Living like a Local

Uniqlo coat (similar)
Gap sweater
Aritzia culottes (similar)
Oak + Fort mules (similar)
APC handbag
Zara sunglasses (similar)
Keltie Leanne Designs ring (c/o)
Gisel B. earrings (c/o)
Location: Passage d’Enfer – Paris

Dear friends,

Paris is, of course, not perfect. Its flaws are part of what I love about it. But living like a local in the French capital, which travel guides now tell us is the most desirable way to see the world, means dealing with the same frustrations as the locals. Paris is a crowded place, with more people than space for them to live. Its buildings and infrastructure are older than my home country in its current iteration. Maintenance and repairs are an endless game of catch-up; by the time one project ends, and then the next, its time to begin the first one over again.

On our way back to our apartment Saturday night, we finally noticed the large, obvious signs in all the metro stations for the ligne quatre, the only one that serves our neighbourhood. The line is closed Monday to Thursday night at 10:15 pm, and until 10 am on Sunday mornings for most of the year. That explains the hollowed out stations and loose wires that, after years of visits, we see but no longer notice. (After all, something somewhere is always being repaired.) Unless we want to take a very long bus ride, we are effectively trapped in the fourteenth arrondissement until 10:01 am.

A local would take the opportunity to sleep in. Most do on Sundays whether the metro is running or not. Although some stories now open for a limited time on the seventh day of the week, it is, historically and culturally, a day of rest that Parisians take seriously. A sensible jetlagged person would follow their example.

…my alarm rings at 6 am like every other day. It is still night outside and I am groggy from the diphenhydramine I took to help me sleep through what is normally my daytime. But I find my way to the shower easily enough. That’s where I realise what I’ve forgotten. “Apple cider vinegar,” I mutter to myself. Which sounds like nonsense, even when I hear it. But apple cider vinegar is the difference between terrible hair and reasonable hair in Paris, where the water is hard and full of minerals. (If you’ve ever wondered why all Parisian style icons have messy hair, you know now.) It’s 6:02 am and I already know it’s going to be a terrible hair day. Not an ideal start.

The hot water is a bit temperamental. This is another reality of local life – years ago, we had an apartment with particularly bad plumbing and several servicemen came to look at our shower over the course of our twelve-month stay. I will never forget the one who insisted that the plumbing problems could only be caused by our ostentatious North American habit of bathing daily, and for more than two minutes each time. “Me, I’m in and out like that,” he told us, quite proudly, snapping his fingers to illustrate his point.

Water that runs hot and cold is, at best, a minor irritation. Dirty-looking hair is something I can live with for a day. But I officially panic when I plug in my parents’ miniature hairdryer, which I borrowed for this trip, and it whirs for a second before stopping dead. It’s too early. I forgot to change the voltage settings. I’ve broken the hairdryer and it’s only day one.

I change the voltage settings. Still nothing. There has to be another plug. It’s fair to say that I am overreacting quite seriously by this point for no good reason since I know that I can replace the hairdryer for about thirty-five dollars. But although I may be living like a local in a Paris apartment, I will never master Parisian cool. If showering and drying my hair can be considered plans, then all of my plans for the day have already fallen apart and it’s only 6:20 am!

Desperate, I search for another outlet and find one in the kitchen. The hairdryer whirs to life. Crisis averted. Sunday is back on track. By the time Ian wakes up an hour later, it’s like none of it ever happened. We eat a quick breakfast of fruit and leftover granola bars from our carry-on bags – not very much like locals at all – before we head out into the cool morning to find the Passage d’Enfer.

The thing about living like a local is that every corner of your neighbourhood won’t be picturesque. We are staying between a bakery and a sandwich shop, both of which have their metal shutters closed at this early hour. This is just a neighbourhood. Grocery stores, real estate agencies and two-star hotels, all with unremarkable exteriors, line the streets. I’m not complaining, although I continue to question brand strategies that lead companies to choose orange as their primary logo colour; we have everything we need here to live just as if we were at home. All of the signs are printed in French, but that is the only significant difference. What we lack is the charming Parisian backdrop that only exists in tourist areas.

But the Passage d’Enfer is not far away. While not exactly a tourist attraction, it is a local curiosity, a beautiful lane of pastel houses named after Hell. Like rue Cremieux on the rive droite, it is part of the neighbourhood but distinct from it at once. We find our way easily, pausing in front of a few unusual doors along the way. (I doubt a true local would notice them, but Parisian doors in their often absurd intricacy of design remain a source of fascination for me.) We find gates at both ends of the Passage, but no one locked them last night. I will gladly trespass to get the perfect shot, so we let ourselves in without hesitation. Soft morning sun bathes the creamy buildings. The Passage d’Enfer, I think, is decidedly heavenly.

We snap away happily, totally undisturbed by residents, who never know we have arrived and don’t notice when we leave. By the time we walk out again, it is nearly ten o’clock. The metro will be running soon. And since we are not locals, that means it’s almost time for our next Parisian adventure to begin.