Dénouements
The genial bank employee nodded his head. I pressed ‘submit’ on my phone. Two days late, my first month’s rent shot off toward its intended target, my new and understanding landlords. What feels like a heroic three-week battle came to a triumphant conclusion. Not only did I pay my rent, I also let an unfamiliar feeling sink in: I am solvent in France. Maybe other people would have handled with aplomb the endless process of linking three bank accounts and a currency converter, while contracting for an apartment and setting up utilities (with an agency’s help), but not me. I’ve been living on tenterhooks since November 12, when I arrived in Paris with the aim of staying.
However, as a result of the process, I’ve gained self-knowledge. I’m terrific at handling other people’s crises, projects, and problems. Are you in trouble? I’m your girl. Let me help. Are you in distress? Are you bleeding? Don’t move, I more or less know what to do. When my own logistical problems and travel plans are involved, sometimes I get frazzled. I worry that a wrong step will lead to a catastrophe from which I will not recover.
This is the longest I have ever felt frazzled. I should have known three weeks of feeling like I’m clinging to French soil lest I’m thrown out would have consequences. To take one example, when a cab driver swung my market cart, packed with the few kitchen items I acquired since I arrived, in an arc from the sidewalk into the back of his van and then back on to the sidewalk in front of my building, I should have anticipated its contents would have been dislodged. It didn’t occur to me that the stopper on the gooey balsamic vinegar bottle might pop out and release a thick, dark ooze over the dog bed, the bag of dog food, and the bottom of the cart. Could I get the sticky cart from the doorway to the bathtub without staining the newly restored parquet floors? I could. But if I had proceeded with a little more thought before removing the contents, my pinky would not have met the edge of my chef’s knife blade, now loosened from its swaddling. Aiming a shower head at the sodden market cart while trying to staunch the flow of blood with paper towels wrapped around my finger, I looked like a film student with no budget making a slasher movie with gourmet pretensions. And so, I think it’s fair to say my three-week long frazzle led directly to my introduction to The American Hospital of Paris, where, the next morning, I received four stitches from a brusque, busy ER doctor, who found my situation amusing.
Since then, however, it’s been victory after victory. At last, bank account after bank account lowered their defenses and let me in. Once inside, I launched currency across the Atlantic, which eventually — yesterday, in fact — landed in my empty French account. This morning, I went to the bank to have them explain how to pay my rent using the bank app. Once that was accomplished, I used my French debit card for the first time to pay for a bottle of wine, four potatoes, a roasted boudin noir with a few apple slices, and toilet paper. Irrationally, using that debit card, like ordinary Parisians do, felt like a bigger victory than paying my rent.
And now I sit on my sofa and look around me. To my surprise, I have landed on my feet.