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So, was it true? Did she really have chains around her ankles? Alas, the zoom didn’t get close enough to prove anything, and to tell you frankly, I didn’t care. All conspiracy theories aside, just looking at my first lady sent a rush of emotion through my veins. I admit it, I got choked up. I love her. I love America. The fact that she will be in France with me means I can always go there when things get a little crazy, or heaven forbid, a little tragic. Thanks to that stone femme, for the first time in weeks, I felt something other than despair. I felt pride. Pride in being American, pride in being Black and pride in knowing I am bringing all those gifts to France. Looking at my photos of France, my family in Philly and my friends in Japan, I woke and realized my story is already so much bigger than this one horrifying event. What Paris will become for me, what I see there and how I will choose to accept it, is still all up to me.

And so, here we are to the present and my progress in this quest for fire. How have I done? Am I ready? When is my deadline again? Well, between you and me, my progress disappoints me. I’ve lost quite a bit of ground. Of course, others would say I’ve come quite far, but I don’t feel it. I’m Aries remember? Like Hannibal, I hate it when a plan falls apart. Yet, despite my personal critiques, I have to admit one thing: I did do an outstanding job of scoping out the city this time. Besides meeting great friends for great meals, I actually got some work done, making one job contact and walking so much that it occurred to me that if I kept it up, my thighs might not necessarily have to speak on a daily basis. 

Each day I hopped off the metro at a different, new location and instantly got lost. I love getting lost, you see so much. In my erred travels I found the Moroccan Markets, the Armenian markets and the African markets, places that, for some odd reason, you just don’t find listed at the French Tourists Information Office in Beverly Hills. I bought couscous and curry spice five blocks from Jim Morrison’s grave (he is buried in one of the loveliest spots on earth. But of course), and in Barbes, I found some cloth for a dress I am making for a friend.  I visited the antique markets in the Bastille, roamed the hills of Montepasse and Montemarre, marveled at the wide-open sex shops in Pigalle that stood next to kiddy arcades and family cineplexes… In short, I spent that week replacing the fantasy of Parisian cafes, gondola rides and Moulin Rouge with the reality of bitterly cold winters, cranky subway attendants and four hours of paperwork just to buy a television. Everywhere I went I saw stereotypes breaking down. Well, with one exception.

Ever wonder where supermodels go when their careers end? I’ve found them! The are working the front desks of every Youth Hostel in Paris. I wish I were exaggerating. The day I arrived, I hiked my oversized bag to three different hostels, and let me tell you, these aliens have taken over the affordable accommodations industry with a vengeance. With their perfect skin, large luminous eyes, shiny hair and jaws that cut stone, male or female, this kind of beauty is unmatched. And they take no prisoners. They are pleasure personified, looking great and speaking five languages with such sultry essence you are assured life is made of butter. They are warm, inviting, gentle, lovely…and out to remove every dime you’ve got squeezed into your sweaty little foreign fist. 

For reasons mentioned above, the aliens tend to work the most popular early morning/afternoon shifts. This is when the first-timers tend to arrive. First-time hostlers are particularly vulnerable because by the time they reach the lair, they are so flight fatigued and French whipped they are willing to squat anywhere. The aliens salivate at this kind of tenderloin, and can spot one coming a mile away. Quickly, the alien goes to work, smiling and cooing and offering such outrageously reasonable prices that it’s about four days in that the first-timer finally realizes he’s been charged top dollar to share a seven-bunk cell with eight Norwegian sailors. Fortunately, I live in Los Angeles and am immune to pretty things that lie. Thus, when I finally chose my hostel, I waited patiently until the Austrian man ahead of me had his senses jacked and was scooped off the tile floor (to be deposited into his over-priced triple). Then, I sauntered up to the counter, threw down my gauntlet (aka my American debit card), and looked the buxom, blonde siren behind the counter squarely in the chest, where her eyes were. 

“Turn down the headlights, sister,” I said in my best Eve Arden, “I’m only interested in maximum comfort at minimal price. And I REFUSE to compromise. What you got for me?” 
 

