When I got back from Canada, I was definitely having trouble getting back into the swing of things. The quiet emptiness that is Paris in August was freaking me out, and with 2/3 of the office on holidays, I was running out of things to Google. I went back and forth between To-Do lists, one to help me finish up here, and one to start preparing for an attempted re-entry into the North American work world. I was starting to fill my days again, and began savouring the little things after work. Stopping at the market on my way home, pouring myself a glass of wine as I make dinner, seeing the rat outside my window sneak into the storage unit next to mine…
Yep. I. was. horrified.
If there is one thing that can make me lose my appetite (it takes a lot) it is this sight: a gross, slimy rat, slinking into a perfectly rounded rat-shaped hole, about 15 feet away. The whole thing lasted maybe three seconds, but it was burned into my mind for hours. It didn’t even run! Just slinked along like it owned the place.
I think I can handle inconvenience. A really tiny shower? No problem. No laundry machines or dishwasher? That’s okay. But this was too gross, and though I realize I am not in a third world country or anything, I just couldn’t block out the images of the condo that Prince Charming just moved into with Lovely Roomate. A steam room. A gym. A doorman who shows up at night. It was just all too fresh in my mind, and I needed to snap out of it.
I remembered that this was Paris after all, had I forgotten all about Ratatouille? The city is famous for rats, and when I cried to my mom, she kindly reminded me that there are two rats for every Parisian. I wondered if there were also rats in my decrepit wooden storage space…Oh well. I had a solution. Simply leave my suitcase in there for the rest of time.
But I was still freaked out. I lined up my shoes against the tiny space between the floor and my front door. Logical? No. Somewhat reassuring? Yes.
The rest of the week sort of flew by, and before I knew it, it was Friday and my Dad was here. I met him at a hotel not far from where I live, and he greeted me with a huge hug. Though it had only been a couple of weeks since I had seen him, it felt great to have some family in town. I showed him around the neighbourhood a little, and then back to the Rat Cave (thanks Mo). When it was time to find some dinner, we hopped on bikes and cruised over to the Seine. My Dad has been to Paris a few times, and has had some unsuccessful attempts at renting bikes, so needless to say, he was super excited to see Paris en vélib. I have to admit, after being a “walk everywhere” person and taking the metro here and there, biking through Paris is by far the best thing about living here.
We packed the weekend with awesome activities. We grabbed a delicious dinner that night, took in a set at a jazz club, had a fantastic lunch in the Jewish quarter, roamed around the Eiffel tower, caught a Latin mass at Notre Dame, and went to an outdoor movie. My Dad was really relaxed about everything, and I definitely got a little spoiled with nice dinners and more than a few glasses of wine. I also took my Dad on a tour of the animation studio, and he was beaming with excitement as I showed him the different parts of the offices. When he sat down at my desk and looked out the window at the rooftops – he suddenly leapt out of the chair and told me how proud he was. Suddenly, rats didn’t matter, and I was so grateful that he got to see what life was like here for me.
My Dad’s support is like a force of nature. His life changed completely a few years ago, and though there were really crappy days, it has been inspiring to watch him slowly put things back together. While we were biking around on Sunday, I took him down a road that is only open to pedestrians and cyclists on weekends. It runs a good couple of kilometres along the Seine, and after slowly pedalling along, we zipped down a hill, and all of the sudden my dad bolted in front of me. He had the hugest smile on his face, and looked like a little kid who just got his training wheels taken off.
Seeing him this happy made me question (for the millionth time) my plan to head back in October. I think I am ready to go home, but am I really ready to trade in bike rides along the Seine for getting stuck on Deerfoot? When we sat down for some wine, I was preparing myself for the “hang in there” speech, but I was surprised when my Dad offered something that hadn’t crossed my mind.
“Well, if you think about it, you have kind of been here since last summer. Of course, only you can know when you are really ready, but you never really came home the first time, you just wanted to get back over here…”
And he is absolutely right. I laid low for a little while last year when I got back, but I could not get the image of coming back to Paris out of my head. After a couple of months in Calgary, I was hell bent on getting here – I filled my evenings with job searching, visa applications, and random ways to earn some cash. Now when I think about how long I have been here, it makes sense that around six months seems kind of short, because for over a year, in one way or another, I have been living in Paris.
Lately I have been trying to figure out why just being ready to come home doesn’t feel like a good enough reason. If nothing else, I know should walk away from this experience with more confidence in the decisions I make, and not care so much about some imaginary “I Was Away for This Long” badge of honour. If I think back to the first time I ever thought about coming to Paris, registering in the French course at the Sorbonne, and all the things that came after, this all sort of started around April of last year. With the colours already changing in some parts of town, it really does feel right to start planning my next move.
For now, however, I am back in the swing of things. I am feeling much better, and am slowly crossing things off both to-do lists, including going to Versailles this weekend and checking out some castles on the road with my Dad.
Plus, the other day when I came home, instead of seeing rats outside the window, I saw a nice man with a hammer and nails. He came back a few minutes later with a long board, and started covering the hole where I had seen the rat.
“WONDERFUL.” I said. Well actually, I said “C’est pour les rats? Génial! Merci!”
He responded: Yes, but I’m only doing this one. Not yours.
Oh yes. France. How quickly I forget.
I nodded and went back to what I was doing. After a few moments, he added “It’s not that I’m trying to be rude. It’s just that your landlord is a jerk.” Noticing the perfect rat-shaped hole in the door of my storage space, I smiled as nicely as I could.
“I understand.” I replied. “But, like how much would you charge, if say, I asked you to do it?” Was I willing to sacrifice my cheese budget on rat prevention? Yes folks, yes I was.
“It’s not about money.” He answered, and I suddenly regretted this angle.
A few minutes later, he left and came back with another board. He started measuring, and sawing, and then hammered the board into place over the door to my storage space, making sure it would still open. I started thanking him and told him that he had totally made my day.
“You seemed nicer.” he said as I passed him a glass of juice.
“You seem badass.” I said in my head.
Instead I just kept smiling, and I still am.
