Arrived in Paris yesterday.  It’s easier said than done.

Yesterday’s travels started when the school director took one of the teachers, Alexis, and me to the bus station.  We rode the bus from Riez to Aix-en-Provence with quite a few stops in between.  It was over 2 hours, but it gave me a chance to practice more French with Alexis.  He spent most of the trip correcting my pronunciation.  I think I saw him wince a couple of times, but he was very pleasant about the corrections.

From Aix, I caught the TGV (express) to Paris.  I wasn’t about to lug my suitcase and my carry bag on the Metro, so I cabbed it to the hotel where I’m staying.  Tomorrow I move over to the apartment I’ve leased.  But, I did go by yesterday to get the apartment key and look the place over.

It’s very Parisienne. (read: small, old, no elevator)  One of the requirements of the apartment rental is “no shoes can be worn inside the apartment.”  I know why.  I’ve never walked on such creaky floors before.  There’s nowhere to walk in the apartment to lessen the sound.  No wonder the neighbors below complain about the noise.

But, the place looks comfortable.  I think I may even be able to whip up a meal or two in the teeny kitchen.   There’s a little bitty stove across from a little bitty refrigerator next to a little bitty dishwasher by a little bitty sink.  At 5’3″, I feel right at home.  It’s cuisine for Lilliputians.

I woke up this morning and decided to go to church.  I had looked up evangelical churches in Paris on the internet.  Believe it or not, there are over 2,000 evangelical churches in the city.  I found a church outside the center of Paris.

I got directions to the church and set off in search of the Metro.  There are signs all over Paris for everything under the sun.  The one thing Parisiennes don’t advertise is their Metro.  How was I to know that you’re just supposed to look for an opening that leads underground?  It’s not like New York where you can find the subway entrance from 3 blocks away.  No.  I discovered that even the citizens of Paris don’t know where their Metro entrance is.  One woman actually told me to look for stairs going into the ground.  Turns out that it took me 25 minutes to find a Metro entrance that was 2 blocks from the hotel.

I got on Metro M1 and went to the end of the line at Porte Maillot.  Then, I caught bus 244 for Les Godardes bus stop.  There were 17 stops before Les Godardes which took 25 minutes.  I finally showed up 20 minutes late for church.  That’s not much worse than my arrival time at church in Dallas, so I felt good about it.

The church service was so sweet.  What an amazing thing to worship with such a diverse congregation. To me, it was a picture of what it will be like for “all nations” to be worshipping the Lord in heaven.  The music and teaching were great.  And I discovered that the pastor’s wife was from Louisiana and I had gone to school with her cousins.  Amazing how small the world really is, isn’t it?

As I rode the bus back and forth to church today, I had a chance to observe all sorts of French men and women on the bus.  Here are a few conclusions that I’ve come to in a very short time.

In order to blend in with the locals, I will need to perfect a sort of rumpled, yet tasteful wardrobe.  I’m going to give up on ironing anything.  I’ll just press any damp clothes by laying them flat and stacking books on top.  I’ll, of course, need a blue jean jacket that looks like I pulled it out from the back of my closet after the cat shredded it.  I am going to have to buy new pants that are 3 sizes too small.  I’m not sure where I’m going to put the overflow of girth.  I’ll get back to you with that answer later.

I am working on my “French” look.  It’s not exactly a scowl.  After observing the people on the bus, in the Metro, on the sidewalks, I’ve decided that this may be harder than squeezing into size 0 pants.  My family would say that I’ve got the scowl down, but that’s not what I’m going for.  I worked on it in the mirror today.  It’s a kind of “completely disinterested, but a little interested” look.  A real French look is one that exudes a tiny bit of superiority. It says, “I’m not going to show that I even want to look at you, but when you’re not looking, I’m going to look at you.”

I think I can best achieve this expression if I don’t wear my contacts and teach myself not to squint.

I can work on this tomorrow morning when I walk to the school to begin yet another round of French.  I just hope I don’t fall off the sidewalk.

A bientôt!