Escaping Paris Lockdown

Ile-de-Noirmoutier, Saturday, March 28, 2020

On my last day of work at Le Cordon Bleu two weeks ago, I wore latex gloves. The boulangerie class I often translated for had visibly shrunk. “They left France already,” explained the remaining bread students, two of whom wore masks.

It was their artistic piece exam day, but that’s not the only reason why everyone was so tense.

“No need to panic,” joked one student when the chef stepped out of the room. “We’ll have plenty of decorative bread baskets during the crisis.”

It seemed more wasteful than usual to be making art out of perfectly good flour and butter.

On my walk home from work, I passed by the public pool where my son was supposed to have a swimming placement test in a few days. “Closed until further notice,” read a large sign on the door. I could have sworn it had been open that morning. Things were moving fast. Just two days before, President Macron had announced that all French schools and universities would be closed jusqu’à nouvel ordre. I had a strong suspicion that my son’s tennis class that afternoon was going to be canceled. I called the courts and sure enough: the sports stadium where he had his weekly lesson had been closed by municipal order at 2 pm that day. 

By late afternoon, we learned that all cafés, restaurants, and “unnecessary” stores would be closed to the public starting at midnight.

It was happening. Paris would become a ghost town just like Milan and Wuhan.

Usually when things got rocky in Paris, I could torture myself by imagining how life would be so much easier back in Southern California. But this time was different; the same nightmarish mess unfolding in France seemed to be imminent in America, too.

We were all trapped.

The next day, Sunday, strict lockdown (or confinement) rumours began circling online. After dinner, while our children played in the living room, we hurriedly phoned friends and neighbours from our tiny Paris kitchen to tell them that we were packing our bags. We would drive to Noirmoutier—an island off Nantes— early the next morning. My husband’s family had a house there just a minute’s walk from the beach. There was also a garden and more rooms than in our Paris apartment.

 

We weren’t the only Parisian family to flee the capital that week. The French phone giant Orange estimates that seventeen percent of Parisians—roughly over one million people—escaped the Paris region when we did.

Just the Friday before, parents had been musing about organising play dates in the park and study dates with friends to help pass the long days when schools would be closed. “We won’t go to the movies,” one friend had told me outside school Friday afternoon, “but I can’t keep my five children indoors for five weeks.”

The idea of remaining inside a Paris apartment with children for weeks on end with none of the usual reliefs like museum outings; picnics and bike rides in the parks; coffee and goûter with friends in cafés; or extracurricular activities was unthinkable for many.

 

So we left. We left behind our decent WIFI connection, boxes of Lego and Kapla, and puzzles galore for a slice of green, open space.

It almost felt like going on vacation; we could hear the roar of waves like freeway traffic from the front yard as soon as we arrived. The first two days, I even took the kids for short walks on the beach; we made sure not to go anywhere near other people. But these brief escapes wouldn’t last; by Thursday, metal gates and large white signs barred our entrance to the beaches.

 

We were left with the garden. In the evenings—after densely digital days of juggling screens, scanners, and printers, so our son could connect to his distant learning class and do his homework and my husband could work—our household could finally unwind.  We’d all made it through another day. The kids cut branches for the fire, and after dinner, they brushed teeth, grabbed their jackets and pulled boots on over their pajamas. The nights were clear and beautiful. We never could see any stars in Paris.

 

Timeline:

Thursday, March 12: President Macron announces schools will be closed as of Monday, March 16

Saturday, March 14: the French Prime Minister announces that all restaurants, cafés, movie theaters, and unnecessary stores will close at midnight; municipal sports facilities close in Paris

Monday, March 16: President Macron announces lockdown for all of France beginning at noon on Tuesday, March 17

Tuesday, March 17: all city parks and gardens close in Paris

Thursday, March 19: French authorities begin closing access to beaches 

Where Are You From?

Lucille Ball, Keith Thibodeaux, and Desi Arnaz as the Ricardos. [Online image] 1956.

