was “on time” each time that I
had checked at home. These were all reasons that I thought I wasn’t going to
make it to France. But I thank God for the 2 phone calls that I received on
Tuesday morning from family friends/church members that reminded me of the fact
that I had so many people lifting me up in prayer as I prepared to make this
next step in my life. After all, many of these same folks had prayed for me to
receive this grant for months, and God promises us in James…gotta look up the
exact verse, that “The effectual fervent prayer of the righteous man availeth
much.” (Ok, it’s James 5:16. And it’s “a” not “the” righteous man. I was
close….)
So eventually my mom and I got it together enough to leave
for the airport well in advance of my 3:40 flight to Chicago. Giselle (our
10-pound dog) had her eye on my large suitcase as we placed it on the scale for
the last time because she knew that it was about 5 times her size. She was so sweet! It was like, over the past
few days, she’s known something was up, but she wasn’t quite sure what it was.
So I bade her goodbye with a quick belly-rub. She’ll keep you there rubbing her
all day if you aren’t careful! Mom and I sang along to some old-school gospel
songs on the radio on the way to the airport. Dad met us there, just in time to
pay for my second checked bag. How convenient! (Rough baggage breakdown: Big
suitcase with shoes, socks, outerwear, dress clothes, pajamas; Backpack with
casual clothes, purses/other bags, toiletries; small suitcase with sampling of
various clothing in case other two bags got lost at first, underwear, books,
sheets, towels; Tote-type bag with computer, paperwork, plastic dishes from
freshman year etc.)
I tried to warn you that I’m a rambler! I often lose my
place in my journal. I have to look back and think, “What was I talking about?”
That happens to me in conversations too. So, I apologize if I’ve ever been in
the middle of talking to you and then just…lost…my…place. My brain is often in,
like, 16 places at once. But anyway, I hung out with my parents in the airport
atrium for a little while before saying goodbye to them and heading through
security. I kept turning around and seeing that they were still standing there.
I don’t think it’s hit me yet that I’ll be gone for so long or that I’m so far
from home. It’s like Mallory said one time when someone asked her how she would
survive with me in France: “(loose quotation) Well, the thing is, she’s usually
not at home anyway. Sometimes I don’t know if she’s in Athens, Greece or just
in Athens, Georgia, but I’m used to her not being here.” To clarify, she didn’t
mean that she wouldn’t miss me; she just meant that it would not be abnormal
for me not to be at home in Roswell, Georgia.
Speaking of Mallory, she had already said goodbye to me that
morning. I guess she had some pesky pre-commitment during the day…what was it?
Oh, right, school! (Also, shout-out to the newlyweds, my brother Michael and new
sister-in-law Kristina who said goodbye before leaving for their honeymoon!) It
was funny, though, because Mallory sent me a frustrated text just after 3:40
saying that she had intended to get in touch with me earlier but had to take a
test after school. She was actually grateful that my flight had not left yet,
so she hadn’t missed me. I wasn’t exactly grateful because the delay was making
it more and more difficult for me to make my connection in Chicago. When I originally
booked this flight over the summer, it left at 1:55 pm and arrived at O’Hare at
2:55 local time (note the 1 hour time difference between Atlanta and Chicago,
meaning that the flight lasts for 2 hours), giving me 3 hours before my 6:01
flight to Paris. However, the time slot was changed to 3:40-4:45 pm later on,
which gave me slight pause, but there wasn’t much that I could do. The one
“clutch” decision that I made as we boarded the plane after 4 pm Atlanta time
was to do a gate check of my small, roller-board suitcase because this was a
small plane that could not accommodate these types of bags in the overhead
bins, so everyone was required to put a valet tag on them and give them up on
the jetway. However, this also meant that you had to wait 10-15 minutes on the
other end to retrieve these bags according to the gate agent, and I wasn’t sure
that I would have this extra time. There was one other couple on my flight to
Chicago that was connecting to Paris, and I overheard the agent telling them
that they should be alright making their connection if they only had bags with
them on the plane and not valet items, so I made sure that I was in that
category as well.
