Tool Time ~ Paris Style

The more we relax into living here, the more I realize that I LOVE this place.  Every experience is unique, and some seemed etched in brilliant diamond clarity.



I am sitting on The Throne, considering the Nature of the Universe, the Present State of Curiosity on Mars, and wondering if I should call Henry Kissinger (inside joke, real inside...) when the apartment buzzer rings.

Merde!  D'accord.  Let's see what's up.  I am not expecting another package.  I have everything I ordered.  Maybe it's someone other than la poste?  "Hello?"

Uh, well, it is someone saying things for which I have no clue what is being said. "Je descende."  Quickly throwing on a pair of real pants in place of the pajamas I had been in, and pulling on a sports coat over a freshly washed white t-shirt I head down stairs to see what was being asked of me.

After a few rapidly spoken words and a bit of hand-waving, I figure out the man is the Ventilation System Technician from synd-corpo, the group that operates and maintains our apartment complex.  He wants to come up to our apartment and take a few photographs of our exhaust ports.  Might this be a new art project, I wonder?  Before I can chase that Rabbit down the Hole of Silly Thoughts, I pull up short.  Something wasn't quite right.


Yes. Oh, that's it.  These are the very same exhaust vents that Jude and I viennent de nettoyer a week or two ago.  This man is here to give synd-corpo an estimate for cleaning the air system for the entire apartment.  After our rag and solvent administrations they look like new again, and probably don't represent reality beyond our small hovel.  So we try to explain that we just de-crudded the vents but had done nothing about cleaning the pipes behind the vent covers.  We wonder if he knows there was no Chance in Hell the rest of the Ventilation System looks as good as our vent covers.  No way.

I am asked if I could escort the Ventilation System Technician to la cave.  Oui!  Bien sur.

The Ventilation System Technician was carrying a portable collapsible rather interesting device.  While waiting for l'ascenseur to collect us to take us to la cave, I receive an introduction to the Wonders of French Ladders.  Oh yes.  It is that good. 

Each section snaps up in a telescoping manner.  There are no forward foot pair.  Before using the French ladder, you simply telescope each section, one after the other, to the desired height and lean it against the thing you were trying to climb.  Et voila!  Up you walk on the newly telescoped bars.  Quite well padded bars these are, too.  Firm, yet pliable.  No sense in loosing one's grip on things when Up High Fixing Sh*t.

"Nous n'avons pas de choses comme ca dans mon pays!"  With that we were off to the races et un petit conversation, il commence.

What's this?  Oh yes.  It's l'ascenseur.  It has arrived and is waiting patiently on us with it's door agape.  We proceed downstairs to inspect more vents.  Pour la pollution, n'est-ce pas?

I learn about ventilation systems, French regulations for garbage collection, French building codes, and was witness a True Professional at his metier.  To confirm he was who he said he was, he matched the name of the company he represents with the Important French State License and Approval for Operation document that was hung in a conspicuous place on a wall in la cave.  Right.  We're in good hands.


The conversation continues in l'ascenseur as I am delivered back to my floor.  He is on his way up to the roof to inspect the system from the motor down through the shafts back into the building.  I learned that the Ventilation System Technician tried two other apartments before ringing ours.  Tout le monde sont en vacances, oui?  So few people are at home in August and he's happy I am able to help him.

We are still Talking Shop as I stand in the hallway.  His heel keeps the door of the l'ascenseur overt.  After more words and then a hearty "bonne journee!" from both parties, I slip the key into the apartment door and go inside.

There is something wonderful about being a man.  Really, there is.  Think Tim Allen's "Tool Time" and you might catch a glimpse of Manly Wonderfulness.  I enjoy being able to talk Mano a Mano about Oversized Socially Beneficial Technical Engineering Complex Things.

It was time to see if Henry Kissinger was still on the horn.

Sleepless in Paris...

Why so grumpy?

 You would be grumpy too, if you didn't get any sleep...

We have Wildlife.  In all manner of form and style.  You might think that Paris would be a Wildlife waste land.  It is not.  Paris is, after all, a rather large diverse city, but I can assure you it's filled with Wildlife.

