Petite Confessions - Vicki Lesage (read dune .txt) 📗

American hometown, and having been unceremoniously freed from my IT job, this fearless 25-year-old was ready for a change.

I had dipped my toes in the proverbial European pond over the course of several college backpacking trips and now wanted to experience living there. To wake up to the smell of fresh croissants, to drink copious amounts of wine straight from the source, and maybe meet a tall, dark and handsome Frenchman. Who was, of course, not a wienie.

Oh, to be back in the shoes (or flip-flops, as it were) of that intrepid girl, arriving in a new land, successfully commandeering the Métro and her luggage, triumphantly arriving on the doorstep of her destination.

The smooth sailing didn’t last long.

I had sublet an apartment for the summer from an unseen Irish girl, Colleen, using Craigslist. The photos showed a charming, yet tiny, apartment that I already pictured myself living in. You’d think this was where the story starts to go wrong, but the girl and the apartment did exist! Making it probably the last apartment to be legitimately rented online before scammers cornered the market.

For me, the issue was getting in to the apartment.

First I had to get the key. Colleen had agreed to leave it next door at the convent (Me? Living next to a convent? This’ll be good.) The Catholic schoolgirl in me had an overly romanticized notion of how a Parisian convent would look. I was expecting some sort of Gothic cathedral with nunny looking nuns. So I must have walked past the modern, imposing structure about twenty times, sure I’d been conned, before I noticed the sign. Ahem.

I retrieved the key using a combination of my shaky French and the logic that, c’mon ladies, how would anyone else have found out about this bizarre scenario and come knocking on your door?

“Bonjour, je m’appelle Vicki. Comment allez-vous?” I asked the group of navy-blue-clad, pious-looking women gathered inside the doorway.

The elderly (aren’t they all?) nun closest to me cautiously replied, “Pas mal. Et vous?”

Ack! What did she say? I was so busy forming my question I didn’t plan for her response! Just keep going, you can do it. “Je cherche une clef.” I’m looking for a key.

“Une clef?”

“Oui, une clef.” Now I know that’s not much to go on, but let’s be real. Do lost girls often come to their door? Hrm. Now that I think about it, maybe that’s how girls become nuns? Better speed this up before I get stuck in the nunnery, never to be seen again. “Colleen leave key? It’s for me.”

“Oh yes, a key! For an American girl. That must be you.” Was it that obvious? Was it my blonde hair? Wide, toothy smile? No, it was probably my command (or lack thereof) of the French language.

“You’re friends with Colleen?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure how to answer that since we weren’t really friends, but then again I wasn’t even sure that was the question. My French wasn’t up to the task of explaining how I knew Colleen, and for sure if I said we weren’t friends, Sister Mary Keyholder would never hand over the precious key.

“Yes,” I said with a smile, then promptly got the heck out of there.

Key and two heavy suitcases in hand, I headed to my new apartment building. The number on the front, 20, was written in the ornate curlicue script that most French buildings employ. The large windows of each apartment were fronted by black wrought-iron rails, providing the perfect vantage point from which to observe the goings-on of the street below. I eagerly punched the five-digit code into the digicode reader to the right of the door and was in.

Next issue: finding the actual apartment. You’d think this would be easy since Colleen had said it was on the third floor. Silly me, that seemed like enough information until I scoped out the situation.

Problem 1: Once inside the front door, I saw two buildings–one that faced the sidewalk (in which I was currently standing) and one past a quiet courtyard containing a few trees and a large, overflowing trash barrel. Which building was it?

Problem 2: Colleen had said the apartment was on the third floor but in France the ground floor is counted as the “0th” floor, so what an American calls the third floor, a French person calls the second floor. I didn’t know if Colleen had adjusted for the American way or stuck to the French method or if Ireland had an entirely different technique1.

 

1 I’ve dedicated many a conversation to this topic because that’s the kind of life I lead (if you understand that, you’re going to love this book) and I still can’t tell which system is better. I can see counting the ground floor as the first floor because it has a floor and it’s the first one you walk on. But I can also see the logic in going up your first flight of stairs and then counting “1”, then another flight and saying “2” and so on. I mean, are you trying to get credit for making it to the ground floor when you haven’t even gone anywhere? When you’re not in a building do you say you’re on the first floor? No, because you’re just on the ground! So I guess we’ll have to call it a wash. Sit back and relax – I’ll take care of sending the memo to America and France so they know what I’ve decided on this important matter. And I still don’t know how they do it in Ireland!

 

Problem 3: Each floor had two apartments.

So I had a total of eight possible apartments to choose from, none of which had names on the door. I was afraid to leave my bags unattended so I schlepped up the first set of stairs, bags and all, and knocked on each door. On any door where I didn’t get a response, I tried my key. No dice in any of the apartments in the first building, so I hauled my luggage down the stairs and through the courtyard to the second building. One person answered and had no idea who Colleen was (friendly neighbors!) and I tried my key in the other three doors. But again, no dice. Crap! After trying eight different apartments, one of them should have been the right one.

I sulked down to the courtyard and let out a few choice words of frustration. I thought back to when my mom and step-dad, Doug, were seeing me off at the airport. We had a tearful goodbye and I choked up when my mom said “Good luck in your new life, honey.” She was sad to see me go but wanted me to be happy. And now here I was, trapped outside my new apartment, admittedly not doing so hot in this new life.

I wanted to call her and cry but I needed to get into the apartment to get the damn phone! Plus, I didn’t want to give Mom a heart attack by waking her at 5:00 in the morning. No, better to sort everything out myself and call when I had good news to report.

I straightened up and reassessed the situation. I know I’m at the right address since the front door code worked. Colleen hadn’t said anything about crossing the courtyard, so her apartment is probably in the first building. And since we’re in France, she had probably used the French system of floor numbering.

Not giving a rat’s ass about the suitcases anymore, and hating their guts for being so stubbornly heavy, I hauled my sweaty self up the first stairs once again and tried both apartments on the (French) third floor.

Funny thing, no matter how determined you are, if the key ain’t right for the door, it ain’t gonna open. And this key was a monster. At least twice as large as a standard door key, it squirmed of its own volition, so determined was it to not fit in the door.

Now I was dejected. I went back to the sunny courtyard to throw insults at my luggage and half-seriously glanced around for a place to sleep. Behind the trash bin? Under the tree? Maybe with enough vin rouge I could make the courtyard comfortable. I turned to the sky for answers (why do people do that?) and that’s when I noticed the burgundy curtains in an apartment on the third floor of the second building. I recognized the color from one of the Craigslist ad photos. At last! This could be it. So looking at the sky does provide answers.

Leaving the luggage once again, I climbed the stairs and tried the key in the door. It wasn’t easy going, but I was more determined than ever. I shimmied and I shook. This key had to fit! I was NOT sleeping under a tree!

With vigorous jiggling, cursing, and promising my firstborn child, the door finally opened. I’d never been more proud of myself in my life. I might have even literally leapt for joy. “Hello, Paris! Vicki is here and watch out, she can OPEN DOORS!”

After touring my new digs, I mustered up the strength to retrieve my luggage. Me! And my bags! In my apartment! With a key that opens doors! Wheee! The possibilities in this new life are endless. If I can open a door, I can do anything!

 

 

Find out what happens next… buy Confessions of a Paris Party Girl today!