Although we took forever to take-off, we finally parked at our
gate at O’Hare at 5:26 pm Chicago time – 35 minutes in advance of my flight to
Paris. (The only item of note that occurred on this flight is that the woman
next to me who noticed that I was consulting a mini-atlas of Paris at one point
– thanks again, Tori! – advised me to wear all-black all the time because
that’s what “they” do.) Thankfully, I passed right by all of the other
passengers who were waiting in a long line on the jetway for their valet-tagged
suitcases to be delivered and walked about 8 minutes or so to my other gate,
where they were boarding my next flight. I was in Group 2, so I literally had
time to get my other boarding pass and passport out and then just walked onto
the plane.
On this flight, I basically just ate (dinner, breakfast) and
slept. Oh, I guess I did watch Brave on
the overhead screen. There weren’t individual screens, unfortunately, so I
didn’t get to choose my movies. Apparently, not everyone’s audio was working
properly. They made an announcement in English and then French apologizing for
it. It was funny, though, because in the French version, the lady said « il n’y a pas rien que nous pouvons
faire » which is a double negative akin to
“There ain’t nothing we can do.” I was sorry to hear that, but I just curled up
under my tiny blanket, turned on my “Spirit of R&B” radio station, and went
to slept as best as I could without extending into the aisle where the flight
attendants were constantly going back and forth with those deathly carts that
can inflict pain on toes, knees, and elbows.
***Wednesday, September
19***
Yay for a croissant! That breakfast item reminded me that I
was about to land in France. When we did touch down at around 9:25 am Paris
time (6 hours ahead of Atlanta), I could hear the Holy Spirit welcoming me
(“Morgann Ashley Lyles”) to the next chapter of my life, which God had prepared
for me long ago. That was powerful! That was deep! I was ready to get off of
the plane and get started. Passport control was painless, and baggage claim was
easy, even with my gate-checked item. (This was a special blessing considering
the fact that my main piece of luggage didn’t make it with me to Bénin,
West Africa in the summer of 2010 and took its precious time getting there, so
I was kind of holding my breath at the carousel.) Oh, and I even beasted the
50-pounder with no problem. The tote bag hooked around the handle of my small
suitcase, so I just wheeled two bags and had my backpack on, looking like a
pro. I called the ‘rents after walking through customs, even though it was like
4:30 in the morning in Georgia, just to let them know I was alright.
Next, I waited in a seemingly-interminable taxi line outside
and listened to the novice traveler behind me who was telling someone on the
phone (in English) that he must’ve forgotten to check the weather because he
was standing there in a short-sleeved t-shirt, and it was a little chilly. It
was probably like 50°F, so I definitely appreciated the fleece I had on from
the plane. The people in front of me were tourists too because the man kept
looking around every 5 seconds to make sure he wasn’t being robbed, I guess by
me or by one of the men walking by and asking us in English if we wanted a taxi
(= not legit). I was like, if you’re that worried about someone taking
something out of your bags, then put them in front of you instead of behind
you.
Anyway, after waiting for 15 minutes or so, I apologized to
my cabbie for the heavy bag and gave him the address for the residence hall
where I had reserved a room. At first he talked on his cell phone and then he
asked me where I was from and what I was doing here etc. He said he had family
in the U.S. and started naming places very far from Georgia (San Jose,
Houston). I was like, “That’s…cool. I’ve been to San Jose.” [Note: I’ll often
just translate stuff to give you the gist of a conversation. But unless I state
otherwise, we were speaking French.] He also said that French people were
really bad at learning English. He thought it was a good idea for me to come
here to work on my French in order to prepare myself to be a French teacher
while also providing a service to French people at the same time. He also said
that in addition to driving a cab, he was a teacher too, of something called
tae kwon do, which he then proceeded to try to explain. I was like, “Oh, we
have that in the U.S. too.” As we entered the city limits of Paris, he
explained that the 18th arrondissement (district; the city is
divided into 20 of them) is where a lot of foreign-born Parisians live. In
fact, he grew up there after moving from Vietnam. He proudly told me the years
that he lived there in English. I congratulated him on that because numbers
–especially large ones, like years – are one of the hardest things to conquer
in a foreign tongue.