First, there are birds.  Lots and lots of birds.  Black birds (which are not the same variety we used to have in the States), Blue Martins (who continually clean the skies of small nasty winged biting critters), a large collection of extremely amorous Doves (there's another story here waiting to be told), the usual Pigeons (airborne pests typically found in large cities like this), and a wonderfully large selection of small colorful birds that feed on insects.  Oh, and to keep things interesting, we have bats too.  They seem to work the night shift.

Then there are the dogs.  Some time I will have to write a blog entry devoted to Paris' dogs.  Suffice it to say here, dogs represent a very large portion of Paris' Wildlife population.  My favorite breed is the goofy way-too tail waggy happy to be True Parisian long wire haired Dachshunds.  If I ever needed a dog, it would be this one.

Then there is the Human Wildlife.  Young people who have no place to "hang out" and grow up roam the streets in packs.  Older Adult Drunken Wildlife seems to enjoy stumbling around the city after the tourists are safely stored in their hotels and rented apartments.  Like dogs, the Older Adult Drunken Wildlife prefer to mark their territory by pissing on key landmarks.

Your mouth is full of insects, so now you're quiet???

We have learned to keep Paris Time.  We get to bed later than we used to when living back in the States.  Dinner is now after 19h00, sometimes closer to 20h00.  Bedtime is typically 23h00 or later.

When I was a Working Stiff, my wife and I were up at the crack of dawn.  05h00 for her and 05h30 pour moi.  I was out the door and at the local bus stop or on the bike by 07h00 with me arriving into work at 07h50-ish.  Dinner was at 18h00 and bedtime came at 21h30.  It was a well ordered life and the calls of  Wildlife were generally soft and sweet sounding to the ear.  Except for when a Murder of Crows would descend on us.

Now that je suis a la retraite, one might think that keeping later hours would lead, quite naturally, to waking up later.  In theory, that might have been the case and we would be well rested and enjoying our retraite. Yet, when we spent three months on rue Beethoven, we were sleepless in Paris.

Many nights we would keep the windows open, trying our best to capture the cool night breezes.  Alas, the Wildlife loved to capture the night breezes by sitting on the stairs just below our windows.  100 stairs, in fact.  In prior postings I have referred to the stairs as the "Stair Master from Hell!"  It was a good place for Wildlife to sit as a breeze would usually move up the street from the Seine.  It would then climb the stairs and head up over the hill in Passy to make it's way toward la place d'Etoile and through the tall arch of the Arc de Triomphe.

The French flag needed waving and the rue Beethoven Night Breezes were happy to comply.  The local Wildlife was well ventilated.

The Human Wildlife would eventually find it's way to sleep somewhere else in the city by 02h00.  We would be deep into REM sleep, enjoying the peace, quiet, and upper-class calm of Passy.

Merde!  What is THAT?

Why, it's only our 05h30 alarm clock, my wife would tell me.

 05h00 alarm clock ~ Black Bird Singing Competition

Ugh.  Me thinks I need a proper French weapon to bag myself a few Black Birds.  I'd love to say that we'll be having Black Bird Pie for dinner.  But with my luck, I'd aim at the wrong thing and something would break over at the International School for Children with Rich Parents.   I'd hate to have to explain to la police that the Black Birds were driving me crazy.   Maybe la police would understand my plight?  Nah.  It's better to take no chances.  I'm already on their books for taking photographs of la tour Eiffel.

Now that we are into our new place, down in the 15th, life has become more peaceful.  During les conges annuels (les vacances en aout), the Wildlife here is limited to a pair of nesting doves in a tree just outside our window.

Mercifully, they keep to themselves and don't stir things up the way Wildlife did up in the 16th.

Good things...

Summer has arrived in the city and the day's temperatures are supposed to clear 29 degrees Centigrade.

I lamented on my Facebook wall this very morning that I just might give my life for a Great Baguette.

After having a taste of what's possible when we lived in the 16th arrondissement, I have been munching my way along rue de la Convention down in the 15th.  Nothing.  Nope.  Nothing but air-filled Wonder-bread style baguettes.

