40 Frenchie Chez Moi Stories: 40 Frenchie Series

By Paris Connolly

My Frenchie Diary! Short stories about living in different places in France.

''High Mobile Woman is what they call me.''

You said it. This Australian author has been living in France for about a decade, and she has definitely moved around. She's worked lots of ski seasons in the French Alps, and lived in beautiful chalets, hotels, apartments, and teeny studios. In Paris, she has lived in even teenier studios (Is it possible? Yes, in Paris, it definitely is). When she wasn't living in studios she was housesitting and petsitting. She's experienced lots of the different types of apartments and arrondissements all over the Île-de-France, and has looked after a lot of cats.

 

There are a few stories about living in Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur and Rhône Alpes, too!

 

This book will appeal to people who are curious about travel, French culture and French living.

Note: The book has British spelling.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paris Connolly
• Release date: Apr 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9782492620447

Paris Connolly

Paris Connolly is a lover of the Mediterranean sea, good food (seafood, olives, ice-cream), and good friends.  'I have a wish to one day own a Vespa scooter and beep-beep my around the hills behind Nice and St Tropez. Wearing a funky helmet. Being very careful and slow.'

Book preview

1.  The Toilet Dictator

Paris 16th arrondissement. 5 months.

Paris is a city of about two million people all living in a geographical space of about 105 square kilometres. For comparison, London is about 15 times larger in space. Unless you're rolling in €€€, your idea of living comfortably in Paris may need some adjusting.

'So, as you know, the job comes with an apartment. Let me show it to you. It's on the ground floor,' said the mother.

I'd come to visit her home and meet her children after having seen an ad for an exchange of services; babysitting for lodging. I need to be in Paris for my creative projects, yet I'm based in the Alps. It's too expensive paying for two places. Earlier in the day, I'd gotten off the Metro at Michel-Ange in the south-western corner of Paris, and walked a few minutes along to Auteuil. The clean streets, terraced brasseries, florists bursting with greenery and coloured bouquets pleased me immediately. I savoured the village feel to this little corner of Paris, and I passed yet another florist with lush green plants occupying the whole pavement and I crossed the street to walk along Boulevard Montmorency.

This boulevard is lined with beautifully maintained buildings on one side, and a stretch of parkland on the other. Ah, yes. This part of Paris suits my personality. It is in total contrast to inner-city Paris, and it appeals to the Australian in me who needs a little bit of space and green. The arrondissement is a big tick, but would the children be a big a tick, and also, the studio? I've prepared myself mentally. I've spent enough time in Paris to know what to expect in terms of accommodation. I expect miniscule.

'Here we are,' the mother leads me to the ground floor and pushed open a door to a short corridor. On both sides of the corridor were two doors, with another door at the end of the corridor. She pointed to the door at the end of the corridor.  'This is the toilet.' She pushed the toilet door open, and I was surprised at how clean it was. But I shouldn't have been. There were signs plastered all over the toilet. ''Keep this toilet clean! Flush after using!''

The mother smiled when she saw me reading all the different toilet signs. 'The lady in one of these studios is a bit of a clean-freak. Better to be clean than dirty though, right?'

I nodded.

The mother, standing in the corridor, continued with her tour. She pointed to the four doors. 'These are four studios. This would be your one.' She opened the door to the studio nearest the toilet, on the left.

I braced myself, but I was pleasantly surprised. The studio is in the shape of a long rectangle with a barred window at the back, looking out to a cement courtyard and space for four cars.

I step inside, looking up. 'Oh, wow, high ceilings. It makes the place look bigger.' It is also painted  white, and the furniture is white and modern. The kitchen has two hotplates next to a sink, and sits over a cupboard and a mini fridge. Next to the ''kitchen'', right by the front door, is the shower. No separate door, just a tiled shower cubicle with a curtain, right next to the ''kitchen.'' Opposite the ''kitchen'' is a nice, clean, new white wardrobe. Then, there is a single bed by the window. I breathed a sigh of relief. 'Oh! It's quite nice.'

The mother smiled. 'Yes, it's new.'

I took the job.

Now I am enjoying living in this 16th arrondissement. It's a la-di-da area of Paris. Lots of money here. You see it on the streets, in the way people are dressed, and also by the types of boutiques and restaurants there are (lots of those lovely florists, but then again, there are lots of lovely florists all over Paris. It always amazes me how many florists. Do people really buy flowers every week?). I like the area because I feel like I can breathe here. When I step out the door, I look at greenery. If I follow the green stretch of land up the boulevard and turn left, I reach the hippodrome and the park de Boulogne. It's an enormous green parkland with lakes. My soul sings each morning as I jog along, refilling my internal nature pot. I suck in all the goodness from the trees, lakes, and the hippodrome. I like looking at this hippodrome. I'm unfamiliar with horseracing, but these tracks (which are always empty when I'm jogging around) are so well-kept. In my head, I envision purebreds thundering along, and for some reason, this makes me happy. I jog, jog, jog, and observe, observe, observe, and imagine, imagine, imagine.

The babysitting job and studio have actually turned out to be alright. Well, everything would be alright, if it wasn't for the Toilet Dictator. She's the lady who lives in the first studio, and the one who is responsible for all the toilet signs.