Whether at home in Paris or back home in California, I get asked the same question. Where are you from? It's like I have "foreigner" stamped on my forehead no matter where I go. (Well, stamped on my tongue is more like it.) After 10+ years living in France, my English does have a bit of a lilt to it, and I end up "searching my words" (and, yes, translating French expressions directly into English). And as for my French: well, I never could pronounce "r," "ou," or "u." My French in-laws love trying to make me say words like "citrouille" just so they can hear the tortured syllables escape my American mouth, as my brain searches in vain for safe alternatives: "potiron"? There's only one thing I can do: swallow my pride and admit that the person asking me the question has the home advantage. . . though I do have the advantage of having two homes.

Plastic or Nothing?

F. Huffman & D. Savant in DH

Asking for bags at a Paris grocery store (La Grande Epicerie aside) can feel a lot like pulling teeth--deeply rooted, French teeth. You hold your breath as the checker eyes your groceries--trying to eyeball the bare minimum of bags needed to carry your bananas and yogurt home in one piece--before doling them out begrudgingly, one by one.
Walking down the street later with your coveted sacs--especially if they're brightly colored Monoprix bags--you can't help feeling a bit triumphant. You can already see their pink glow lining your bathroom wastepaper basket or enveloping your bathing suit after tomorrow's swim.
But now all that is ending. Later this month, Monoprix will no longer be giving customers plastic bags at checkout. So it's back to buying drab army-green trash bags--or splurging at Fauchon when you're in need of some sacs en rose.

"Le Troisième Sexe"

My mother had told me that one of the best parts about being pregnant is how nice everyone suddenly becomes. I still wasn't prepared. For any of it. Parisian bus drivers who overnight began waiting for me with open doors, telling me not to run. Salesmen offering to carry my purchases for me. Fellow shoppers letting me go ahead of them at check-out. My mother-in-law asking me how I am.
The transition would probably have been a lot easier in the States, where people's natural kindness would simply have been super-sized. Here in Paris, it's like being in Invasion of the Bodysnatchers--only the alien duplicates are the ones with feelings. The strange thing is that pregnant women aren't even a rare commodity here. And I think I'm beginning to understand why. What's a little morning sickness and labor compared to nine blissful months of solicitude in a city where the customer notoriously counts for rien? And did I mention my mother-in-law?!

Dianna Agron as Quinn Fabray. [Online image] 2010.

"Les Gardiennes"

Just like the residents that live within the walls they watch over, concierges come in all shapes and sizes. Some are relatively young and coquettes; others less so.
In Paris, many gardiennes are Portuguese. During the housing crisis of the 1960s, Portuguese immigrants were drawn to the concierge trade, so that they could give their kids a decent Paris-level education without having to pay Paris-level rent.
Despite such dexterity, to the many stuffy members of the French upper classes, gardiennes epitomize one thing: le mauvais goût. "You can't buy that throw for your sofa. My concierge has one just like it!" Or, "Tulle on your wedding car? Do you think you're marrying the concierge's son or something?"
But concierges can have an attitude of their own. Upon your arrival in their apartment building, you can expect to be looked up and down with a wary eye. They'll want to brief you on the residence "rules" and make sure you know who is boss. And if you want to receive your mail on time and have your palier swept and cleaned, you'd be wise to acquiesce.

Josiane Balasko as Madame Michel. [Online image] 2009.

"Pelouses Inaccessibles"

In France, even the grass gets vacation time. A long winter's nap, with only the pigeons' tickling feet to stir it in its sleep.
Even as Spring approaches, and scarves and boots are flung into heaps, a sign keeps watch: PELOUSE AU REPOS.
The Paris mairie has a web page dedicated to the city's grass and its much needed repos, explaining why "winter is a difficult time for lawns."
And, for once, Parisians obey. They keep off the grass every year until April 15th--and then Paris' parks and squares are transformed. The long deserted grass is suddenly blanketed with rejoicing sunbathers and picnickers, as children play ball once again, and toddlers' chubby hands grasp their new green toy.
After entertaining all of Paris for six months, it's little wonder why the grass needs a break.

Elizabeth Hartman and Sidney Poitier as Selina D'Arcey and Gordon Ralfe. [Online image] 1965.

Winter, Winter, Go Away. . .

