The Reality of Real Estate

I'm definitely not in the market for any real estate in Paris but that doesn't stop me from looking at the ads posted in the windows of realtors.  One can always dream, right -- of having your own little piece of Paris or of having enough cash to actually consider such an act.

If you've ever sold a piece of real estate in the U.S., you know that there's a certain amount of staging involved.  You clean like a crazy person, empty closets and cupboards to make it look like there's more storage than there actually is, put away the personal momentos, buy flowers, and bake something to give your home a nice cozy feeling.  And while normally the photos I see posted here in Paris suggest that that's also the case here, apparently not always.  Take a look at these (with apologies for the quality of these photos.)

First the set up.  Yes, this place is already off the market.  Happy the family that snapped up their three bedroom spot in the 16th.

And if you were wondering what over a million euros gets you in Paris, take a look:

Yes, there's a half finished plate of something on that coffee table.

Is that laundry on the bed?

I can only assume that buyers in Paris are desperate.



Under Construction

I didn't make any New Year's resolutions this year for no particular reason other than I already have enough things on my "to do" list.  But I'm proud to say that I did backup two year's worth of photos that have been sitting on my computer.  And in the process, I found a few images that have been gathering dust that I can share with you.

Sometime back in September, we got a letter from our landlord informing us that construction would begin in October on our building's roof and thus a scaffolding would be put up that would stay in place for a number of months.  True to form, construction on the scaffolding didn't begin until early December and finished up just before Christmas.   And a result, our courtyard now looks like this:

Erecting this monster was a truly noisy business, something I can appreciate as I'm often home during the day.  Now we're waiting for the real work to begin and I can only imagine what that's going to entail.

In Search Of

Pity the quiet desperation of those in search of the perfect (or perhaps any?) apartment in Paris.

On Ice

We've been eating a bit bizarrely over the past couple of days as I try to clean out the odds and ends to make space in our refrigerator for Thanksgiving goodies. We actually have a refrigerator that's rather large by Parisian standards unlike my neighbor across the street who was forced to do this, a not uncommon sight here:



Most kitchens in the older Haussmanian buildings also have a little cupboard under the window that is ventilated to the outside, the perfect place to store root vegetables and other things that don't mind the cold. The one in our place was boarded up long ago when the kitchen was moved from the back to a more central location but this one is just across our courtyard.

When There's Smoke

That heap of charred furniture is what remains from the basement storage area of one of our neighbors. Over the past couple days, there have been some workers down in the cave (pronounced "cahhv") messing with the plumbing. Just what they were doing I don't know except for the notice that there would be no hot water from Wednesday morning through Thursday evening. But then sometime yesterday afternoon, they somehow ignited a electrical fire down there. The fire must have been smoldering for awhile because when I came home after being out for several hours, I smelled something burnt but it dissipated by the time I reached our floor. A short while later, when I was heading out with one of my kids to do an errand, we encountered some ladies down in the courtyard calling the fire department about smoke billowing out of the cave vents. The gardienne came running from her apartment several doors down and I figured there was no reason to hang around.

About a half hour later, heading back home, my cellphone rang. It was a neighbor across the street.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Why?"

"Well there are fire trucks blocking the street on both ends and smoke everywhere."

We made our way back to our place where we found a hook and ladder, a smaller fire truck, a police car, the electric company and the gas company, and lots and lots of firefighters. A crowd of residents and rubberneckers gathered on the sidewalk although interestingly, they did not evacuate the building. Twenty minutes later, they gave the all clear for those of us who had left to return and that's when we saw the smoldering pile of the third floor resident's family heirlooms and bric a brac, hauled up from the cave and doused in the courtyard. Poor fellow. The rest of us just have to deal with the lingering scent of smoke, a cold dinner (the gas wasn't turned back on until late), and no hot water for the second night in a row. I'm hoping those workers come back today and finish what they started....as long as it doesn't involve combustion.


Les pompiers (firefighters) brought an impressive amount of hoses with them. Fortunately, they didn't have to unwind these ones too.

