Sick Days, the Lazypants French, and Illegal Crepes

For the first time in a while, I've become really and truly fed up with this country and its illogical, non-functioning, document-loving system. A few days ago I called in sick. I’d gone to bed early the night before and woke up with a sore throat, a super broken voice, and that general “bleh” feeling which even a speedy shower in my bathroom under the bed didn’t help. My knee (on which I’ve had surgery twice and which is now possibly inflicted with arthritis at age 22, thanks gymnastics!) had also been hurting so much in my sleep that it woke me up several times begging me for some vicodin. While neither my throat nor my knee was debilitating enough to disable me from doing my job, I knew that if I left my apartment at 7 a.m., climbed all the stairs in the metro, walked the underground marathon of chatelet, and then trekked from the train station to school in the freezing cold air, I was only going to feel worse at the end of the day. So I made the call to each of the teachers I’d be working with that day and went back to bed. Unfortunately, I made a mistake: when the second teacher offered to tell the school for me that I was sick, I said yes and thanked her. WRONG ANSWER! What I failed to realize in that moment was that I should have said I’d call the school myself, or that I already had, then not called at all and hoped the secretary wouldn’t find out. Why? Because, the secretary is out to get me. Because in France, if you call in sick, you have to go to a doctor in order to obtain a medical certificate to bring back to your work. That’s right, the French work system functions just like second grade: if you’re not coming to school, you’d better bring them a note to prove it. On the one hand, it seems totally ridiculous to me that there is no sense of trust in the employer/employee relationship. With this system, a person can never take a day off for a bad cold, a migraine, severe menstrual cramps, or depression. If the mere concept of a “mental-health” day didn’t exist in America, I never would have graduated from anything! These circumstances considered, the French “doctor policy” seems unnecessary and unfair. However, when I think about my experiences with French teachers, businesses, and other professionals, I can see why maybe our “call in sick, we trust you, no questions asked as long as you show up tomorrow” policy wouldn’t fly here—because NO ONE would go to work, EVER! During my first week here, a teacher complained to me that this was the “fifth day in a row” she had worked this week. Five whole days? Seriously? I don’t know about France, but where I come from, that’s called a job. And then there are the businesses with their fake closing times. No matter what time they claim to be open until, they will always kick you out at least fifteen minutes prior to that hour. Even before that, they might refuse to let you in. But what if you have to run in for just one thing?
The store is closed.
But it’s only 9:40! You close at 10!
We start closing now.
But I just need to grab a bottle of shampoo! It won’t possibly take me 20 minutes!
Shampooing? Ze French do not care about shampoo. We are closed.

…And that’s pretty much how it goes for any guard/customer confrontation occurring within 20 minutes before closing time, whether you’re at Starbucks, H&M, or the Louvre, which is particularly irritating when you’ve just bought the late night ticket because it’s half-price and counted on having those last twenty minutes in the gallery of Roman sculpture…which is, naturally, already “closed.”

There is one exception to this rule that I have encountered thus far, and it was an experience I will remember forever: the night of the secret illegal crepes. My friend from home was visiting me and we only had two days and three nights here to see and do everything in Paris. Among other, more respectable things like sightseeing, our agenda included consuming two bottles of wine and delicious crepes each night. One night as we had finished off the wine in my giant bed on the "second floor" of the apartment (the lofted 7x7 above the itty bitty bathroom), we decided we were ready for our 2 a.m. snack. Warm and happy, we set out on a quest for cheesy crepes. Because it was very late and because it was a Tuesday night and because businesses don't actually like to be open at even convenient times, we walked for quite a while without finding any open stands, never mind one wrapping a mound of swiss cheese with freshly cooked pancake batter. We were almost ready to give up when something amazing happened: we heard the sound of people--and then we smelled the cheese--and finally, when we were close enough, we saw the big round metal pan tended by our God, the Illegal Crepemaker Man. Ecstatic with our fortunate discovery and still mildly buzzed, we ordered deux crepes fromages and were directed inside to pay. The small room inside was full of people sitting at the tables, an unexpected sight on this otherwise deserted street. After waiting in line at the counter we paid for our food, grabbed the two crepes, and headed for the door. That’s when the man at the door gave me the most curious instructions: “Mettez-la dans la poche, s’il vous plait.”
I laughed. Put it in my pocket? “Really?”
“Oui, s’il vous plait!”
This guy was not joking around about the crepe in the pocket thing, so I did as I was told and so did Kara. We said merci and au revoir, then scurried away, pockets full of glory, hilariously baffled by what had just happened. Was he actually just kidding and we mis-took him seriously? Did he think someone was going to steal our crepes on the walk home? Did we just seem like two drunk fools and he was afraid we would drop the crepes before we could enjoy the tasty snacks?

