Badaude

Communication problems

Last week Badaude turned two and was cited in the Wall Street Journal (I wrote the IVYParis piece they quote from - that will teach me to call them silly). To celebrate, I am eating out at Au Pied de Fouet on rue de Babylone, just beyond Le Bon Marché

The restaurant is in the 6e, in the heart of movie-set Paris; the part tourists visit to chase a little Saint-Germain romance. Tonight, that's what I want. I don't want to go to Bastille or Menilmont. I want Paris to be like Paris in the movies. It's hot. The batiments of the rue de Babylone have been freshly whitewashed by the set designers. My footsteps echo on the sound stage of the empty pavement. Do I have a date? Yes. Does he turn up? No. I wait. This is less like a movie. I text. I'm hungry. I decide not to wait any longer.

But in Paris, it's ok to eat alone. I often eat alone. Lots of women do it, after all. And I have been out all day, walking. No lunch. So I just compensate by eating for my date too.

I have two courses plus the deux fromages with 2 glasses of wine and all the bread in the basket. I notice I am eating twice as much as any other woman in there. I am double a French woman. I am eating almost as much as the slim man sitting diagonally opposite me.

Au Pied de Fouet is small. "Upstairs," says the man diagonally opposite, who wears Cary Grant glasses and can speak to me across the tiny tables without raising his voice, "is even smaller. The ceiling is low. It is like a maison des poupées (dolls' house)." I look up. It has dolls' house checked tablecloths and a beamed ceiling.

He asks me if I understand what he says. I say, "Yes, null that I might be at French, I comprehend almost everything."

He asks me which quartier I am from. He lives here, in the 6e.

He says, "I like to go to cafe Le Nemrod on rue Saint Placide," he says. "But it's too bruyant. On ne peut rien entendre la-bas. (noisy - you can't hear anything in there). Do you live in Paris? What is your metier?"

I tell him. Then I say, "So you asked me all about my job. What do you do?"

"Oh - I make appareils acoustiques."

"Quoi?"

"Des apparails acoustiques."

"Qu'avez-vous dit?. Je ne peux pas vous entendre." (What did you say? I can't hear you)

"Hearing aids. C'est a très sexy job, n'est-ce pas? And him." He indicates his dining companion who is wearing a suit. "He works in a banque. Du classe, non!"

The two Parisiens ask me if I know the Sud-Ouest of France, where they grew up. And I say, yes, I've visited Marseilles and Avignon. NO! they say. That is the SUD. The SUD-OUEST is the Pays Basque. It's Carcassone and Perpignan and Pau. It is a pays plein de charactère. Nous sommes de Sud-Ouest!

They insist that I try their local liqueur. "It is an apple liquor," they say." "It's called Mmnmnnm."

"Quoi?"

"Mmnmnmmmnonm."

"Quoi?"

But they don't hear me. It's here. In three glasses. Clear as water.

The three of us stand up at the bar; two men with one woman in between, knocking back the colourless liquor.  It tastes like sugary pommes vertes - granny smith apples. A dolls' house liquor in a dolls' house restaurant. It would not look unnatural if we broke into a dance routine.

I'll never know what it's called, but, I suddenly realise, I'm enjoying it.

And for a moment, Paris is a movie. Not a French movie, maybe, but something frothier, cuter, in technicolor; An American in Paris or Gigi or Irma la Douce.

As I glide down the rue de Babylone, I get a texto from my ex-date.

tê ou?
(t'es ou - Where are you?)

He speaks texto. I don't, though, like French, I do usually comprehend. I reply:

APDF - toi?
(Au Pied de Fouet - toi? - Au Pied de Fouet -  you?)

Moa No+ O bar en face
(Moi non plus. Au bar en face - Not any more - in the bar opposite.)

Mais il n'ya aucun bar en face APDF
(But there' no bar opposite Au Pied de Fouet)

tê r sBenoit?
(T'es rue Saint Benoit? - Are you in rue Saint Benoit?)

Non, rue Babylone!
(No, rue Babylone!)

jetelédi sBenoit
(Je te l'ai dit saint Benoit - I told you Saint Benoit)

Tu ma dit APDF. Il existe aussi r SB?
(You told me Au Pied de Fouet. Is it also in rue Saint Benoit?)

6!
(Si!- Oh yes!)

Jentend rBabylone car je ne savais pas...
(I understood rue Babylone because I didn't know...)