Going Gaga for Guimard

When it comes to tourist destinations, there's not much to see in the 16th arrondissement, just block after block of elegant Haussmanian apartment buildings, some lovely gardens, and plenty of high-end shops. And while there are a few sightseeing gems, like the Musee Marmottan and the Musee Guimet, for the most part, it's an area of town that the guidebooks all but forget. But take the 52 bus or metro line 9 down to the lower 16th, and there in the village of Auteuil are a number of Art Nouveau buildings well worth the price of the bus ticket. Pictured above is the gate at Castel Béranger, a complex of 36 apartments designed around 1890 by Hector Guimard, better known for his work on entrances to the Métro. (The two remaining Guimard designed shelters can be found at Abbesses and Porte Dauphine.) You'll find this sinuous gate at 14 rue la Fontaine; take a peek also at 60 rue de la Fontaine and 122 avenue Mozart.

France in the News

A couple of interesting links from the New York Times:

A small town in the southwest of France hosts an annual festival devoted to American country music. This isn't the first time I've heard about the strong grip that the myth of the Old West has on the French psyche.

An American couple, now living in Dubai, takes wretched excess to new heights in their rehab of a Parisian apartment. The renovation itself looks quite tasteful; it's just that the money involved makes my head spin.

Happy reading!

Be Prepared

If I had a nickel for every time I've received a card like this one in my mailbox over the past 21 months, I could maybe afford a cup of coffee in Paris. Seriously, we probably receive more of these little emergency phone number cards (really just disguised advertisements for the local locksmith, plumber, and electrician) than honest-to-goodness mail. And despite all that, I don't have one posted by the telephone.

For those who don't read French, the numbers are for: locksmith, window repair, electrician, plumber, heating repair, emergency medical response, police, firefighters, poison control, physicians who make house calls, and burn center.

Sounds of Summer

The weather's warmed up quite a bit this week and it's time again to open up the windows and let the air flow through our apartment. We don't have any screens but fortunately bugs don't seem to be a problem. But the sounds of the street? That's another story. Even though we live off the beaten path, those dudes on motor scooters love to go full blast down our block, giving their bikes a few extra revs for good measure. Plus there's the horn honking when someone parks in front of an entrance making it impossible for others to enter or exit. And then there's the trumpet and saxophone players with their boom box accompaniment that come out in the evening to serenade the folks nursing beers at the cafe down on the corner. The first time we heard the music, the kids opened up all the windows, eager to know where it was coming from. Now the thrill is gone and it's just one bad rendition of "Hello Dolly" and "When the Saints Go Marching In" after another. Last night, though, we got a special treat: an inebriated soul singing the "Marseillaise." It's not charming but you've got to admit that it's local color.

Buzz Off

Parisians are nothing if not private. This panel of buzzers from a large apartment building certainly doesn't tell you much about the residents. I love that one of those folks living here is simply identified as "V". If you have to ask, I'm sure you have no business knowing and surely that gardienne would tell you the same.

25 Things I Love About Paris: #14

14. Our apartment

I don't like to brag but....We're lucky enough to be living in Paris even if it were in a refrigerator box and doubly so because of the beautiful apartment my husband's employer found for us. To start with, it's bigger (in terms of area) than our house in DC. The apartment is light and airy and has high ceilings, huge windows that open from ceiling to floor, intricate moldings in the main living areas, and hardwood floors. Plus we have two marble fireplaces topped by mirrors trimmed in gold that extend from the mantle to the ceiling. They're not working fireplaces but who really cares? Amazingly, our very American furniture looks right at home in this turn of the century French environment.

I miss our yard with its flower and vegetable gardens, plus having a private outdoor space but I don't much miss raking leaves or trimming ivy. Nor do I think back fondly on trudging up and down from 2nd floor to the basement to do laundry. And remarkably, unlike apartments I lived in on DC's Capitol Hill and Baltimore, we get relatively little noise from the upstairs and downstairs neighbors. Best yet, unlike many Parisian apartments that come equipped with only a water hookup in the kitchen (no appliances, no cupboards, no nothing) and wires where light fixtures should be, ours was a turnkey operation. It's got a few little quirks (like the fact that you can't open one of the bottom refrigerator drawers the whole way because of the radiator blocking the door) but I'm not complaining.

Warm and Cozy

What was that? Any stray thought can pass for a post? This falls in that category. Nothing monumental or particularly thoughtful...just a little slice of my Parisian life.

