The International House of Students; or, Nothing Lasts Forever, Even Cold November Rain

This morning I trundled onto the metro in a state of fuzzy confusion surrounded by scary trample-prone speedwalking Parisiens, who apparently know their way around the city and the subway stations. I was headed to the American Church and up earlier than I've been in probably a few months, because word on the American teaching assistant street was that you can find postings for places to live there, but only if you get there before ten. That's housing in Paris for you, I guess. I proudly asked a Relay clerk for directions in perfect French once I got inevitably and horribly lost on the metro. He directed me to lignes 1 and 13, but when I emerged at Les Invalides in front of this fancy dome with gold statues and the Air France building with a good section of the Eiffel Tower in view, it occurred to me that I still didn't know exactly where I was going. I found myself asking for directions again, repeatedly, in increasingly bad French, until, after taking a few wrong turns, I made it to the American Church around ten sharp.

I assumed that this meant I was doomed to long-term homelessness in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. But as it turned out, only a small group of forlorn Americans (and some French people as well) flanked the bulletin boards, which were covered in refreshingly recent "annonces" for apartments and rooms to rent. This was truly amazing, as I've been scouring French craigslist on the daily, and their ads always seem to be a few days old - they don't come in very often, and yesterday I made about ten phone calls to people who had already rented their apartments.

In my woozy state, I scribbled down phone numbers in my notebook and headed back to Les Invalides to get the metro back to the Marais and my hostel, where I could call these people and beg for a place to live, boasting my tiny assistant's salary, funding from the parentals, and...I don't know...really, really liking France?

But it worked out. The American Church is way better than the Internet for finding a place to live, because you have to physically go there to get the information, you can't just stay at home in your PJs and check out listings online. Which means that to begin with, fewer people even see these ads, which means less competition, which means that all of the people I called in the hostel courtyard today, at least the ones who picked up, all still have rooms and apartments available. So I've gone from absolutely zero ideas hostel bound terrified to having an apartment visit in Montmartre scheduled tomorrow, an au pair interview next Monday, and another potential interview in the works. Okay, so I really don't want to be an au pair. But I'm going to be a teacher anyway, I like kids, and a lot of families in Paris rent out rooms or studios at discounted rates (read: affordable) in exchange for anything from babysitting a few hours a week to full-on live-in au pair-hood. I'm giving it some serious thought. Especially because, a lot of the time, these people want someone who can teach their kids English. I mean, I don't have a lot of money, I speak English, I teach English, I can totally tolerate children, and I really, really, really want to live in Paris - this is kind of a no-brainer.

I hope one of these situations works out. In the meantime I'm applying for housing in student apartments throughout Paris - literally, I'm applying to about five places. And in the mean-meantime, I'm staying at a hostel called MIJE, an acronym which, directly translated, means "International House of Students and Young People." Like IHOP, except it's PEOPLE. I'm staying in a room with six other people, two of whom I am sure are over MIJE's age limit, but I've been informed that the youth hostel thing is kind of a technicality. It's fine - we have a sweet courtyard, the people are friendly, and the only real drawback is that there's no wireless and one of the girls in my room snores like a seventy-year-old man with breathing problems. But it's an all right place to be right now, and I'm not really worried about theft - it feels very secure to me.

But the wireless, that's a problem. It means I have to go to Cafe Columbus on Rue Vieille du Temple once daily to check my email. I could go elsewhere, but Cafe Columbus is all right with me. It's a French chain that is clearly pretending to be Starbucks, because apparently the French are unaware of the fact that the way they do coffee is already way better than the way it's done in the US. It has the token whipped cream-topped fake coffee beverages, paper cups (whoa!), wireless internet, coffee bean murals, and, wait for it...it plays a lot of American music, although today seems to be 80s day, because they just played "November Rain." Not that I don't like Guns 'n Roses, it's just unexpected. Coffee shops in Seattle and Noho are always playing pretentious hipster music that is for the most part calm and mumbly, so it's nice to drink my espresso to some emotive upbeat-but-not rock with thunder in the background. Plus, let's face it, right now is sort of the "November Rain" period of my stay in Paris - confusing, frustrating, rife with uncertainty. So in a weird way, it's nice to know that it's temporary. I may be bouncing between youth hostels for now, but eventually Paris will feel familiar and I won't get lost on the metro and things will make a little bit of sense. I know this because I lived in Senegal for four months, and if Dakar started to feel like home, which it did, Paris will get there too, minus the near-constant marriage proposals from strange men, getting yelled at in the street, and being scared shitless every time I took public transit anywhere.

And I've definitely had a few moments where I feel like I'm in the opening to Beauty and the Beast and people are flinging their windows open saying, "Bonjour! Bonjour! Bonjour! Bonjour! Bonjour!" and dancing around with baguettes and books and stuff. Because I kind of love it here. And sometimes I have to remind myself that being here is literally a dream come true for me. I've wanted to live in Paris since I was twelve, and it's still crazy to me that I finally finagled a way to make it happen, however haphazardly it may have happened. I mean, really? I live in Paris?

And then there are times I get lost on the metro, and other unpleasantries occur. Let me just say, you haven't visited Paris until you've seen some random dude peeing in the street talking to himself in Paris. Whatever. Nothing lasts forever, even cold September days getting lost in the metro. Right, Slash, Axl?