It's been another cold winter here in France. But despite some compulsory mumble-grumbles, the natives haven't let a little snow and ice get to them. While the rest of us cower behind bulky turtlenecks and scarves and hide our wind-beaten hair and hands under woolen hats and gloves, Parisian women seem to say, "Pooh-pooh!" in their fur-lined doudounes and sleek leather boots. The fact that it's still dark out at 8am doesn't seem to faze their morning beauty routines either. As tempting as it may be for us weaker souls to mimic winter’s lazy sun and stay hidden under the eiderdown, les Parisiennes manage to look perky (well, everything’s relative) and rosy-faced throughout the dreary winter months. As for me, I think I’d rather wait till spring creeps over the windowsill.

Audrey Hepburn as Eliza Doolittle. [Online image] 1964.

Apartment Hunting in Paris

There comes a time when "home" starts feeling a little tight around the seams. That dream apartment whose endless rooms of empty space you walked through a few years has somehow grown enough sticks of furniture, coffee table books, and electrical appliances to fill a house. And when you start bruising yourself on dresser corners on your way to open a window and bend down to get something out of a kitchen cabinet only to find yourself sitting on the hot oven door your husband just opened, a little voice inside tells you that it's that time again.
So you scour seloger.com and pap.fr in search of your next appartement de rêve.
What will it take this time? An extra chambre, so your desk and dining room table don't have to share a room anymore? Or a separate salle de bains and salle d'eau, so taking a shower no longer means taking a number? A balcony would be nice, too--no more repotting flowers in the bathtub. . . and maybe a view of something other than the apartment building across the courtyard, though people-watching can be pretty fun. . .

Chris Noth and Sarah Jessica Parker as Mr. Big and Carrie Bradshaw. [Online image] 2008.

Snowflakes and Slush

Growing up in Southern California, I thought that snowflakes were only in storybooks. (Like indoor school cafeterias were only on TV.) Nothing in real life could be that perfect and white. Rain was enough cause for excitement. We got to take umbrellas to school and have PE in the auditorium. Playing dodgeball to the beat of the rain outside: that was magical. A schoolyard blanketed in soft whiteness would have been too much.
And to Parisians, it seems like too much as well. The city holds it breath when the first flakes fall. All is quiet. Then when the snow sticks to the ground, everyone exhales at once. Policemen appear on street corners in sturdy boots. Children are bundled up like sausages, and women hurry around in fur hats. Soon the crisp whiteness turns to muddy slush. And then the rain returns.

Julie Christie and Omar Sharif as Lara and Dr. Yuri Zhivago. [Online image] 1965.

Diet Coke and Thimerosal?!

Despite its progressive health care system, French medical advice can seem pretty old-fashioned--and not in the good way. So unless your OBGYN moonlights as a Yogaphile osteopath, she'll most likely assume that you're looking for a nice 1950s-style, heavily anesthetized birthing experience.
Breastfeeding? Well, if you're sure you want to go to the trouble. Doesn't matter too much, though, because the baby will spend his days at the crêche by the time he's three months old anyway. In the meantime, are you suffering from morning sickness? Diet Coke works wonders. (Ah, yes, lovely thing, aspartame.) And here's a prescription for some anti-nausea medicine. It's not recommended for pregnant women, but it can't do that much harm. And you should also get the swine flu vaccine, of course. Thimer-what? No, no, if it weren't safe, I would have heard something. Now, have you chosen a hospital? What? A doula? (Looks searchingly at my French husband, hoping for an intelligible word from one of the future parents.) Uh, no, I highly doubt that a respectable public hospital in Paris would let someone like that in the delivery room.
Any other questions?

Lucille Ball as Lucy Ricardo. [Online image] 1952.

