It's A Latin Country
Things don't happen all choppity-chop in France. I came back to the apartment on...I think it was Tuesday afternoon...to pick up Gregg, and the front door of the building was fine when I got there.
Hmm...first an explanation for the uninitiated. Many or probably most apartment buildings of any size in Paris have a module outside with numbers you punch (le code) to get into the building. You give it to anybody who comes to visit you, but the average Jean-Pierre on the street isn't going to have it. The door code of a building typically changes periodically (c'est la France -- they're used to the notion that people have angry ex-lovers they'd rather not have easy access to their building).
Maybe somebody's angry ex-lover caused the problem here. About an hour after I got back, we went to leave to go to the Nolde (early German expressionist) exhibition at the Grand Palais, and I noticed that somebody had ripped out some wiring on the left side of the door. I had a sinking feeling, and I went out and tried le code. Ugh. No dice. No workie, no tickie, nobody gets back into the building-ie without a key to the front door -- a pre-modern device not in our possession.
Now, I assumed there was a key somewhere in the apartment, and we just didn't have it. We went back upstairs and searched a little white desk for one. Again, no dice.
I called Gilles, the great guy who arranges our apartment rentals, and he told me to go knock on a neighbor's door and ask for the numéro du syndic -- the guy who manages the building, who needed to be called. Oh, have I mentioned how much my French sucks? It's improving, yes, but at this rate, I'll be fluent when I'm about 312.
Actually, the problem isn't so much my speaking ability or writing ability, but my ability to understand people who aren't 7 or 70. The old and young speak slowly, and sans argot -- without slang.
I also wanted to borrow a key, as I could see us being locked out -- and not just in the afternoon, but after our dinner and all night. I walked upstairs. Turns out an old guy who's an invalid lives there. No key. A woman who cares for him was leaving and took me down to the floor below us. (People always help me -- I think I don't look like I could be a danger to anyone, except, perhaps, to myself, while wearing extremely high heels.)
Downstairs, I entered the most amazing place. A little old lady lived there, with a chocolate lab -- and a bird zoo. The room that's the bedroom in our apartment is a giant cage, filled with giant parrots -- birds about as big as a person's head. Anyway, she most helpfully put me on the phone with her son, whom she called to help figure things out. Now, I suck in French in person. On the phone, no visual cues, pretty much hopeless. Took me a while, but I finally figured out that he was saying the word "fils," as in, "I'm the old lady's son, dumb America bitch!" (He was actually very nice, and very sympathetic, and tried very hard to speak slowly so I might figure out what the fuck he was saying.)
He finally hung up and the little old lady most helpfully looked up the number for the syndic. I went up and called and kept getting passed from person to person, only to be told that our address -- on rue Casimir Delavigne, 75006 -- was not theirs.
I finally talked to the girl whose apartment we're renting -- she's in Maryland getting her doctorate in art history -- and she apologized, said there's no key (yeah, so the neighbors have conveyed to me), and gave me her neighbors' phone numbers so we could get back in after our dinner. And yes, not to worry, I said to her; of course I told them I'm your "friend" -- even though everybody knows the score in Paris: cash under the table to rent your apartment.
Meanwhile, the thing was, since nobody in the building has a key, anybody who was not currently in the building wouldn't be able to get in, and the only people who seemed to be in at the time besides me were two really elderly people who weren't exactly candidates for "Dancing With The Stars."
Helloooo, Yankee ingenuity: Amy + a roll of packing tape, although duct tape would have been preferred. And no, I did not spell "le code" correctly. It's "le," not "la," but if you want a better sign, get a Monsieur Fix-It who isn't a Yankee girl who really should pay a little closer attention in her weekly French class. 
Oh, and P.S. The door, which was supposed to be fixed toute de suite (fast, as in, within hours after I called), is still broken, and includes my signage even Saturday morning -- and I'll sure it will remain so tomorrow after our plane takes off, and then some. Again, it's a Latin thing. They have a more, uh, relaxed attitude toward certain things.
My friend E. says "this is why I stay in a hotel." Well, hotels are very expensive, eating out for every meal is yucky and expensive, Gregg cooks for me when we're in an apartment (very romantic, and he's good, too), and I actually like having to deal with the stuff the French do, although it would be entirely more charming if I actually spoke the fucking language with a little more facility.
In the upper picture, there is something that looks like copper tubing. It runs behind an oval shaped bit of wood, and appears to run into the door frame.
Any idea what that is?
Steve Daniels at December 13, 2008 9:16 AM
heh, looks like that door has been kicked in a few times, but no-one has a key? no matter how modern the convenience, I would always have a key, for just such circumstance, but hey, it's France, so... sounds like you had a good time anyway, right? ;)
SwissArmyD at December 13, 2008 10:18 AM
I'm guessing the locks on the apartment doors are excellent.
Amanda at December 13, 2008 11:26 AM
I just love this post. On the one hand it brings back so many fond memories of traveling. On the other hand it's always more fun to read about these little foreign challenges than it is to deal with them.
Shawn at December 13, 2008 12:54 PM
copper tubing. It runs behind an oval shaped bit of wood, and appears to run into the door frame.
This was the thing that held the wires for the vandalized digicode. Somebody had then bent it to prop the door open, but all it would take is one person to carelessly close the door and we'd all be locked out.
The door actually is a pretty regular door and this is a nice building, really near the Jardin du Luxembourg. It was a 60 meter apartment, with lots of windows.
And if you've been to France enough, you know how to double-lock the doors, which takes turning the key a bunch of times to activate the deadbolt. Very important there and in Italy. Also, keys and locks there are very expensive. Fichet, etc., locks.
And thanks, Shawn. I find making things work in France -- and knowing how to work things -- kind of exciting.
Amy Alkon at December 13, 2008 3:30 PM
Red Green would be very proud of you, but he would have recommended duct tape, as you so wisely knew.
Chrissy at December 14, 2008 8:27 AM
I think anecdotes like this are actually the best writing there is. I read op-eds 'up the ying-yang' but nothing beats a dose of reality.
It's been decades since I lived in Montreal,Quebec for 6 or 7 months. The language barrier is weird. I found myself starting to dream in French just before I left : an odd thing because I really didn't have the vocabulary to function properly at that.
Last summer I was back on business for a few days ( St. Hyacinthe, actually ) and noticed English seemed even less useful that it had been previously ( a bit of a feat ). Driving on the expressway with Super 'B's was nutty enough without the complication of absolutely no English road signage whatsoever. It was only on our way out of the province I realized 'Remplissez' meant 'Rest Stop'.
That was enough of that noise. I won't be going back in a heavy truck: it's not safe.
opit at December 14, 2008 2:07 PM
Amy Alkon
http://www.advicegoddess.com/archives/2008/12/13/its_a_latin_cou.html#comment-1613589">comment from opitThanks so much for posting that, Opit. I always worry that when I tell one of these stories I'm chasing people away with stuff that's too personal or not that interesting. I do find the cultural differences fascinating. And most excitingly, while my French really does suck, it's so much better, and it means I can have relatively communicative conversations with our fascinating friend Pierre, a 70-year-old retired French master carpenter.
P.S. Anybody had any experience with Rosetta Stone for French?
Amy Alkon
at December 14, 2008 2:13 PM
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