It’s Thursday in Paris, and the headline on CNN is, “France Told to Prepare for Outbreak Like Italy’s.” I’m waiting for Young Reluctant P. to get home from school on the crowded metro, which is a germ-fest under the best of circumstances, and I’m wondering for the umpteenth time what made us decide to leave our great life and great friends and family in spacious, green, sea-swept California and move to such a dense, noisy, chaotic and very inland city, where personal space is hard to come by.
All day the workers have been drilling and jackhammering in the apartment above me, as they do every day. It’s 4:22, which means they’ll be going home soon, and the drilling will be replaced by the screaming of les petits elephants, which is a welcome substitution, and the louder, angrier screaming of the four little elephants’ impatient father, which is not welcome at all.
Over at my regular website, MichelleRichmond.com, I provide a new, unpublished short story–both a text and audio version–to subscribers once a month. Since this month’s story is about Paris, and was written in this very apartment, in the din of the drills and amidst the uncertainty of the spreading coronavirus, I thought it would be a good fit for The Reluctant Parisian.
You can listen to the story below. If you want to get more fiction (which is usually a different beast altogether than what I do here at The Reluctant Parisian), you can sign up for free monthly story here.
KV
Hey Michelle,
Lovely note. I do not mean to giggle at your expense but, well, I preceded you in that precise apartment so know intimately of what you speak re les petits elephants.
I would like you to know that the prior upstairs tenants (troisième étage) were equally noisy and inconsiderate, sporting slippers of bricks, a(nother) verbally abusive father, and approximately zero area rugs. When the new folks took the lease, I anticipated problems at once and actually begged that woman to try a bit harder with her brood. I’m sorry that apparently she hasn’t. And construction? Jeez.
We’ve apparently traded places—sort of. I write from our Mill Valley treehouse where I’m finishing my second book while sheltering appropriately. An COVID-19 update from a Paris friend reminded me to Google you. I’m glad I did – I’ll have to check out your blog and books.
Grateful to be back in the Bay Area but I miss Paris very much and especially my beloved Parc Monceau. I do not miss the witch à côté (à gauche) nor the noise and nuisances above nor the ghoulish cave. You didn’t find a box of La Rochère glassware in there, did you? 🙂
Best,
KV
Michelle
Oh my goodness, Kelly, this is amazing! How wonderful to connect with you. When we moved in, Melissa (5th floor) and Cherie (next door) told me the family who preceded us was from the Bay Area and that the woman was a writer. And my married name is so similar to your name that when I saw your name on the placard in the lobby, I actually thought they had just misspelled our name! We’re living in some strange parallel universe, although I must admit I’d much rather be in your Marin treehouse than in Paris right now.
That is so funny about the neighbors. I haven’t confronted the mom about the children but I did finally go up and lose it over the mom’s boots, which she put on every morning at 7:00 a.m. so she could stomp around the house for an hour before leaving for work. And the rug thing! Who lives in an apartment with hardwood floors and doesn’t have area rugs?!
I don’t think I’ll miss Paris when we leave, but I do love Parc Monceau. It is my happy place. I’m terrified to go into the cave. I think it was empty when we arrived but I’ll ask my husband to have a look when he cleans it out before our departure to see if your glassware is hiding amidst the skeletons.