Let me explain the problem. I had put my toilet paper in the corner of the loo so I wouldn't have to keep taking it in and out of my studio (I see the others have done the same). But, the next time I went into the toilet, I saw that my loo roll had moved from the corner. I put it back in the corner. The next time I went in, it had moved again. I put it in the other corner. But, the loo roll keeps moving. Every time I think I found a good spot in the loo, she moves it.

I've had enough. I knock on the Toilet Dictator's door. 'Can you please stop moving my loo roll?'

She's a short, chubby lady in her forties, with bleached hair. She's not French. Bien sûr. We're all the immigrants down here in these ground-floor ''studios.'' I imagine we're probably the only four non-French in the building. The Toilet Dictator has been living down here the longest.

She explodes, 'Who do you think you are? Knocking on my door?! I'm going to report you to the syndicate!'

I kind of knew she would react like this, cause she gives off a lunatic vibe on a normal day.

I don't react with maturity. I know exactly what I'm doing when I say, 'Wow! You've got a problem with anger. You need to see someone about that!' (I know. I know. I know. I can't help it. She is so aggressive!)

She explodes even more. Her black eyes are going to pop right out. 'I've been living here for five years! I know how this place works. Who do you think you are?! I'm going to report you!' She screams and screams and screams.

I wave away her stupidity and retreat back into my studio saying, 'You need help!'

Back in my studio, looking at the windows with bars on them, I see two young girls (from the upper floors) in the cement courtyard. They are kicking a soccer ball between them. At least, they should be. The older one, about 9 years old, is staring into my studio, at me. There is nowhere for me to hide. I can't go and walk into another room. I have to sit here and take it. Being stared at, like an animal in a cage. I bow my head. This is it. I've hit a low. I'm a grown woman, living in Paris, sharing a toilet with three strangers, being shouted at by a Toilet Dictactor, and stared at by a 9-year-old. Is this it? Is this living the Parisian dream?!

2.  Chouquettes by Plaisance

Paris 14th arrondissement. 2 months.

My Paris friend, Cora, has taken a two-month summer job in the alps.

A lightbulb sparks in my head when she tells me. Ping! I sit up straight. 'Ooooh. Does that mean your apartment will be free for the summer?'

'Yes.'

'Well... if it's alright with you, can I sublet it?'

'Not technically because that's illegal.'

'Can I sublet it, anyway?' I shoot her my best smile.

Cora's place is in the 14th district and is a two-minute walk from the Plaisance Metro. It's part of a huge square complex that looks stark; kind of old Eastern European if you will (and no, I have never been, and yes, I'm generalising).

The apartment is on the 10th floor, and when I step inside, I am pleasantly surprised. It's really light and spacious. The spacious aspect is because she has only recently moved in and has hardly any furniture, but that is exactly the way I like it. The light aspect is because she has huge glass sliding doors in the living room, leading to a balcony which overlooks a park. Across the park, the neighbouring apartment buildings are too far away for the ''peering into the neighbour's living room'' which is what you find in so many Parisian apartments, not excluding the really expensive ones. That always drives me mad; the fact that these million-euro apartments still have other million-euro apartments looking in on them from across the street. I need a sense of privacy and space, and Cora's apartment ticks the boxes. I like it straight away.

'My niece is visiting from Australia. She's been taking a French language course in the 6th. Is it okay if she comes to stay with me at your place for the summer?' I'd asked Cora.

'Yes. Just remember to be discreet. Don't answer the door to anyone. And, when you meet neighbours in the elevators, just say, ''Bonjour,'' and nothing else. Because, you know...'

'Yes, yes. Hush, hush, I'll keep my head down, promise. We both will.'

So, my lovely 30-year-old niece arrived at Cora's apartment with her big smile, her big suitcase, and her big fat thing on her back. As soon as she'd walked into the living room and turned around, I'd said, 'What's that on your shoulder?' I picked up the long white piece of towelling off her shoulder.

She'd turned, grabbed it from my hands, and gasped. 'Oh my God, it's my headband! I use it to keep my hair back when I'm putting on make-up! I've just crossed the whole of Paris, wearing that on my shoulder! Oh my God!' Her face dropped.

My face cracked up.

The next morning, I say to my niece, 'I'm going out. If the plumber comes knocking on the door, it's okay, you can let him in. He has to check the leak and the mould in Cora's bathroom.'

Imagine my surprise when I arrive back from my shopping errands to find my niece in the living room talking with not one man, but two very young men who are not dressed in plumber clothes, but in suits.

'Can I help you?' I said in French, because although my niece has been taking French lessons, her language level is still beginner.

'Hello Madame, we're here for your internet connection.'

'We don't have internet connection.'

'Yes, we know, and we'd like to offer you our service.' The young men smile cordially at me.

'Ah! No, thank you.' I escort the two young men to the door, and they smile at my cute niece. My cute niece smiles at the well-dressed men, and I close the door behind them. I turn to look at my niece.

Her eyes are wide. 'I thought they were the plumber!'

I stare at her, trying to comprehend the girl's thinking.

She continues, 'I thought they were rather