I couldn't believe it.  This was not why I moved to France.  I thought Good Bread was more widely available than this.

By contrast, I wish there was some way to rid the city of pick pockets.  They are a nuisance and are more readily found than Great Baguette.  Fortunately, they have become somewhat easy for me to spot.  From the way they hold their satchels (where they store their booty), to the way the rove about in sometimes boisterous gangs, to the way they find and work their prey.  I don't like being prey, but that's what happens when a person grows older and slower.  I try to keep the important stuff inaccessible to Thieving Hoards of Rom Youth.

Summer has arrived, and with it the heat...

Over breakfast and just after I shared my Great Baguette lament with the world on Facebook, Jude suggested that "using the Force", that is, to make a quick Google search, was in order.

Two articles instantly stood out.  The first was a blog entry from 2011 that talked about the best baguettes to be found in Paris.  The second was a blog entry on David Libovitz' site that recently dates from May, 2012.

Both sites talk at some length about how decent bread is not a "given" here in Paris, and the two sites talk about what to look for in a good baguette.  Further, Paris Notebook had a link to a Google Map that marked boulangerie locations throughout the city.  I saw there are potentially three good places to buy bread near our apartment.

My wife and I headed out to buy some books.  Jude was lacking something decent to read and found WHSmith by "using the Force" (Google).

Our Metro line is conveniently located and we were able to reach Place de la Concorde in 15 minutes.  We found the well stocked and air conditioned English bookshop at 248 rue de Rivoli just a few moments after crawling out of the Metro.

Cheap Plonk and the most evil thing on Planet Earth...

I must be pretty clueless about a lot of things here in Paris.  I was clueless about Cheap Plonk (less than 8Euro) wine and Bubbly Stuff (also less than 8Euro).  I was clueless about how to turn off automobile horns (it turns out, eggs are most useful and very effective at turning off noisy klaxons de voiture).  I was clueless about Rom Curses.  I was clueless about Good Baguette.  I was clueless about Evil Bookstores.


Evil?  Why, yes.  Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.  Evil.  Evil in the sense that bookstores are categorically NOT supposed to sell the most evil thing on Planet Earth; Devon Clotted Cream.

I have an old friend to thank for this.  He turned me on to Devon Clotted Cream one day while we sat for a cup of tea located in a brick hut somewhere out in the vasty sheep filled fields of Hertfordshire.  It's so Evil, this Devon Stuff, that the only way to get through the experience is to pile, slather, scoop, cup, or gingerly finger it up on top of scone or, it turns out, when in France, a decent Petit Pain (containing nuts, raisins, and figs).

Avoiding yet another Thieving Hoard of Rom Youth as we boarded the Metro at Place de la Concorde (they jumped on right beside us, ready, no doubt, to work us over if they could), Jude and I made our way to the first purveyor of Great Baguette on my list.  We instantly know this was The Place by the way it smelled.  If you had a good sniffer, you could follow the incredible smell straight into the shop from at least a city block away.  It smells SOOoooooo much better than those Baguette Dives that line rue de la Convention.

Je voudrais deux baguettes de tradition, s'il vous plait...

Today's midday meal included Great Baguette.  Yes, we have found Great Baguette!  For only 1Euro10 per Truly Great Baguette.  Spread with Grand Fermage aux cristaux de Sel de Mer de Noirmoutier (butter laced with a very special sea salt - it is better than you could possibly know unless you've tried it yourself). Chased by Cremant de Loire Monmousseau, for only 6Euro99 per, making it a Truly Great Cheap Plonk (in a rose to help chase the heat of a summer day away).  Followed with Petit Pain piled, slathered, scooped, cupped, and gingerly fingered up on top of each tiny morsel, that most evil thing on Planet Earth; Devon Clotted Cream.

See how good life suddenly becomes when you find Truly Great Baguette?

Cleaning up...

After the Rom curse had been placed on me, nothing seemed to go right.  Such is supposedly the Nature of Curses.

