A little area of Paris’ 9th
arrondissement became my home, if
only for a little while. I had a key—
an actual key—rather than a plastic,
computer-coded card. I had a regular
sandwich place where I was
recognized. The grocery store clerks
knew me well enough to know that
merci and au revoir were essentially
the only words I could utter in
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French. Not being able to properly
communicate was a humbling
experience, but in my case,
familiarity bred compassion
rather than contempt.
Life is not all rosy in Paris, just like
every other place in the world. It’s
not like there is some cocoon that
envelops this gorgeous city and
protects the people in it from
heartbreak or hunger. One look at
those in the metro station and that
image is abolished. A smile is often
taken for flirtation and actual
communication amongst strangers is
a rarity. It’s frustrating, especially
for someone who grew up south of
the Mason-Dixon Line, where grins
and pleasantries are exchanged even
between mortal enemies.
For a non-Parisian, living in the city is
like playing checkers, without being
given a set of rules. From afar, the
game seems simple and even
enjoyable, but taking a seat at the
table is another story. Customs and
communication are foreign and easily
misunderstood. Navigating the red