As we arrived at my residence hall in the 9th
arrondissement, I was a little surprised because the outside of the building
was not very attractive. I had already seen some hotels nearby as we were
driving up, so I was ready to go to Plan B if this place didn’t look as good in
reality as it had seemed in cyberspace. For those of you who don’t already know
this, I was completely responsible for finding my own housing. However, the
school district for whom I will work mailed me a list of potential starting
points, including « foyers » or residence halls, which are like
dormitories that offer affordable housing to young, working adults rather than
just students, as in the U.S. Renting an apartment is also an option, of
course, but it is more tricky to do from abroad and often more expensive. Plus
I would want to have a roommate in an apartment, and I would like to meet that
person first. So, over the summer, I made contact with the staff at a residence
hall that was reasonably close to the train station that I would need to use to
commute out of the city to get to the school where I will be working. Again,
for those who don’t know, I chose to live in the city rather than in the
suburbs mainly because…it’s Paris! My mentor teacher at the school said that I
would be bored in the family-based community of the suburbs and frustrated with
the lack of transportation options into the city in the evenings and on
weekends if I wanted to experience all of the cultural offerings of Paris. Basically,
I would be super-close to one of the greatest cities in the world, but it would
be inaccessible to me. So I chose to seek housing within the city limits.
But, as I said, I wasn’t so sure about said housing as I
stood there with my bags and the cab pulled away. I went to open the glass door
and found that it was locked. Then I noticed lots of buttons to the right and
left, but one of them said “Door.” I pressed it and magically the door opened
for me. There was an older man standing in the courtyard area in which I now
found myself, and he stared at me curiously as I attempted to pull my bags over
the uneven, decorative walkway. I honestly don’t remember if he asked me if I
was looking for the residence hall or if I said so myself, but I do remember
saying that it was my first time there, to which he scoffed and said “I’m not
surprised” because I had tried to open the door without pressing the button
first. He said that part of the building was a church or something and that I
needed to head across the courtyard in the other direction to get into the
residence hall. He held another door for me into the building and continued to
watch me as I approached a buzzer for the entry to the residence hall wing.
Thankfully, the business manager with whom I had been corresponding answered
and let me in because he had been expecting me. The entryway had fountains and a
nice view of the garden area. The business manager met me at the bottom of the
stairs (where you have to go through a 4th locked doorway) and
suggested that we take the elevator that was intended for handicapped use to
the lobby because of my bags. Up there, I started to feel like this was a homey
place. There were signs pointing to the library and the fitness areas, and the
furniture reminded me of a colorful version of the black armchair that I bought
for my apartment at IKEA 2 years ago.
While I waited for the staff member to get my file, I looked
at the two maps showing where all of the current residents were from. One map
just showed France, and there were women from all over the place. The other map
was of the world, and I saw people from the Caribbean, the rest of Europe,
Africa, and Asia. There was no one from the U.S. from what I could see, but
that didn’t surprise me since you had to be employed in France to live in this
facility, and I don’t know of many young, American women who fit that bill.
Studying abroad, maybe, but not working. The thing that made me smile as I
looked at the map was all of the Black faces that I saw. It even looked like
there was someone from Bénin or Togo! And somebody’s photo was on Madagascar. I was
like, okay, this place ain’t playing with the international representation. I
can do this.
They had all of my paperwork that I had mailed in advance,
and I was able to complete my file pretty easily by filling out a contract in
the lobby stating that I would abide by the rules of the community and in my
room upstairs stating that all of the furniture was accounted for and the
lights worked etc. The room is much more spacious than I imagined. Starting
from the right, there's a wooden chair + a wooden chest of drawers on wall 1; a
desk with another wooden chair + a window + a heater on wall 2; a bed with a
pillow and a blanket and shelving above it + a closet with hanging space on one
side (and 6 hangers!) and shelf space on the other side and a sink with a
cabinet on wall 3. Wall 4 is just the door where you come in. There was enough
space in the middle of the floor for all my stuff and then some. I tried to
visualize 6-foot-tall men lying head-to-toe across the floor to get an estimate
for the length and width of the space, and the best I came up with was 18 ft.
by 12 ft. for most of the room with a little added nook where the sink and
closet are in one corner. 
