In 2005, I put together enough grant money from various sources to make my first trip to Paris to work in the archives. It was the first time I had ever ventured so far from home without any sort of company or safety net, and as my facility in French has never been that great, I did so in a moderately alien culture with little or no ability to talk my way out of trouble.



I drove to Chicago for that first flight overseas, and walked through security in the international terminal leaving my sobbing 5 year old son in the arms of his father. Max, my boy, only realized at that last minute that he'd be without me for more than a month, and his awareness of that separation robbed him of speech entirely, leaving him only screams and tears. I could hear him all the way down the concourse, and I kept walking anyway. Do we ever get over things like that?



The flight was uneventful, though long and tedious and grainy. Arriving in Paris at the Charles de Gaulle airport, I felt as if I'd been bathing in sand and sweat. I made it through customs, got my bags, and found a taxi without any trouble. The driver, as I was later to learn about all airport taxi drivers in Paris, was from Vietnam. His French was better than mine, though heavily accented. I managed to tell him, "20 bis, Blvd. Arago", my new digs, and he took me there for the outrageous but typical sum of 40 Euros. The closer I got to the center of the city, the more surreal the whole experience felt. I was there, finally, after years of fantasizing. We drove past Notre Dame cathedral, across the Seine, and toward my apartment.



I had only know this address from the map. I knew the street was a secondary artery running roughly east and west, and marked the division between the fifth and thirteenth arrondisement. The fifth, of course, is the center of the famous Latin Quarter, where the Sorbonne can be found. The thirteenth is far less distinguished, but has this quality about it -- it's not a tourist area. I learned that ordinary Parisians live there. The shops and restaurants cater to their tastes and wallets. That means you can buy good bread from four different bakeries within a block in any direction, an open-air market with fresh vegetables and fruit runs six days a week within three blocks from the apartment, and yet metro, bus, and cab services are all close and easy to find. Many of those who live in this area work in the Sorbonne or at the University of Paris, as they are all within walking distance. It is my favorite part of Paris for living, though it's not the most beautiful.



So there I was, after the cab driver left me, on the corner in front of a cafe and tabac, next to the door to my apartment building, and I realized I didn't have the code to enter. My landlady, Lilliane, had given it to me in email, but I hadn't realized what it was so hadn't bothered to write it down. I hadn't gotten a phone card yet, had no access to a phone anyway, and no one to call. I had no idea what to do. I sat on my bags, and tried to think. Not that it did me much good.



Within ten minutes, the shutters of a window two stories up opened and a man yelled down, "Apellez vous Renee?" "Oui" I replied, knowing at least this much French. Lilliane's husband, who taught German history at the University, had been waiting for me with his son. I was renting the son's apartment, and the two men were headed to Venice for the month I was there. They let me in and helped me with luggage. I blessed Lilliane.



Once inside, her husband kindly explained in his marvelous and idiosyncratic English (he tried to explain to me that the cafe owners downstairs were not, um, gentle? I realized he meant "gentile", meaning "nice" in French) where the grocery stores could be found, how to get tickets for the metro and bus, which were the best places for fresh bread, and how to find the open air markets. He gave me keys, and they left. And that was the last contact I had in Paris for a long time.



My first job there was to find an international calling card to talk to my husband. After a shower, I headed in the general direction of the Blvd. St. Germaine, which wasn't that far a walk (if you go in the right direction, which could be a challenge). After walking for what seemed miles, I found a phone store, only to learn that I could get what I wanted at any of the Tabacs I had passed, including the one downstairs from my apartment. So I bought some bread, then headed home. That's when the whole thing came crashing down.



I knew the code for the downstairs door. I had the key. But French doorlocks aren't like those in the States. This wasn't something Lilliane's husband had thought to explain. Why would he?



I put the key in. I turned it. It turned 360 degrees without hitting a tumbler. Not one. I tried again. I pulled it out and tried again. Nothing. At home, if the you're not working the key right, you'll encounter resistance and have to push. In Europe, you get nothing. After several minutes of trying, I felt utterly defeated.



Perhaps it wouldn't have bothered me so much if I hadn't been so tired. But there I was, thousands of miles from family and the familiar, defeated by a door. I had no one to call. I'd been given the address of a cleaning lady I could hire, but she spoke only Portuegese and French, had no phone, and I couldn't remember how to find her. No one to call. No one to turn to.



I have never felt quite that isolated before.



I know I cried, though I was ashamed of it. Ordinarily, I'd call my husband, yell in his direction, and eventually get it figured out. But I would do so with someone to listen, sympathize, maybe even give good advice. But my cell phone was dead in France, and I couldn't call him.



It took me about another ten minutes, but I did eventually get the door opened. (There's a trick to it, of course. You insert, push in further, then push up before turning the key. Or something like that.) I had won my first cultural battle. I called my husband to celebrate.



Those first few hours in France have become the metaphor for all my time there. Cultural blocks existed on really basic levels, but with persistence, I did manage to find a bit of comfort, contentment, perhaps even grace. Is it really so strange that I had to go several thousand miles from home to realize this? I became more the person I was before marriage -- islolated, but self-sufficient and comfortable being so. I felt younger in Paris than I have in many years, and I think this is why; I had the coping mechanisms of a six year old and hadn't been so completely dependent on myself since I was in my twenties. It's a liberation, and incredibly unnerving.



That day didn't end so badly, though. My apartment looked out over a narrow one-way street, and directly across was another apartment building. This one was more modern, a steel and glass eyesore alien to a neighborhood largely built before 1910. However, more modern architecture means you can have amenities, like elevators and air conditioning and balconies.



My first night in Paris, a family across the street had a party. It was multi-generational, as so many things are in Europe (I saw kids everywhere, at all hours, and wondered often when they slept). Through my windows, I heard the conversation, the laughter, the kids squealing. About 20 people filled the balcony, where the buffet table had been spread, and adults stood in small groups balencing cup and plate in awkward manners. On a bench near the edge, an older man sat and tuned up an accustic guitar. They had set torches around the patio, and candles on the table. As I watched, the man with the guitar started to play. Several of the kids, both teens and younger, gathered near. He started to sing, though I can't tell you what. Several kids joined in, along with adults. He played a song, then another adult came out carrying a violin. A flute joined them a little while later. Together, they played and sang for more than an hour, everyone, and suddenly I didn't feel quite so lost.



I couldn't join them, of course. And I was alone still. But I could watch, and listen, and feel somehow like I could connect there. I understood this evening they shared, and just felt rich for having been there.