Note to self: The aliens revere impudence, and for my reward, this particular Dr. Evil smiled and stroked the tiny poodle that lay sleeping in her purse (I’m not kidding, it was so tiny it slept IN HER PURSE) and gave me the works. For fifteen American dollars a night, I landed a private room with shower and toilet, complimentary bread, jam and hot chocolate in the mornings, and best of all, it was tucked right next door to the Gar d’Lyon, a major train station. Internet access was extra, but not much. I had, as we Americans like to say, scored.  After she laid out the deal, I hissed, “Done,” and quickly took back the debit card, opting instead to pay all five days in the now defunct French Franc. Note to self: The aliens respect cash and she smiled even more impressed, as she handed me the key. I could still feel her beams on my back as I climbed the stairs and entered a double-bunk room that wasn’t homey, but it was clean, quiet, family oriented (meaning children were allowed, alcohol was not), and most of all, private. Setting down my bags, I open the French window that peaked into the hotel kitchen next door, and patted myself on the back. Finally, I was a seasoned traveler.  Great, but would I make a good citizen?

A week later I felt yes, Paris would be fine for me. It wasn’t paradise, but close enough as the scenery was exceptional, the lifestyle gregarious and the people were very friendly and helpful. Now, don’t go choking on your juice. I know what most of you are thinking. People friendly and helpful? I she nuts? I understand that such a statement is blasphemous to many a traveler. I am not so in love with France that I am naïve to French-American relations; or French-British relations; or French-anyone-Non-French relations for that matter. I know for a fact that the enigmatic ‘rude Frenchman’ is alive and well, as two of my closest friends have just returned from separate trips to Paris, both with nightmare stories of bad service and unbelievable hostility. They have asked me point blank why I would ever want to live there and I have listened with empathy, but little sympathy, because honestly, I’ve yet to experience ‘the Franco freeze’. Sure, I’ve had abruptness. Once, on the Champse Ellyse I was treated shabbily in a pharmacy. But it was the Champes Ellyse, for goodness sake. Not the wisest location to try and purchase Ibuprofen. But then perhaps in my case, there’s also a more seamless explanation. 

As a Black in America, I’ve been somewhat ‘frozen out’ all my life. I’ve been ignored at restaurants for fear I’d be demanding and tip poorly. I’ve been locked out of swanky boutiques for fear either steal or worse, touch everything, ask a lot of questions and then buy nothing. I’ve been followed by shop security, and had my checks refused, even though the customer before me just wrote one. I’ve had the validity of my driver’s ID questioned when trying to use a credit card. The list goes on and on. Now if you are imagining my fist rising tot he heavens as you read this, I assure you, it’s not. But to deny the race problem in America is the true naïveté and I’m simply pointing out that for some Americas, each day is still met with a few challenges. In an odd way, you could say that I’ve grown up an American in Paris in America, so perhaps having that background makes it less personal when simply flashing the American dollar does not buy me instant respect. I am prepared for a non-return of a smile on the street. Perhaps I am conditioned to a simple transaction spiraling out of control. And perhaps, like one of my French friends said, a lot of Europeans are truly tired of Americans landing on their soil in backpacks and dirty Levis’, with broken dialects and visions of their police as Peter Sellers.  Or, perhaps I am being too generous and Monty Python had it right when they depicted the French as wanting to “spit on you, spit on you. Go away.”
In six weeks, we shall see.

In the meantime, I am trying to complete some vital tasks. There was a setback involving my pets. Seems all US airlines have now restricted pet transports to one per passenger. When I inquired about this, the travel agent told me it was because they feared bombs in the carriers. “Funny,” I replied, “I thought it only took one bomb to destroy a plane”.  Silence.

But I digress. 

Since I have three pets, I am forced to consult with a pet transport company. Now, what was to cost me $450 will cost me $1,200. Ah, capitalism. Gotta love it.  In any case, I scheduled the cats’ rabies shots and health certificate for later this month. They may have meet me later in France, one at a time. I’d hate to do that, but there it is.
 

As for the human in this adventure, I’ve tried several times to contact the non-profit I want to work with. I’ve called and written, but they have yet to respond. Most people would say, “How French”, but having worked in non-profit I know better and instead say, “How non-profit.” I will not give up. And alas, my housing remains a huge question mark. I placed a few ads for apartments and have only heard back from the ones that look like broom closets with crock pots. But I expected that, and remain hopeful that someone soon will have a friend who is renting a place. That’s not so far fetched a consideration as it sounds, for it seems these days everyone knows someone associated with Paris, whether it’s that they grew up there, studied there or regularly visit there. It’s been great receiving such an outpouring of

interest and assistant from strangers. The best part is, very soon I’ll be one of those contacts whimsically referred to. One day someone will refer to me, saying, “Oh, I have a friend who’s just up and moved to Paris. Email her, she won’t mind.” 

And you know what? I won’ t mind. I won’t mind at all.
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