Oh, so about having my own bathroom. That didn’t
happen. I realized right before I left home that the price I was quoted for the
remainder of September’s rent was for a room without a bathroom, and I found
out that that was because they didn’t have any rooms with bathrooms left. I
actually think that those rooms have showers, and not toilets. In any case, the
shared bathroom space is nothing like I imagined anyway, so it’s really not
that bad. There are separate rooms for toilets and showers. Like you open one
door and it's a toilet and you lock it behind you, and there are several of
those. And you open another door that locks, and that's a shower, and there are
several of those spread on my floor. So it's NOTHING like sharing a bathroom in
a dorm.
The other shared spaces are the kitchens and laundry rooms. Each
resident is assigned to a spacious and colorful kitchen on her floor that is
shared by maybe 9 or 10 people. Oh, I forgot to mention that there are little
icons and quotes everywhere. So on the doors to the rooms, there are pictures
of hearths, and on the doors to the kitchens are pots and pans. There are easy
chairs and a coffee table with brochures about current events in Paris when you
first enter the kitchen as well as a whiteboard with assigned trash-taking-out
duties and other announcements and photos of that kitchen group. Someone has a
flyer up about a Deitrick Haddon gospel concert in November, so I need to
figure out who that is ASAP. Each resident has a small cubby that serves as a
pantry as well as a small section of a refrigerator, both of which are labeled
with her room number and can be locked with a key. So there are a bunch of
cubbies and 2 big refrigerators. Then there’s a large dining room table in
front of a nice window, which makes you feel like you’re eating outside. I
think there’s only one stove and one sink and then counter and cabinet space,
but it didn’t appear that the residents were in each other’s way when I saw
them later on. (Remember, I got to the facility around 11:30 am, so they were
all at work.)
After my tour and a little bit of getting used to my room, I
ended up falling asleep for a while because my body was so confused. I had
intended to speak with a staff member about setting up my Wifi (pronounced
“Wee-fee” here), but it was like 6 pm when I woke up. So I asked another staff
member where I could go to use the Internet, and she sent me to a café around
the corner called « Odette et Aimé ». I ended up writing to my
family about moving into the residence hall while drinking a glass of
fresh-squeezed orange juice during Happy Hour. For some reason it was served
with a small carafe of water and a container of sugar. Some English-speakers
came in and ordered dinner while I was writing my email, and it smelled good,
so I ended up asking to see the dinner menu. It was handwritten on a mini
chalkboard that the waitress placed on my table. (By the way, I thought it was
kind of funny that the waitresses all carried around their purses on their
shoulders as they worked. I kept thinking they were heading home, but they were
just being careful, I guess.) I ordered the « Effiloché
de Poisson » (something about fish?) because it was one of the « plats
du jour » (we say that in English too, right ?), but I ended up with
something that looked like a baked chicken drumstick. Or like a ground beef
drumstick or something. I was like, “Is this fish?” It tasted really good,
though, with couscous and bread to sop up the juice, like a good Southerner.
When I got back to the foyer, I had a little trouble
entering the code at the door for the first time since it was past 8:00 pm, but
someone else came as I was pulling out my paperwork to try to figure out what I
was doing wrong. For the other doorways, you either use your key or scan a
device on your keyring to get in. Basically, you have to know what you’re doing
and have the right gadgets to get through the four doorways that lead into the
residence hall. There were finally people there this time, so I stopped in the
common room downstairs to talk. There’s a piano, TV, computers, kitchenette,
and chairs in there. It turned out that the people in there were mainly my
kitchenmates as well as the girl who used to live in the room that I currently
occupy. You’re supposed to only be able to live here for one year because I
guess they want you to find your own way in the real world eventually, but I
think she had lived here for two years. Apparently, my room is one of the
biggest, I learned. They were happy to add an American to the mix because their
cluster of rooms already has someone from Spain and China. They were bragging
about having all of the languages represented. It seems that I am one of the
youngest residents as well, because the other women tended to be 24 or 26. A
kitchenmate from Cameroon came up as we were talking and asked when I was born
and seemed disappointed because apparently she used to be the youngest in the
group but now I have her beat my one month.
