My employer
bailed me out of my rent difficulties (I hope) in the eleventh hour. The
moratorium on evictions was extended by the government to March 31, and before
it expired, my company loaned me money to pay off the rent, and reset the meter
to zero, so to speak. The management company for the apartment building
promised to cancel the eviction, so either that company is defrauding us, or I’m
somewhat out of the woods for now. Only a few hundred other crises to resolve
(all of them related to my poverty), and perhaps my blood pressure will start
to go down.
It was time
for me to renew my French “green card” (residency card) last week. Actually, it
was time to do that months ago, but when I requested the renewal way back in
October, while the old card was still valid, I was given an appointment in
April. When I renewed my passport, it took six days and cost about $100.
Renewing the French residency card takes almost a year, and costs around $300.
Maurice Taylor might have been exaggerating in his letter to the minister
Arnaud Montebourg, but not by much.
Of course, most
government agencies are rather slow-moving, no matter where you live. I waited
in line for about 30 minutes, then sat in a waiting room for another hour, then
spent about 15 minutes in front of a government agent turning over various
papers that I had to supply for the card renewal. I suppose it would have
happened similarly in other countries. The agent was at least able to
communicate with me in French, which was probably a relief, since many
foreigners in France don’t bother to become functional in the national
language. I cannot understand how people can live for decades in a country and
yet never make any effort to learn the language. Not only is it disrespectful to
the host country, but it is tremendously disabling in practical terms, since
you can’t communicate with anyone. Very strange.
I still don’t
have the new card—I was just turning in the requested paperwork. The card
itself will be ready in two months. So it will have taken just under a year to
renew a card that is only valid for ten years at a time.
Anyway, after
spending a couple hours among sneezing, sniffling immigrants in this government
office, I was rather hungry, so I decided to try Chartier, a Paris landmark.
This restaurant, hidden down a corridor off the rue du Faubourg Montmartre,
originally catered to the Parisian working class back in the nineteenth
century, providing decent food at affordable prices in a utilitarian
atmosphere. Today it still does the same, except that the working class can no
longer afford to live in Paris, so the clientele consists of tourists and some
Parisians who happen to like the unique characteristics of the restaurant.
I watched a
group of Chinese tourists cut in in front of me to get their seats first.
Apparently the Chinese leave courtesy and decorum back home when they travel.
Or perhaps they are just as rude and boorish to each other as they are to the locals in
Paris. Still, I was seated after only a few minutes.
Several
things set Chartier apart from other restaurants. For one, it doesn’t take
reservations. And the waiters seat you wherever there’s an empty seat—in my
case, this meant sitting at a table for two across from a total stranger who
was half-way through his meal (it didn’t bother me, but I think perhaps it
bothered him). Service is very fast. The food is simple and tasty, but not
haute cuisine. The prices are low. The atmosphere is very fin de siècle and has
a certain charm.
All in all,
it’s like a chic alternative to McDonalds. The food is better, but the prices
are higher (although still very reasonable). And the atmosphere is much more
attractive than the banal decor of a MacDo. I had a ground beef patty with
pepper sauce and French fries, which is one of the restaurant’s signature
dishes. I liked it. For an appetizer I had a simple hard-boiled egg with
mayonnaise, which was very good. My only mistake was dessert: I asked for
whatever was best, and that turned out to be a baba rhum, a pastry soaked in
rum. I absolutely cannot stand alcohol, so it was pretty much inedible to me,
except for the whipped cream. But that was my fault, because I didn’t tell the
waiter that I was only interested in desserts without drugs.
Overall I
thought it was very nice, and the price was right (just over 18 euro), and I’ll go back. But I’ll
definitely pick a dessert free of ethanol the next time.
The weather
has been extremely cold for the season, with morning temperatures still only a
few degrees above freezing. It matters not to me, as with my new, full-time
job, I don’t have time to go anywhere, anyway. And even if I did have time to
go somewhere, I don’t have the money.
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