No. This guy was definitely serious, and he was asking us—for his sake, it seemed—to hide the crepes. I’m sure the place was just not allowed to be open because it would exceed the maximum number of business hours permitted, but it’s a lot more fun to imagine that there’s an illegal, underground crepe operation going on throughout all of Paris. When I really get down on this country, that’s the kind of thing I think about: Frenchmen who will defy the government to provide their customers with delicious desserts. At the end of the day—or maybe the end of the week—the good and the bad all even out, and I am left in a place of cheese and wine and tiny dogs and funny hats, and let’s be honest: those are really all you need to forget about everything in between.

Apartment Hunting, My Little Ice Box

In the process of emailing and calling dozens of landlords, subletters, scam artists and potential roommates, I learned a few things about finding housing in Paris:

1. Do not assume there is a bathroom in the apartment.

2. If they want to know how long you'll be staying, lie!

3. If you're foreign, you will need to provide an extra arm and leg.

4. Be prepared to wait in a line of equally discouraged homeless people.

5. Get ready to lower your standards of living and raise your budget.

6. If the bathroom isn't explicitly listed as "separate," the shower is probably in the kitchen.

7. Landlords want you to have a bank account before renting an apartment. Banks want you to have housing before opening a bank account. So if you want to have a fighting chance at getting an apartment, get used to carrying hundreds of euros in cash around at all times. It is undoubtedly one of the stupidest things you can do, but you never know when a landlord might take pity on your crazy, crying ass and accept your fist full of monopoly money.

8. "One room sleeps four people" is a frequent catchphrase. And is bullshit.

9. If the landlord is on craigslist and is currently in Nigeria doing missionary work, it's a scam.

10. There is always, always someone more desperate than you.


In the end I wound up finding an apartment through a website for French-American resources. The studio is one room with a lofted bed and a bathroom underneath it. That's right--the bathroom is UNDER THE BED! The shower dials for hot and cold are reversed, and the hot water only lasts five minutes tops...but by then I'm usually standing in a puddle 3 inches deep, so it's time to get out anyway. I have several space heaters that don't really do much unless you're standing just close enough not to burn yourself, and I have a totally rad futon that was probably bought circa 1980 and inspired by colorforms.

My apartment is on the second floor of a historic building with some really beautiful, really special stairs.. The first has wide, smooth stone steps that slant to the left, so every time I climb them I think of all the Passover jokes I could make if I had a single Jewish friend here. The second flight narrows as one climbs, and each step is composed of two different types of wood, both very slippery, divided by a large crack in the middle. Had I not seen my friend slip and spiral down an entire staircase on her ass, I might not believe they were so perilous, but at the end of a long night out, I'm always super proud when I make it to the top.

After I come back from the holiday break at home, I'm staying in a friend's teenie but ultra hip and oddly red studio, then moving to another apartment. I'm going to miss my little log cabin fort box. Every time I find myself holding a laptop in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other and falling backwards into a wall while climbing a ladder to get to my bed, I'll think of that ridiculous place I briefly called home.