Real person or not, I can confidently say that I will always be a bit of a disaster on legs. My propensity for accidental shenanigans could be an art form.
One week in, I have yet to reach “falling in a gutter” levels of epic-story-time but (a) that took two weeks -and- (b) this is only Paris, not Ghana. I did, however, manage to make an ass of myself to my ridiculously attractive French neighbor. All in a day’s work, really.
On Friday night I finally got to go see the apartment I picked out at my Thursday morning housing appointment. My landlord is quite possibly the coolest landlord in the history of apartment renting, and I would have said yes to the place for her alone. Aside from that, it is pretty reasonably priced, and also kind of adorable. It is on the 7th floor and there is actually a lift that goes as far as the 6th — though I have been good about not using it (I’m on the Parisian-stairs-please-give-me-an-awesome-ass regimen).
The neighborhood is nice and fairly quiet. There’s a senior citizen’s home across the street. (Though, as my landlord pointed out, it’s specifically for wealthy old people.) Admittedly, as a fairly recent college grad I would have liked to be somewhere with a bit more life to it, but as my brothers are currently in Afghanistan and Egypt, it is nice to be able to tell my parents that I am in a safe sleepy neighborhood in Paris, just around the corner from my Metro stop.
The place is lovely, though tiny. I could probably say loads about it, if I were committed to executing properly constructed stories here on the blog, instead of just vaguely coherent streams of word vomit. That said, I am anxious to get out of this charming apartment nonsense and resume sharing with the internet why I am a walking disaster.
I moved in on Saturday, loading my giant green bags into a taxi and being reminded for the thousandth time that I am an idiot for moving here with my near absent command of French. All exchanges have to begin with “I am very sorry. I do not speak French.” The man who set up my cellphone contract actually apologized to me for struggling to explain something in English. I felt like an asshole because, really, this one’s on me, buddy. I’m the idiot who moved to Paris without knowing French.
Anyway, after a half-hearted attempt at unpacking, a shower, and a poor excuse for a nap, I hung out with a few people from my program in a much nicer apartment. Good food, wine, and me pretending to not be the most socially inept individual in the room. Good times all around.
Three of us shared a cab back and I was the last stop because I live out in my sleepy little whatever neighborhood, and of course don’t know a basic thing like my address. I got dropped off at my metro stop instead, paying the cab driver in apologies. (And like actual euros too, I guess. Mostly those.)
My secure little building has two sets of codes to enter. The first gets you physically in the building, but only so far as the lobby and the door to the concierge (who is not around at 3am, it seems). The second code gets you past the lobby and into the actual building. Having only moved in that day and been let in to the second door upon my return that afternoon, I had only used the first code.
So I return to my apartment to find that I can’t get any further than the lobby because the second code was given to me incorrectly. I frantically tried the buzzers for every named neighbor, though none of those seemed to do anything. I tried a few different combinations of the five-digit code, but there are only so many I could think to try in that particular state.
I got a little crazy frantic on Facebook and via text message, though I found in the morning that none of those texts were in my outbox, thankfully. If you are no longer coherent enough to understand the “send” button, it is all probably for the best. I may have cried a little. I will insist that the fact that my eyes were burning, thanks to my newly-resumed contact wearing caused the sob festival. While there certainly was a HOLY CRAP MY EYES ARE ON FIRE feeling going on, I’ll level with you and concede that the cause of tears was, factually speaking, something along the lines of “being a drunk hot mess.”
It seemed clear that I would not be able to get that code box to let me in my building. I tried calling my landlord, eventually, deciding that my desperation trumped my fear of waking her up. She didn’t answer. I also briefly tried banging on the door with my umbrella, hoping I could be loud enough to wake someone. This was also futile. I realized that I was going to have to sleep in the lobby.
Taking stock: it is around 3 AM, I am no longer of sound mind, and I am falling asleep propped up against the door to my building (so that I would wake up as soon as someone opened it).
It was a good diplomatic moment, I think — great for French opinions of Americans, right?
About 10–15 minutes after this resignation (probably about 45 minutes after I got to the building, the door from the outside opened. Remember when we took stock? Not my finest or classiest hour, and I don’t have a wide range of fine or classy hours to choose from. This guy (this very, very attractive guy) looked a bit horrified by the sight he was greeted with upon entering his building. I, being of unsound mind and atrociously poor French language skills, blurted out the first things I could think to say in French, “I don’t speak French. I am from the United States. I have a new apartment. I don’t know (pointing at the code box).”
Classy. Super classy.
Fortunately, the hot young French man laughed a bit at this, and spoke a little English. I saw him enter the code, and realized which numbers were reversed in my version. It is now a safe bet that I will not soon forget that information.
As it turns out, hot French man lives a couple doors down from me. While I would very much like to become his incredibly close neighbor, I am not sure that this was my ideal introduction. It isn’t my preference to lead with the Human Disaster card. I like to at least give someone my name before I reveal that I have that card in my hand.
But some things are just beyond my control. Like that.