First, after a very quick delivery of our new Orange TV/Livebox/Telephone system by la poste, it took a week to sort out the fact we had a dead on arrival Orange TV box.  Everything else worked, but not the Orange TV box.

After sorting out the Orange TV situation, first in an all french on-line chat with Orange.fr, then with a mostly English speaking India call center, I took the dead box to a local boutique where we were able to exchange the dead for the living.  All was suddenly good until we discovered that the old tube-type TV that came with our apartment was in it's final stages of crossing over to the other side.  It was dying.  Quickly.




Time to transform our TV situation from Alien Green wavering imaged skin tones for something a little less Alien Green.  So, it was off to the local Darty to spend a little money.  After an hour of working through the purchase process, again, all in french, we exited the store with a new Samsung HD (only 720p, but, beggars can't be choosers and, besides, it was only 66cm across) and a receipt for a new micro-onde.

Have your ever seen an old man hauling a new 66cm Samsung HDTV box through the metro system in Paris before?  Neither had we.  Until now.  That old man was moi-meme.

Along the way, Jude spied a musician.  He was playing a very nice classical accompaniment on a French Horn (bien sur!).  My wife said "Give me some coin.  I'm going to counter that Rom Curse right now!!"

By giving to the Forces of Good, it was hoped my Rom Curse would be cleared out of our lives.

Our new appartement is looking wonderfully fit, clean, and healthy.  Our new micro-onde is working well.  Our new tele gives us drop-dead gorgeous images every night.  Our Orange TV box provides hundreds of HiDef channels of very wonderfully French programs (including live broadcasts of the 2012 Tour de France!).  Doves are building a nest just outside our livingroom window in a tree that is no more than 15 feet away.




Sunday, last, dawned clear and bright.  As the cross-walk graffiti says, "Regarde le ciel."  Squinting ciel-ward, we could confirm that yes, le ciel was crystaline blue.  It was going to be a good day.

Around 15h00, Jude and I headed out for the Champs-Elysees.  We had to see what the party of the final etage of le tour was all about.

Wiggins still wore the Yellow Jersey.  Mark Cavendish, the non-kilt wearing Scotsman Best Sprinter Of ALL Time was in the mix.  The peloton looked, well, somewhat smaller than is usually does.  Maybe too many people crashed and burned during the previous weeks of le tour?  Or maybe they went by so fast it only looked like a smaller than usual peloton.  The fans were waving and cheering each lap as the peloton worked it's way around the 16th Arrondisement.

After meeting a group from Sussex, England, we learned just how nice everyone around us was.  We learned how well behaved bicycle spectators can be.  We were seriously enjoying a warm summer day on the Champs-Elysees.

Gods! this must be paradise!!

Walking along a rue near our apartment, a woman stopped us and asked if we had been to see le tour.  All in French, we did our best to share a few videos we took just a half hour earlier.  Smiles and well wishes all around and a few coins to a French Horn player a few days earlier appears to have put paid to that Dastardly Rom Curse.

Tools in Living Skills

Les fous américain have landed

We are now successfully installed, if not yet fully functional, in the 15th arrondissement.  Walking around the quartier a little today revealed all we were looking for.  Les parcs.  Les boulangeries.  Les boucheries.  Les magasins of all kinds.

I think we're going to love living here.  Though I don't know how we could love this any more than we already do.  I'm sure we'll figure something out.

Reflecting a little on how we arrived in this place at this time, I realized there are a few tools that have facilitated the transition nicely.

... so many problems to solve, such little time...

Tools.  Well, we're les fous américain, right?  We tend to do many things ourselves.  We like to avoid spending money when the job at hand can be done ourselves.  We will spend money on tools.


I can't tell you why.  All I know is that some silly little things in life bring great pleasure.

Take, for instance, the Grand Opening of Jami's Jam.  Abricot and quite tasty, or so it was reported.  There was a problem.  To get at the abricot jam, we needed to pry the lid off.  Alas, what to use?  Hmmm... nothing seems to be working.  I don't want to cut myself or make a mess of things that might lead to a hospital visit.  My French is not up to explaining strange wounds to Gallic Doctors.