Tpa fâchée?
(T'es pas fachee? - You're not angry?)

Non, j'ai passe un super bon soiree avec deux hommes.
(No - I had a great evening with two men.)

T la + b'L ab1to
(t'es la plus belle a bientot - you are the most beautiful - see you later)

I glide up to the juction at Saint Francis Xavier. I look back down the length of the long white rue de Babylone. It's beautiful. Paris is a movie set. And tonight, it's a musical comedy.

C'est lui - Le Roi du cafe*

I can admit that the cafe du coin (where they lost my keys, remember) has become my number one cafe of choice, not to mention my QG (HQ) and a.m. office. So, in way of apology, I'm offering an homage to the place.

At the moment, I'm there almost every morning. I'm the one in the corner with the portable (laptop) trying to look inconspicuous during the breakfast rush.

Paris is an inside-out city where apartments are so tiny that you have to go out to have breakfast. And, when you do, it's a social occasion. It's a party.

And what do Parisians do at a party? They like to argue.

The bar's already crowded. A group of mecs (guys) stack their moto-helmets on the bar, and begin earnestly discussing the pouvoir d'achat (cost of living). This is the French equivalant of an English conversation about house prices - and if you're from the UK you'll know exactly the level of detail this implies. What are they saying? Apparently the essential foodstuff by which the rise in grocery prices is measured is natuaral yoghurt (hausse choquant do 40% - 40% shock price rise!). Natural yoghurt - a dietary staple? Only in France.

So I go in and sit a little away from the bar (all those bodies block the WIFI signal, right?) and order my café andtartine - a skinny ficelle baguette with a thickcentral vein of butter which melts on contact with coffee. They bring it with a large and necessary carafe of water to let down the caffine.

Outside the window, there are neat mamans and mamies taking their children to school, impeccably turned out in little quilted jackets. One mamie is leading her charges on a micro-scooter. They run behind. No-one laughs. Micro scooters in Paris are just another way of getting around, like - erm - rollerskates, and another way that the French take seriously what the rest of the world consigns to the playground...

There's an old French guy the bar. He's wearing a hat. He's talking to everyone. Is he a regular, which makes this bar a kind of Paris equivalent of Cheers, or is he just a little dingue (crazy)?

I order another coffee.

You're English, right? (Vous etes Anglaise?) He asks me.

Yes.

So you like football? (Vous aimez le foot?) He indicates the screen in the corner which is showing a report on last night's game.

Euh (Yes, I really had a go at making this essentially French sound)...Assez bien - mais je ne le suis pas. (it's ok but I don't follow it)

This is a big lie. I have no interest in football. I'm just being typically, Englishly aquiescent. No wonder the French think we're slippy. If I can't even say out loud that I don't like football in a no-pressure situation, what hope is there for my nation?

Ah! - vous n'etes pas une vrai Anglaise! (You're not really English)  he says with satisfaction, and goes back to asticot-ing (needling) two women at the bar about their non-arriving breakfast dates.

About half an hour later, he turns back to me.

Vous aimez le biere?

(What? Are you offering me one? It's 9am.): Oui - erm - je l'aime.

Actually this it not strictly true either. My answer to question 1 would fit it better; I like it ok.

Old French man with hat: (looking crafty) Ah - Donc vous etes une Anglaise - un vrai! (So you're really English after all).

Happy, he goes back to his own morning demi. I go back, a little disquieted, to my cafe and computer. He's right: I am so English. Just maybe not the sort of English he was expecting.

*Le Roi du Cafe - The king of the cafe

The quartier where everybody knows your name...

I've moved apartments, to the 15e.

The 15e is a part of Paris few visitors know about. It's wedged between two towers - Montparnasse to the South, which seems to follow you wherever you go, and the Tour Eiffel to the North, which sends out its searchlight over the quartier each night.

The apartments here are respectable, but not smart. Not cheap, but not fashionable either. It's the kind of area where nearly the people you see all wear working black. Neat suits and overcoats. Not trendy. Not daring. They go to work in offices. They are comme il faut. They are pressed and coiffed. They are correct. They are impeccably Parisian.

The night before, I was due to move in my house agent (let's just call him Alain) calls me.

Alain: I can't come in to Paris tomorrow.

Badaude: OK. But how am I going to get the keys to the apartment?

A: It will be fine. I left them at the jeweller's. Three doors down. His name is David.

