At what point can you say – with the conviction of a local – that you truly live in We have been here for two years now (can you believe it?) and there have been many important Parisification progress-markers: renting an apartment, opening a bank account, making friends, obtaining a Carte de Séjour, finding a job, falling off a Vélib and attending the Bastille Day fireman’s ball.
While these are all impressive and hard-won achievements, I’ve found it is the everyday accomplishments which really count when it comes to feeling like you belong; the exhilarating mini-milestones which mark your integration. We were walking in the Parc Montsouris on Sunday (it’s our local, don’t you know) when we happened to bump into a French friend. Well, friend-of-a-friend is probably more accurate, but the point is he was French, and we knew him. We had a chat, promised to catch up for a drink and moved on, secretly thrilled by our first Totally Random Acquaintance Encounter. Absurd how much it made us feel like we’d arrived, this knowledge that, just like any other Parisian, we could run into people we knew at any time.
You come to cherish and celebrate these little landmark moments: the first time you stare haughtily back at a passer-by, until they look away. The day when the boulanger selects the choicest, softest baguette and hands it to you with a smile. That occasion when someone asks you for directions, and you can confidently give them. Or that sweet golden instant when the supermarket cashier asks if you have a carte de fidélité and you proclaim “Oui!”, producing it with a nonchalant flourish.
It’s taken me two years but I finally have “frequent shopper” loyalty cards for my two local supermarkets. They’re completely useless, of course, in terms of earning discounts or extra value. I couldn’t even tell you what the complicated accruals mean at the bottom of my docket. Their worth lies entirely in the “resi-dentity” they bestow; they make me feel like a true riverain, a card-carrying member of the neighbourhood. I finally belong in the local shop. For local people. And perhaps in another two years I’ll learn how to redeem my millions of points and exchange them for a novelty key-ring.
Now all I need is a plaid nylon shopping cart and I’ll fit right in.
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2 comments:
I remember the first smile from the baker -- she had been scowling at me suspiciously for months, then *bang*, she introduced her children to me one day (as "ze English man").
Another big milestone: complaining about the cafeteria food. Objectively, it's delicious, varied, healthy and inexpensive, especially compared to the burgerama of Canadian cafeterias. All the same, I got a pat on the back the first time that I observed that "ce n'est pas ce qu'il était..."
The correct term for the nylon shopping cart is in fact 'the nanna-wheely'. Once we used one on a never-to-be-repeated car-free camping trip. We got a lift out of the forest with a nasty stoner. The horror.
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