Beyond the madding crowd

A brief change of scenery and perspective. Plus, the new Good Vintage Expat Circle.

The petite elephants who live upstairs have been shipped off somewhere for the summer. The usual bowling-alley commotion has been mercifully reduced to the sound of their father clomping around at all hours.

Does he do calisthenics in clogs, perhaps?

Jason has taken to whacking the ceiling with a mop handle when it becomes intolerable.

Such is life in a 19th-century Paris apartment building.

Recently, a worker with a man-bun was dangling outside our bedroom windows, chipping away at broken stucco. His mate, a skinny guy with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, stood watch below.

All I could think was, Don’t even think about lighting that thing.

As I passed beneath Man-Bun on my way out of our courtyard, tiny bits of plaster fell on my head. Of course they did. But no matter, at least it wasn’t a brick.

Outside, delivery trucks blocked our street while men shouted at one another and unloaded equipment, furniture, and scaffolding. So much for the quiet street we were promised.

Our little rue is also so picturesque that it’s become a destination for TikTokers. The other night, two giggly Zoomers set up their phones on the window ledge below us and repeatedly filmed themselves doing a dance routine.

It took all my willpower not to water our balcony plants at that very moment.

To get away from the near-constant din and influencers, I go to a green space a few times each week. One of my favorites is Jardin des Plantes—a 20 minute walk from our apartment. To get there, I have to push my way through the swirling mass of humanity near Pont Saint-Michel and Notre-Dame.

Sometimes it’s difficult to leave the apartment knowing how intense the world outside will be, and I have to brace myself.

It doesn’t help that I’m small. Five feet, to be exact. I’m a woman in my 50s, and while I’m not invisible, sometimes it feels that way.

“Just don’t move aside,” Jason tells me. “Make them go around you.”

Easier said than done.

I’ve gotten better at standing my ground when someone comes at me, although it remains a challenge. I try not to blink first but frankly, I bruise easily and don’t like full-contact sports.

Even so, no one would accuse me of being a shrinking violet. I can be formidable, especially when confronted with gangs of oblivious teenagers with their noses in their phones.

“Look up, you little shits,” I mutter to myself.

One day I will say that out loud. In French.

After I get by the throngs clogging the sidewalks, I take the steps down to the quai, past the moored barges along the Seine, and finally exhale.

The other day, I went in search of the parakeets that had mesmerized me in June at the Jardin des Plantes. I returned to the tree where I’d spotted one of them popping his bright green head out of a hole. Sadly, the whole gang had flown the coop.

Perhaps just like the rest of France, they were en vacances.

I strode past La Ménagerie hoping to catch a glimpse of the red panda who sometimes snoozes on a big tree branch. He, too, was nowhere to be found.

An elderly woman with cropped gray hair approached me, holding tightly onto her caretaker’s arm. She held out her free hand and moved toward me, looking like an expectant child.

For a moment, I thought she might be about to hug me. Then I realized she was trying to steady herself.

I removed my earbuds.

“Are there any flowers here?” her caretaker asked.

“Là-bas,” I said, pointing toward a path leading into the heart of the park.

The old woman’s face lit up.

“It’s about five minutes away,” I added in halting French, although at their pace, it would probably take much longer.

They both smiled and thanked me.

It was the tiniest offering, but I was pleased that I had been able to help.

Then I began to worry. What if the blistering heat of the past few months had reduced the blooms to a few withered stalks? I continued in the opposite direction, then circled back toward the center.

I wanted to make sure I hadn’t sent them searching in vain.

But there they were: bright petunias, calendula, and zinnias, arranged in careful rows, still blooming and waiting to be admired.

---

Pull up a chair: The Good Vintage Expat Circle

Moving abroad can be disorienting and sometimes lonely. That’s why I’ve created the new Good Vintage Expat Circle for midlife people who are moving to France.

Each month, we’ll meet for 90 minute to talk about everything from downsizing and healthcare to making friends and navigating cultural difference. You can expect supportive feedback, vetted resources, and the benefit of lessons learned so that you don’t have to go it alone.

Space is limited to five people and the first call will be in September. Click below to learn more. ⬇️