It was so funny because I kept thinking that everyone’s
conversational behaviors were just like people’s back home. For example,
someone asked the girl from China what part of the country she was from and she
said “south central” or something. Then she said, “And you?” The person
responded, “Well, I’m not from China,” and everyone laughed. There were also 2
young men in the room when I came because visitors are permitted on the entry
level before 9 pm. When it was time for the last one to leave, someone suggested
that he wear makeup to disguise himself like a girl so that he could stay. He
said, “Well, I have worn makeup once before.” His girlfriend quickly turned to
him and said, “Under what circumstances?” (Laughter.) He became very
embarrassed when he realized that everyone was listening and said, “It was for
a play.” Someone else in the circle said, “Were you Juliette in Romeo and Juliette?” (More laughter.)
And when he left a few minutes later, someone yelled “Bye Juliette!” down the
hallway. It was just funny how young people are the same no matter where you
are or what language you’re speaking.
I went upstairs with my kitchen group and watched as one ate
a little snack-dinner and another cooked an actual meal on the stove. It turns
out that most of the utensils and cookware is shared by the group, so I’m glad
I decided against bringing it over here. After that, they were all going to
bed, but guess who wasn’t sleepy? I took a shower and found out that the water
is on a military system, so it comes on for 10 seconds then goes off. At least
it’s hot. The lights in the hallway are like that too; they stay on for a
while, but then they shut off automatically until you press a switch again.
It’s a very eco-friendly place. Even the shower and journaling was not enough
to keep me asleep all night, though, so I woke up around 2 am and read before
falling asleep again. Which didn’t set me up well for Thursday…
---Thursday, September 20---
When I woke up and was alert enough to look at my watch for
the first time today, it definitely said 13:50-something. So those voices that
I heard in the hallway weren’t people eating breakfast, but LUNCH! Actually,
they were probably finishing up their lunch and heading back to work. I was so
embarrassed. I got dressed and headed downstairs to see if I could get anything
accomplished today. The business manager was passing by as I entered the lobby
area, and he asked me to come back around 17:00 to set up my Wifi. (I reviewed
the hours in my head to make sure that this was 5:00 pm and then headed out.)
At this point, I knew that I wanted something to eat, but I
didn’t know much more than that. There were lots of people out and about, so I
decided to turn down one of the main streets of the intersection closest to
where I live and see what happened. I passed a place called “Best Burger” (in
English) and a couple of Middle Eastern places. I decided to enter a
genuine-looking French bakery because, if my memory served me well, I was
pretty close to a park where I could sit and eat, and I already had a bottle of
Orangina in my bag that I had purchased the day before to make change when
paying for my room. So I bought a ham sandwich with veggies (« jambon
crudités »)
and headed off in search of Parc Montholon. As I said before, I kind of knew
where I was going from studying the map of my neighborhood in advance, but not
exactly. I thank God for marching me in just the right direction. I ended up
passing by the closest subway (Métro) stop to my place – Cadet – and then saw
the park right in front of me. I sat and ate my little French lunch while
observing an elementary-school P.E. class on the basketball court. That teacher
was amazing at keeping those 12 or so kids entertained and on task. It was so
funny to hear their little voices speaking French.
After consulting my map to retrace my steps, I headed back
to an insurance agency that was on the same street as my place of residence.
You see, I was supposed to present proof of renter’s insurance before they
handed me the keys, technically speaking, but I think the staffer saw that I
was tired and figured that I would handle it eventually. In fact, I had tried
to get it from overseas without success. So I risked one night uninsured since
all of the places were closed when I woke up from my long nap on my arrival
day, but I didn’t want to “put the Lord my God to the test” again (I went to
Matthew 4:7 for this reference, but I guess Jesus is quoting Deuteronomy 6:16).