Ah!  I have it.  We have a Leatherman.  Yes, it's the self same Leatherman that used to live in our Emergency Prepardness Kit back in the States.  We brought it with us after reading of another fou americain's experiences of how good a tool it was to have here in France.

With a satisfying rrrrrip of Velcro(tm - no doubt), I pulled the Leatherman out of it's case and proceeded to lever the lid off of Jami's Jam.  Two seconds.  The deed is done.  Five seconds later, the abricot jam is spreading into the creases and crevices of one of Paris' many fine baguettes on it's way to bringing a healthy smile to my face.

 ... um, how wide is that bed sheet?  Exactly?...

Then there are things which need measuring.  Like les matelas.  Is it "full" or "queen" sized matelas, Dear?, or some odd size we've never heard of?  Well, let's head down to Castorama to see what kind of trouble we can get into, shall we?


Castorama is one of France's Great Stores pour faire le Bricolage.  For us Yanks, think in terms of Home Depot and you'll come close to understanding what Castorama is.

Wandering the aisles I find Just the Tool I've been looking for.  It measures things.  It's yellow (not that color matters much).  It's laid out in millimeters and centimeters with marks at every meter up to 3 meters.  It's cheap at 3Euro50.

Hmmm... yes... um... hold on.  What's this?  Oooooh!  A much cooler tape measure.  It's orange and black (and here I thought color did not matter).  It has a magnet on the end of the tape.  It is 5 meters in length.  It has a WONDERFUL locking mechanism.  Quel est le prix?  Wow!  Would you catch a gander at this?  4Euro95!  Still cheap.  Even more fun!  We'll take it.

Now we know exactly what sized sheets to get for our new bed.

... tools of food preparation must be tended to periodically...

The last tool we've found incredibly useful is a grinding stone, a whetstone, and a few drops of special oil.  Again?  A grinding stone, a whetstone, and a few drops of special oil.  It's part of a two step system.  All of which we brought with us.


First you use the grinding stone.  Then the whetstone.  A bit of oil on each.  You work these until a very fine sharp edge has been achieved.  Jude is an incredible chef, after all.  Dull knives will NOT do.  Nope.  Simply will not do.

So there you have it.  Our top three favorite tools for living in France.  A Leatherman.  A metric-ized tape measure.  A knife sharpener (grinding stone, whetstone, oil).

Very useful, all of it.

Of course, the most useful tool of all still escapes us; speaking intelligible French.  It seems the impossible will take just a bit longer.

The Curse

We are in the middle of a grand demenager to our new appartement.

The skys have been dark and filled with low hanging clouds.  We've been dodging rain drops with each trip we've made.  The metro is sometimes full of commuters and many times not.

It's a haul of some luggage or other.  Filled to the brim with our worldly belongings.  Five large valises moving from the 16th arrondisement, one at a time.

Taking the number 6 metro to Pasteur and connecting through the tunnels, up and down stairs, to the number 12 metro line.  Boarding another train and exiting up into the light deep into that most Parisian place, the 15th arrondisement.  Past the locals and around the dog sh*t.  Onwards, hauling and dragging our valises filled with what's left of the stuff of our lives.

Each return trip, we see the group of Rom musicians gathered at  Sevres-Lecourbe.  They await a train to take them to richness and fame.

Enter the Goddess of the Age of Rationalism

Today we had a middle aged accordionist join our car as we rattled up the line, returning to our appartement in the 16th.


The man played two songs.  He played them sufficiently well to be called a traveling Rom musician.  Not great stuff.  Just sufficient.  Two songs.  That was it.

Next thing we know, he's calling out "Bonne journee.  Bon jour.  Merci.  Merci.  Thank you."  He started walking the car.  Tip cup rattling like the train we rode.  Soliciting for a bit of dosh to feed the clan.

As he reached our end of the car, I was staring off into space.  No.  Actually, I was watching the hydraulic pressure gauge.  I was wondering how much pressure was being indicated on the dial.   I was wondering what happened to the gauge as it measured the opening of the metro rail car doors.  I wondered what the hell that damned tip cup was doing under my nose.

