As my days in Paris have turned from weeks to months, I have become more and more confident in my ability to live on my own. I have mastered the transportation system and can find my way around most quarters without pulling out a map (the trick is to always know where you are in relation to the Seine). With the days of organizing and setting up accounts behind me, I am now able to charge my cell phone and transfer/withdrawal money without any hassles. I know where to find the freshest produce, the cheapest nylons and the European equivalent to baking soda. I know when to avoid certain museums and when to arrive to make it into the library at the Centre Pompidou in under an hour. I am a regular at the shoe repair shop. I may have found the only café in Paris (besides Starbucks) which allows you to sit for hours with books after only ordering a coffee. (Café de l’Industrie at Metro: Bastille). These and the always necessary “don’t mess with me” Paris face combine to create the perfect all-knowing façade that allows one to wander the streets without drawing unwanted attention. At times, even I am convinced that I have truly become a partial Parisien “femme”. Of course, this is just the time when Paris decides to remind me that—even in the smallest ways—I am not.

Example #1) On Monday morning, I finally decided to gather up my 3 weeks worth of laundry (some of it from before the holidays!) and roll my overstuffed suitcase down to the Laundromat. I have given up on waiting for a clear day—no matter the forecast, it always manages to rain on the day I need to carry pounds of clothes 15 minutes into downtown Sèvres (without free hands, I can’t carry an umbrella!). On this particular morning, the owner of the Laundromat was doing his daily check-up and had a good laugh when I entered with soaking hair. It turns out that this was a good ice breaker. As I loaded the machines, he told me about his ambitions to be a pilot and travel the world and gave me tips about which dryer worked the fastest. “Seulement 2 fois!” (Meaning that my towels would be dry in 16 minutes on high heat! This was actually a very nice thing to find out—as it had been taking an average of 3 hours with the machine I had been using all semester.) It wasn’t until just before starting the wash that I once again became the naïve foreigner. “Avez-vous la lessive?” –Oui, of course I had detergent, it was in my hand! Or at least…as I soon learned—the fabric softener was in my hand. It turned out I have been washing my clothes with it all semester—not with detergent. My impulse to by the container with the first word I understood “hypo-allergenique” at the beginning of the year had led to repeat purchases of the same product without further review. You can imagine my mother’s response when I informed her of this. I had indeed succumbed to that French stereotype of not washing! Don’t worry, I think there must have been some cleaning agent in it, they always smelled good! It was a good thing that the “laverie” sold detergent by the cup.

My second example is not quite as good, but was equally entertaining to the witnesses I am sure. After my 3rd pair of shoes (the ones I had had fixed earlier) fell victim to the elements of Paris streets, I had the brilliant idea of bringing my remaining boots to the repair shop for some preventative work. Unfortunately, this meant that I was left with the choice of running shoes (definitely not an option) or flats to wear to class on one of the rainiest days yet. Aware of the hazards of this choice, I made the extra effort of placing importance on the position of each step as I walked to class that morning. Of course, a momentary loss of focus—caused by a forgotten ‘bisous’ as I parted from a friend—led to a cartoon-esque slip and inevitable collision with the ground outside of the café we had just occupied. Waiters came running and pedestrians and café-people-watchers goggled.

At least I am sure to be remembered when I return—both to my Laundromat and the café.

I am quickly realizing that trial-and-error is certainly the most effective method of learning and am convinced that the title of this blog site should have been “Cassie’s Final Attempt to Find Grace.”