When I was a kid, the best seat in the house was on top of the radiator in the kitchen. The radiator was about 2 feet high and it had a metal cover so it made a perfect bench. Plus it was positioned right in the center of the action, just under the telephone. The only trick was to get there first before anybody else called dibs. (Not that my siblings and I fought over the phone; to do so, we would have had to wrestle it away from our mom.)

Our apartment here in Paris is heated by radiators and now that autumn has arrived, the heat is on in the building and I'm getting that cozy feeling again. Only, you can't sit on these French radiators since for the most part, they are skinny and mounted flat against the wall. They come in many sizes; the one in the lobby is easily eight feet high. The smaller ones though are hard to beat. The one in the kitchen is perfectly positioned to give you a toasty back and the ones in the bathroom...well, let's just say, there's no better finale to a good shower than a preheated towel. It makes getting up on a dark morning a little bit easier.

Aaargh!

Sometime last week we got a notice indicating that the elevator in our building (which by the way is no longer phoning home) would be out of service for one month beginning this past Monday so it could be retrofitted in accordance with some law passed back in 2002. Given that we're on the third floor, it didn't seem too bad, not nearly as bad say as if we were the family with two kids under 4 who live on the 6th. On Friday, a bunch of boxes of cables and other parts were delivered and over the weekend, we all steeled ourselves for the inconvenience.

But as of today, nothing has happened....to the elevator that is. Seems somebody forgot to notify us of another little item: the fact that the door codes that allow us to get into the building were going to be changed TODAY. I found this out the hard way, coming back from the gym after noon with just enough time for a quick shower and bite of lunch before heading off to my French class. I punched in the door code. Nothing. I tried again. Nothing. I went to see the gardienne. Not home. I buzzed my upstairs neighbor. Not home. I buzzed the doctor's office on the ground floor. No answer. I buzzed the lawyer on the 1st floor who mercifully let me in and whose assistant endured my explanation, thanks, and excuses in fractured French. Then there was a flurry of phone calls since the kids would be coming home ahead of me and without the code, would not be able to let themselves in. In the end, it all turned out okay except for the lingering sense of frustration and annoyance. But hey, c'est la vie, n'est ce pas?

Moving Day

If you happen to see anything like this while wandering about Paris, there's only one explanation: it's moving day for somebody. When I saw this lift last week, I realized I hadn't blogged about the technology of a Paris move because our own move took place before I started this blog. And so it happened that one year ago this week, a semi came down our street laden with all our household goods shipped from Washington. After quite a few weeks living with just some borrowed basics (4 forks, 4 spoons, 4 plates, you get the picture), it was quite a thrill to finally have the things that make a house a home: kitchen gadgets, linens, artwork, books, and our very own beds. The amazing thing about the whole process (well other than having someone else do all the packing and heavy lifting, a first for us) was watching the crew unload the boxes out of the truck and onto a lift like the one pictured here, sending it up four flights and handing it in through the window. While I couldn't bring myself to look when they put our piano on the lift, I find myself riveted whenever I wander by someone else's move in progress. I've heard some horror stories, including one in which an impatient driver got so annoyed at the equipment blocking the street that he barreled his car straight through the street, hitting the lift and sending its load flying. Fair warning.

Phone Home

Over the weekend I kept hearing the sound of a telephone call being placed, the beeps reminding me of when I first had dial up service to the Internet. I couldn't figure out where it was coming from...was it my cell? my husband's Blackberry? the computer? our neighbors? And then finally it dawned on me, it was the elevator!

As Parisian elevators go, ours is pretty typical. It's not as charming as some since it lacks the wrought iron gates and wood paneling you find in many Haussmanian buildings. Just big enough for three people who don't mind close quarters, it does the job and has never once gotten stuck between floors. Still, it does have a button to push in case you're in distress and a speaker where presumably you can talk to someone somewhere who will send out the troops. My confidence has sagged now though, knowing that the elevator has been placing calls for four days and so far, no one has picked up. So just who is the elevator calling? ET? Wall-E? Speed Rabbit Pizza? It's a mystery for sure.

Key to the Castle

The security in our building is serious business. There is a digicode for the wooden door to the street, another digicode for the door into the building from the courtyard, and then a couple of high-tech keys for both the front and rear doors. You're supposed to double lock the front door when you come in and out because otherwise one of Paris's notorious cat thieving gangs can supposedly pop the lock in 9 seconds flat and clear out your place in not much longer than that.