Such persistance, this!

After more than a few seconds passing with the tip cup firmly planted under my nose, I slowly, disdainfully, moved my eyes over the top rim of my glasses and looked the Rom accordionist straight in the eyes.  I did not let my gaze wander.  I just look deeply eye to eye at him.  Then, very slowly, I oh so very very slightly wagged my chin "No!" from sided to side.  I held his eyes firmly with mine.

We reached the next metro platform just in time for him to break our stare and continue his chant of "Bonne journee.  Bon jour.  Merci.  Merci.  Thank you."

Then, very quietly, under his breath, quite sotto voce, he cursed me.  He cursed me with his best Rom curse.

Enter the Seer of Hermetic Sciences

Interesting times, these.

Goddess of the Sky and of the Moon

School has been let out and all hell has broken loose.  Gods and Goddesses are at each others gate in all out open confrontation.  Some simple human fool has let loose a terrible God.

Goddess of the Sky and the Moon's pixies...

The destruction of Paris continues apace.  The English speaking international school for the spawn of diplomats and other overly wealthy Anglo-Saxon types is now well into a major wall removal street ditching noise producing deconstruction job.  Workman might not realize the digging would have unintended consequences.  The work proceeded at a reckless pace.

In Paris, just to name a few, there is the Goddess of the Sky and of the Moon, Gods of the River, Goddesses of the Statuary in Public Places, and Gods of the Cavernous Underworld.  All you have to do is visit the museums and look carefully around public monuments.  These Gods and Goddesses are celebrated throughout the city.

What I find amusing is that most people think these images are fabrications of fiction arising from the overly (wine) lubricated minds of France's well known artists.

One day, to the destruction noises from the school was added an oh so very special Parisian scent.  It was the kind of scent that makes one realize there are a great many humans living in close proximity here and that dead things are not always pleasant.  It was the kind of scent that told one there is a reason the Romans invented pipes to plumb shit away from human establishments.

Like a Jen from a Lamp, the God of the Cavernous Underworld had escaped the Deep Dark Realms to freely roam the streets of Passy.

As the Goddess passed...

We now understood what the school was having destroyed.  It was the boys and girls bathroom.

Nature is, we are often told, supposed to be about "balance."  I'm not entirely sure who's story this is or actually how accurate the idea of "balance" is.  I suspect a ruse and a lie and someone somewhere is benefiting from this timeless lie.

More properly considered from the perspectives of Gods and Goddesses, the God of the Cavernous Underworld had to be put back in his place.  Otherwise the place would, quite literally, stink.  Screw "balance."

There was a hint of electric anticipation in the air.  The Goddess of the Sky and of the Moon was casting aside Her Deep Slumber.

Last evening, around 17h00, give or take a minute or two, our Goddess had a thing or two to say about the free roaming stink god.  Once loosed on the world, He would not go quietly nor would He be easily controlled.

For twenty or thirty minutes we witnessed the power of Our Goddess.  Impressive are Her abilities to light up the sky.  Fabulous is Her strength to hurl great sonic walls of sound off the rooftops of Paris' ancient architecture.  Rather serious forces were put to work.

Lightning danced between clouds.  Thunder rolled almost continuously.  Rain drenched the city.  Gutters were rendered useless.  Lakes formed along the rues and avenues of the city.  The Goddess sent humans scampering, slithering, and sloshing into places of hiding.  Hail nailed streets and buildings hard to terra firma and strong-armed the God of the Cavernous Underworld back into his place.

Chasing the God of the Cavernous Underworld back into dark places...

Jude thought tornadoes might be developing. Looking at the photos I took as the storm was ending, I can't say she was wrong, though I wondered at the time why she was hiding the salle de bain.  I failed to understand she would know of the Goddesses strength.

It took twenty or thirty minutes for the Goddess of the Sky and of the Moon to complete her work.  The task was done and the God Chasing thunder and lightning moved east of the city.

The sewer smell is gone.  For now, at least.

It makes me wonder what the Gods are up to in the UK and Russia.  Surely, workmen there haven't loosed their own Stink Gods on the world, have they?