[continued]
Those familiar with the French/European floor numbering system will conclude that 'Ol Karraker was on the wrong floor because what Americans call the "first floor" is the equivalent of "floor zero": the first floor is one flight above. But that wasn't the problem. The elevator was numbered properly and I had gotten off at "5" which means the sixth floor in American. But still the key didn't fit the lock.
It's a small apartment building with just two apartments per floor. The other apartment used a different lockset, a modern one, unlike the medieval-looking brass key I held. I rang the bell of the second apartment. A small dog barked furiously. Eventually a woman -- obviously older -- answered, and gruffly told me there was no M. Paugam. Her tone indicated I should slope off immediately.
With little else to do choose from, I decided to walk up to floor 6, the highest in the building. The lockset looked compatible. The key fit. I went in. No one was there. There was no note. Things were strewn about. It certainly didn't look as if the occupants were expecting guests. Still, I concluded, the key fit, so it must be the right place. I went down to get the others and the luggage.
Still unsure that we were in the right place we dropped our bags in the living room and surveyed the apartment. It seemed substantially different from the pictures we'd seen, yet it certainly seemed likely we were where we should be. A bit tentatively, we decided to go get lunch (crepes and panini at a cheap joint on the Blvd. Montparnasse a few blocks away).
On our return we knocked and buzzed, then went in. We called loudly. No answer. I mounted the stairs (it's a two-story or duplex apartment) to see two women, one, behind wearing a housecleaner's smock. Before her and shuffling toward me with tiny hesitant steps was a wraith, a rail-thin woman of about my height whose waist was about as thick as my thigh. She was clearly frail, though beaming broadly, and I was reminded that my sister Marcia, who had met M. Paugam 18 months ago in California, had mentioned that a "bad blood" transfusion had given her something akin to multiple sclerosis. We were "home," but we were hardly finished with surprises.
We spent an uncomfortable hour or so "making nice" and learning about the apartment. This was uncomfortable because I, politely, tried to speak in French and M. Paugam spoke in English that was as labored (but more grammatical) than my French. Then she would seemingly tire and lapse into solid French and assume that I understood. Not wishing to discomfort her, and presuming I could ascertain from the meaning from catching every tenth word, I'd nod or say "oui."
Then madam decided I should learn about the car, a tiny Smart, in the garage below. So while Sandy remained upstairs Madame, Ryan, Jill and I descended in the tiny lift to the "sous-caves" the second level underground. That's when the elevator, capacity 4 or 600 pounds, suddenly lurched and came to a halt, apparently between floors. The door wouldn't open. Madame tried several permutations of flipping unlabeled switches and prssing buttons, all to no avail. Eventually Ryan suggested I try prying the door open. Surprisingly, I was able to do so and we were only a foot or less above the floor of the landing.
We went into perhaps the world's smallest, lowest garage to inspect the car. Smart cars are but 8.5 feet long and seat only two, so we knew we weren't all going for a ride. Madame got behind the wheel and motioned me to the passenger's seat. I presumed she was going to show me the controls, etc. Not so: she fired up the engine, backed up without looking and we took off up the ramp. After four or six harrowing blind turns in the narrow passageway the garage door opened and we were on the street.
Madame drove atrociously, dangerously. In the U.S. she would have caused at least three accidents. But this is Paris and French drivers are both skilled and alert. Despite her unsignaled, abrupt U-turns and other infractions we returned alive and again negotiated the ramps and the parking space that was little more than two feet wider than the car. Thus endeth the driving lesson.
Jill and Ryan were of course perplexed when we disappeared. They waited a moment or so and went back. The elevator still "non marche plus" so they walked up the eight flights to the apartment. And so, 20 minutes later, did Madame and I. She moved slowly and deliberately, always with a quivering motion that I thought was sure to precede a fall. It took us awhile, and she paused often on the landings, but we got back.
Eventually she and Maria, her caretaker/housekeeper, left -- though she to return the next day and again on Wednesday before finally departing for California on Friday. And we, despite our earlier vows to stay awake until dark and thus begin to defeat jet lag, fell onto the beds and to sleep.
Sandy and I awoke later, then roused Jill and Ryan and we headed out for dinner. We walked through the Jardin de Luxembourg and up to the Blvd. St. Germain. We stopped for dinner at Leon of Bruxelles, a mussels and fries joint. Sandy and I love mussels and we've eaten at several of the Leon's locations in Paris. Ryan had a baked salmon casserole. Jill had a steak, a bit fatty to her taste. Prices were, of course, a shock. The last time we'd been in Paris, in 2001, the dollar and the euro were equal in value. Now the euro is worth 30 percent more (or the dollar is worth 30 percent less, depending on how you look at it). What used to be a bargain was now becoming pricey.
But it wasn't the prices that were to provide our final surprise of the evening.
[to be continued]
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