But the key I like best is the one pictured here, a throwback to the technology in place when the building was erected at the turn of the century. It's about six inches long and packs a heft. I like to think of it as the key to our castle while in truth, it's just the key to the cave, a romantic term for the dirt floor storage space in the basement, that's divided by crude wooden doors (each with its own stenciled number) into multiple units. It's not creepy enough to be a dungeon. If anything, it reminds me of the place where those American GIs used to hang out on Hogan's Heroes. Still, you can't carry the key without imagining a more elegant past when the walls were lined with dusty crates of fine vintages.

Geraniums

Our apartment has a new Parisian touch: window boxes full of geraniums acquired yesterday from some friends who are returning to the U.S. We must have been quite a sight, taking three trips around the corner, trooping past the beautiful people sitting in outside tables at the chic-est neighborhood restaurant, and up and down tiny elevators. We're sorry to see our friends leave but happy to have a daily reminder of their warmth and generosity.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

My French class ended today as it often does with discussion of a "petite article" from the news. The piece today was about La Fête des Voisins which is set for this evening. The purpose of this made-up European Union wide holiday (now in its 8th year) is to get city dwellers to be more neighborly. It seems to be an uphill climb as last year, the participation rate was only 10 percent and I can tell you for certain that there's no partying going on in our building tonight.

Come to think of it, I'm not really sure who actually lives here besides another American family above us and a British lady with two little kids somewhere else further upstairs. There's a doctor on the ground floor and an attorney on the first floor, but to tell you the truth, I couldn't pick them out of a lineup. I suppose it's not so different from living in a big apartment building in any large city although I think it's safe to say that the French are far more reserved than Americans and far less interested in starting friendships from thin air. When I told my French teacher that it was traditional in the U.S. to greet newly arriving neighbors with a cake, she was shocked. "Do they have to give you a cake too?" she asked incredulously. "Do you have to invite them over?" The concept of the block party really threw her for a loop, suggesting that the idea people behind la Fête des Voisins may have to go back to the drawing board.

Homesick? Not.

Every now and then, folks ask if I'm homesick. The truth is there's nowhere I'd rather be right now than here. Still there are some things that I'm missing and like most expats, they tend to cluster around friends, family, and food. Since we live in an apartment building that's probably 100 years old, we're also lacking a few modern niceties at home. So, leaving off the names of those near and dear, here's the short list:

• a garbage disposal
• tasty salsa. You can buy salsa here (in the foreign food aisle) but it's dreadful! The French like flavorful but they don't do spicy hot. You can get good Moroccan or Thai here but no Mexican.
• the Washington Post with my morning coffee. Reading it online just isn't the same.
• bagels
• our programmable thermostat
• gallon jugs of milk
  

I don't miss:

• television. We do have a television with a gazillion channels, all in French except for CNN and the BBC News. Theoretically, one can learn from French from watching the news or even dubbed American sitcoms but I can't bear to watch enough to test this theory.
• having a car. Okay, every now and then, I see a Toyota Prius (usually a taxicab) and I get that wistful, we used to own that feeling. But then I consider whether I could handle the French approach to driving (it's always priority to those on the right, even if it means stopping when you're in a traffic circle) or whether I would ever find a parking space, and it's pretty clear that we made the right choice by selling our cars.
• living my life by the clock. Since I'm not working and the kids are only doing the bare minimum of afterschool activities, I'm no longer running from the office to pickup to practice and so on. For the moment at least, life is blissfully uncomplicated.

Your Daily Dose of Calcium

In the category of "who knew?" comes this little item. The water in Paris is full of calcium. I don't know if that helps combat osteoporosis. It does have the unfortunate impact, however, of gunking up your washing machine, dishwasher, and leaving a gross filmy residue on the sink, tub, and faucets. To combat it, you need an impressive array of anti-calcium products: little tablets for the washing machine, extra additives in the dishwasher powder, and a special bottle of anti-calcaire liquid with which to attack the kitchen and bathroom cleaning. (Not to worry if you are coming to visit. We'll have things spiffed up for your arrival and won't make you take on the tub ring when you leave). Some marketing genius is bottling this water and selling it to women for its health benefits, which I assume are the same whether the water comes out of the tap or you pay extra for it. Now that's making silk out of a sow's ear!