Parallel Universes

When I'm home in California, I do the same types of things that I do when I'm home in Paris: I go to the pool; I cook spicy Mexican food with the radio turned up high; I do Yoga; I go out for coffee.
But life is so different for the other "me"-- as Nancy Huston puts it in Nord Perdu--living on the other side of the Atlantic.
While the LA me enters empty swimming pools and square stucco coffee shops with quiet, coffee drinkers in khaki shorts politely typing on keyboards and sipping skinny lattés, the Paris me kicks though crowded pool traffic to be greeted by winking café waiters busy serving middle-aged women mid-morning chardonnay and working men stout pints of beer.
My two universes aren't completely parallel, though, because the two "me"s come together sometimes. Like in yoga class when my eyes are closed. Or when I bite into a really good veggie burrito. Then I can fade out the glittering ocean or sparkling Eiffel Tower; smiling, wide-eyed English voices and mischievous Parisian wiles--and just feel home.

Paul Hogan as Mick Dundee. [Online image] 1986.

"Service Après Vente"

When a ripple of globalization finally finds its way to Paris, it's hard not to see the upside. Like when Starbuck's started popping up everywhere from the Madeleine to the Marais. Sure, it was hard not to feel guilty passing up an authentic neighborhood café for an obnoxious American chain, but it's amazing how no-smoking signs, friendly service, and soy milk can melt guilt away into pure contentment. Or when “returns" and "exchanges” finally became part of French salespeople’s vocabulary.
Yes, service après vente in Paris has definitely come a long way. I still have nightmarish memories of my failed attempt to return spoiled cheese to my local G-20 market eight years ago. I went in mustering all of my French-acquired politeness, asking with wide eyes what the store policy was for returns. But the store manager took one look at me and my rotten cheese and started yelling. How dare I come to him with cheese problems when obviously he wasn't the one who had made the cheese! Another time, I tried taking a top back to Benetton--it had reacted with my deodorant the first time I had worn it and turned into a mottled mess of ghostly white stains. The saleslady told me with a snotty smile that it wasn't Benetton's problem; I needed to complain to my deodorant maker. . . so basically all purchases used to be final in France--unless a store had a specially designated service après vente annex building (and the customer had a lot of time or was at least willing to cry pretty hard).
Dieu merci, in the past few years, service après vente has become intriguingly simple. I am happy to say that I have successfully exchanged rotten Noirmoutier potatoes at Monoprix for fresh ones, and I have even exchanged a flawed clothing article twice without a whimper of a protest from the sales assistant. Nothing spells globalization like a helpful salesperson in Paris.

Alan Ruck, Matthew Broderick, and Mia Sara as Cameron Frye, Ferris Bueller, and Sloane Peterson. [Online image] 1986.

Smoking is Still Chic in Paris

Even though more French women have started looking American around the middle, pressure to stay slim in Paris is as heavy as a six-egg chocolate mousse with extra crème fraîche and butter. Curvy just doesn't spell chic here (except maybe to Vincent Cassel).
But instead of reaching for running shoes and nonfat yogurt to stave off unwanted kilos, chic Parisiennes manage to eat what they please and rarely break a sweat. How do they do it? Cigarettes.
Unlike in America, where chain-smoking went from glamorous to trashy last century, in France, spewing lung-poisoning fumes in front of others is still considered perfectly acceptable behavior for an upstanding citizen. Which means that most days, you'll find yourself sputtering your way through a labyrinth of smoke emerging from the unabashed mouths of well-dressed businesswomen, friends gossiping in sidewalk cafés, and young mothers pushing (with one-hand) smart Maclaren strollers.
It’s enough to make you want to return to the land of Botox and celebrity diets, where even the head of state has the decency to smoke in private.

Sharon Gless as Madeline Westen. [Online image].

"La Fête Nat"

It's a national holiday. It's in July. The date starts with "four." How different can it be?
Well, assez different.
For starters, there are NO decorations anywhere. No blue, white, and red napkins or streamers in the supermarket, no flags waving outside of people's homes or glued onto t-shirts. No tricolor desserts or face paints for sale. Unless you're in an official military parade, it's really not your place to show any team spirit (expect for lighting fire crackers).
Luckily being a willing spectator isn't that hard of a role to play, especially in Paris.
This year, crowds will gather early in the Champs de Mars. Not to eat hot dogs or watch cheesy reenactments of the storming of the Bastille--or even to sing patriotic ditties. They'll be there for Johnny. But once the night is filled with booms and echoing "oohs," you might well tell yourself, "It's not that different." Who would have thought that after dark, even Parisians can act impressed?