The clerk at this place was very familiar with the residence hall where I live
because so many people just cross the street and go there to get the necessary
proof of insurance. So, even though I never had renter’s insurance in America,
I went through the process in French! By the way, for the most part, everyone
here has been complimenting my French, even though I’ve been like…wait, wait,
wait, huh? on some parts because my French brain has been off for a few months.
The insurance guy thought I must’ve gone to a French school in America or
something. Only the girls at the residence hall were like, “Oh, American, yes,
the accent.” And I have had 2 people switch to English when I didn’t understand
them at a restaurant and at the grocery store, but like I said, it’s because
I’m off my language game. I must be on my blending-in game, though, because
some tourist asked me for directions in French to some place that I’ve never
heard of, and I started to smile, unintentionally. He was like, “You don’t
know?” And I said, “I have no idea” and kept walking.
So after the insurance place, I went off to open a bank
account. (Yes, I know that banks here offer insurance too, but getting proof of
renter’s insurance was a priority, and I didn’t know how long it was going to
take me to figure out everything at the bank.) I checked out the area around
where I live to see which chains had branches nearby, but then I realized that
one bank made more sense than the rest because of the partnership it has with
my bank back home. After all, when this experience ends and I want my money
back with me in America, I would like for that process to be as streamlined as
possible. I went to one of these branches but learned that it would be better
for me to go to the main branch to open a temporary (8 months) account,
especially because they had English speakers there.
By this time, I needed to head back to the residence hall
for my 17:00 Wifi meeting. The good news is that I got into the system so that
I can use the Internet on my laptop downstairs. The bad news is that the staff
member’s warning about the connection not necessarily working in my room turned
out to be pretty much true. The signal has been in and out and then just out.
It worked enough for me to check my email and read about setting up a blog, but
it isn’t very reliable. So it looks like I’ll be going downstairs for the most
part to use the Internet. But that will give me a reason to meet some of the
other people in the building other than my kitchenmates. I think there are 90
rooms here. The common area is really nice, anyway, so it will be good to go
there often. I even discovered a little dance nook earlier with a ballet barre
and mirror. And I think someone was practicing the accordion in a side room
while I was setting up my Wifi.
At this point, I was feeling a little headachey because of
the weird sleep schedule, so I decided to hit up the McDonald’s that I had seen
by the Cadet stop for my go-to anti-migraine meal: a Filet-o-Fish combo with a
Coke. It could just be the caffeine in the Coke, but I really think there’s
more to it than that. The salt? The fish? Some combination thereof? I don’t
know. But this meal has come through for me many-a-time in Athens when things
were headed downhill in terms of my chronic migraines. So that’s where I went.
And that’s where the cashier switched to English because I didn’t understand
some question that he mumbled. The words and phrases that they use on the menu are
so different, even though they’re often in English. The combo menu was the “Best
Of” menu, for example. I think the cashier was happy to have a chance to
practice his English anyway because he kept coming up with unnecessary things
to say (“Just a minute”… “I’m so sorry”) when it wasn’t taking that long for my
order to come up. I ate inside and consulted a map to make sure that I knew how
to get to Gare du Nord (North Gate/Terminal) – the train station that I’ll be
using – from there. It was around 7 pm when I left, so I had just enough
daylight left to go there and get back to my residence hall.
Gare du Nord is huge! And beautiful, from the outside. It
was crazy busy inside, so I’ll definitely have to know where I’m going. Think Grand
Central in NYC or that one by Congress in DC? I walked around a little bit and
saw where the different lines come in. I’m definitely gonna feel legit going in
and out of there. I tried to time my walk home and estimated it at about 20
minutes, trying to account for getting off of a train and then the fact that I
stopped short of the residence hall to go grocery shopping. Got some breakfast
stuff at least, including some milk that has “1/2 of the lactose” since dairy
is not my friend. Saw a girl from the dorm in the store since it’s only a few
doors down. Then I came home and wrote to you :)
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