B: But I'll be there in the morning. Around 9am. He might not be open.

A: That's OK. He'll leave it at the bakery. And if not, the cafe on the corner.

B: Who should I ask for at the cafe?

A: Just ask them. They'll have it.

B: Ok...

My attempt to get into my new apartment went something like this.

The jeweller is open. That's good. You have to press a bell to get into the tiny shop. There are shelves of swatch watches and shiny things that wink at me from inside glass cases, but which I don't take the trouble to identify. There's a woman selling a silver pendant to the silver-haired man behind the counter, who looks much too serious for the happenstance leaving of a key at his shop. He looks up from the desk where he'd bent to examine the pendant. His glasses flash a multicoloured reflection of the Swatches.

Moi: (sceptical) Vous etes David?  (You're David?)

D: Oui

M: (well thought-out sentence). Je suis client de Alain et je me
demand si il m'a laisse des clef de son appartement chez vous?

(I am a client of Alain's and I wonder whether he has left me the keys to his apartment with you).

D: Non

M; Oh. Erm... Peut etre au boulangerie?

(maybe at the bakery)

D: (sceptical of the whole enterprise) Peut-etre. (Maybe...)

I walk to the boulangerie.

Its shut.

I know boulangeries in Paris have idiosyncratic horaires (opening hours).

But it's Wednesday. It's 9am. It can't be shut.

Maybe they just haven't put the lights on and the assistant's in the back. I get close to the plate-glass door and push on it gently, surruptitiously, while looking in the opposite direction. The door doesn't give.

It's shut.

Au cafe du coin.

Me: (lesss well-thought out sentence) Bonjour, Madame. Est-ce-que Alain a laisse un clef pour moi ici?  (Hi, Has Alain left a key here for me?)

Fille: Non. Je pense que non... Non. (No, I don't think so... No).

She turns back to polishing glasses.

M: Mais Il m'a dit qu'il l'a laisse. Il m'a telephone pour dire cela. (But he told me he left it. He telephoned me to say that.)

I'm rescued by a 2nd fille (managerial-looking).

2e Fille: Je vais chercher. (I'll go look).

Long cherching

2F: Ces't ca?

M: Ouis, je crois.

Key has rugby ball keyring and several keys, not one. Seems wrong, but I'm grateful to get my hands on any key.

M: Si ce ne marche pas, je retournerai.
(ie. I'm not stealing your key).

I wheel my big suitcase a few doors down to the apartment. Door code. Lift to 4th floor. Door with camel. Or is it a zebra.

The key doesn't work.

I call Alain.

Alain: Yes I left the key yesterday night. It has a car on the tag.

Back to cafe

Me: Cela ne marche pas. Alain m'a dit qu'il l'a laisse le vielle. Il y'a un porte-clef comme une voiture. (This doesn't work. Alain told me he left it last night. It has a key-ring with a car).

F et 2f cherchent again

F et 2F: Non. Ce n'est pa la. Vous savez - il y'a des differents gens qui travaille ici les soirs. (No. It's not there. You know there are different staff here in the evenings)

I call Alain again.

A: Yes, they put it in the drawers on the left .

M: which one? (there are four drawers).

A: I don't know. On the left


Me: (a f et 2f) Il l'a laisse dans un de ces tiroirs.

f et 2f cherchent encore. They pull out two of the drawers and rummage through them.

Desolee, Madame.

They show me. There are lots of keys. There is no ring with a car.

Et les autres tiroirs?

They show me how the other two drawers do not open. Are they fake, or are they locked, with my key inside?

2f: Desolee, Madame, nous ne pouvons pas vous aider.

They shrug, Frenchly, turn around and polish the glasses. Clealy, they have finished their conversation with me.

I just stay there. Nothing I can do.

Then, miraculously, a man wearing a hoodie staggers into bar. He looks slightly drunk. He goes up to the counter. Is he about to order a coffee, or a first biere of the day?

Oddly, he seems to be in charge. The F and 2F confer with him.

Drunk Looking man in hoodie: Ah ouais! Alain! Le clef! C'est la!

He shows me the interior of the tiroir again.

He picks out a set of keys.

They have a SEAT-branded porte-clef - a car tag. Not the image of a car...

I go back to the flat again.

The key turns in the lock. I'm inside my new apartment, in my new quartier.

The 15e. Where everyone knows each other but no-one knows where anything is.