Sophia Loren and Cary Grant as Tom Winters and Cinzia Zaccardi. [Online image] 1958.

Finding the Keys to Lutèce

It's easy to forget that not everyone who comes to Paris is living a dream come true. Take a walk to the Eiffel Tower on a summer evening, and sure, you'll pass a group of well-fed, wide-eyed tourists, cameras flashing away. But just around the corner, a different group will be waiting, metal rings of Eiffel Towers dangling from their fingers like misshapen keys. Their wide eyes won't waste a second on the Iron Lady: all they see are three pairs of blue-cuffed hands grabbing the bare arms of one of theirs and his keys to the Parisian dream being torn away.

Ayush Mahesh Khedekr as Jamal Malik. [Online image] 2008.

Getting in Step with Paris

It's hard to find the right balance in Paris. One minute a shopkeeper is ignoring you; the next, you're listening to the roundup of all the quartier's news since De Gaulle was President--the first time around. The reassuring, bubbly, and to-the-point, "Hi! How can I help you?," is as foreign here as a mimosa on an Air France flight. But until you acquire a taste for Parisian small talk, there's no reason not to be bubbly and to-the-point yourself. If anyone raises an eyebrow, you can always comfort yourself later by adding a little orange juice to your champagne.

Lucille Ball as Lucy Ricardo. [Online image] 1956.

Every Little Breeze Seems to Whisper. . .

Spring always seems to arrive in Paris overnight. One day, your fingers are shivering as you button up your coat, and the next morning you find yourself kicking off your boots and slipping your bare feet into a pair of flats.
Of course, some people just grin and bear the heat. The French seem to have a disrobing angst when it comes to winter coats and scarves. "En avril, ne vous découvrez pas d'un fil ; en mai, faites ce qui vous plaît," the saying goes. Heaven only knows what would happen if you start showing some skin in March!

Audrey Hepburn as Ariane Chavasse. [Online image] 1957.

Another Side of Gay Paris

Despite Paris' steady embourgeoisement since the 1950s, citadins of the capital of fashion and romance are not always trippping down the street in la dernière mode, arm in arm with a dapper Prince Charmant.
Crouched on the sidewalk outside supermarkets or on top of glauques underground staircases, less fortunate Parisians raise their heads as bustling shoppers and commuters rush by. "Bonjour, bonjour," a monotonous voice repeats, switching to "Merci, merci" every time someone slows down to drop a shiny coin into a weathered cup.
Around 8 pm (dinnertime in France), you might see the voice's owner waiting in line for a plastic bowl of steaming soup, as across the street, a parallel world laughs and blows cigarette smoke in-between gourmet forkfuls.

Juliette Binoche as Michèle Stalens. [Online image] 1991.

Paris "En Semaine"

Savoring Paris on a weekday feels a bit like playing hooky. As you sit back in a cozy café, sipping a rich soy latté (ok, it's Starbucks, but still), you can't help but imagine coworkers lined up in front of a coin-operated instant coffee machine. Slip into a dark movie theater in the Latin Quarter, and for a second, you picture the office gang stifling yawns in front of an interminable PowerPoint presentation. Almost takes the fun out of flâning on a manic Monday. Almost.

Mia Sara and Matthew Broderick as Sloane Peterson and Ferris Bueller. [Online image] 1986.

Oh, "Beau Sale Temps"

Parisians really don't like the rain. "Quel temps !" they sputter, shaking the city's dampness off their impers and opening up their parapluies to dry on the palier.
And can you blame them? Paris gets pretty moche when it's wet out and raindrops hold tight to lonely park benches, as the floors of métro stations become laced with muddy prints.
A speaker at the Salon du Bien-Etre this weekend got me thinking, though. "What do you do if you live in a gray and rainy city like Paris?" she asked.
"Get a light box," seemed like the obvious reply.
But her answer was more clear-cut: "Either move to the South, or learn to like the rain."
Guess it's time to start looking for poetry in those muddy footprints.

Charmian Carr as Liesl von Trapp. [Online image] 1965.