First of all, Happy Birthday to my dad! Second of all, remember yesterday when I said I was making mistakes? Settle in folks because I’ve got a story to tell, and I’m going to be detailed, so it’s going to be long.

(Alternate working title: A German man, a Ukranian Family, and a French Locksmith all walk into my freaking life…)

I got dressed, I went to go get my coffee and my croissant at Le Pain Quotidien. It was raining this morning but the cafe was packed inside so I opted to take it to go and enjoy some quiet at home until the rain stopped.

The sun came out an hour later and the day turned beautiful, so I picked up my journal and started walking. I found a quiet spot along the bank of Île Saint-Louis and did some writing. I love breathing in the smell of the water because it always reminds me of home.

I packed up my blanket and kept moving down the bank, where I chose to sketch the view from Quai de Bourbon. While I was sitting there a man took a seat on the bench next to me. (In case you’re getting nervous, don’t be. This part was fine.)

He got out a map and after a few minutes he politely asked me, in rough French, to point where we were. I circled our spot, then asked him if he was American, and he told me he was actually German. He apologized to me for his French skills (funny, right?) and explained that he had studied French for five years, 30 years ago.

I asked what brought him here, and to my understanding he said he had a brother that was doing a pilgrimage, so he was visiting Paris, then joining him for a week, then going off to tour other places— Tour and the Loire region being one of them. I told him I had a friend in Chinon. He then asked where the Notre Dame was, to which I very slowly and clearly gave directions to. He wished me a good day, and off he went.

I continued my sketch for maybe 20 minutes more and then felt like I wanted another coffee, so I went in search of a cafe. I walked along the exhibit around the walls of Notre Dame, which showed the details of the 2019 fire. I kept walking along, enjoying the view, looking at tourist shops (I found a replica of the scarf my aunt got me when she went to Paris roughly 10 years ago— my favorite scarf!), I found a little cafe and decided to be good and grab a bottle of water instead.

The temperature had reached 80, so I took off my jean jacket and held it in my hand.

I came across a flea market somewhere between the Boulevard de Palais and Petit Pont. The one thing I’ve yet to buy since I’ve been here is jewelry, but I found a booth that was selling bracelets and rings with beautiful gemstones. All the jewelry had swirly, serpentine bends to it that I liked, so I bought a gold peridot ring and a gold bracelet. I was proud of myself for having no hiccups in understanding her French with this encounter. Maybe I am getting better.

The sun was blazing and the crowds were suffocating— time to go back to the apartment, put on some dreaded shorts, and then make my way to the Place des Vosges for a little more quiet.

It was somewhere around the Pont de la Tournelle that, for whatever reason, I felt for my apartment key in my jacket pocket.

“Gone”

I had put the key in the right hand breast pocket of my jean jacket. Easily accessible to me when I need it, but not at risk of being stolen or falling out. Unless, of course, I took off my jacket, and had been holding it in my hand. Where the pocket was then upside down.

Fuck.

I immediately turned around and retraced my steps for the last two blocks. Maybe I was lucky and the key had just fallen out. (No.)

After two blocks I figured it would be better not to waste time, if I can’t find the key then I need to contact my host. For all I knew it would take her awhile to respond, I could keep looking while I waited.

I feel I should establish a couple things:

There are only two keys to the apartment; the one I lost, and the one I stupidly had left behind in the locked apartment. (There were no other copies left with a friendly neighbor, I asked.)
In order to get into the apartment building, you need to enter the code to the door on the street, and then use a badge to go through a second, glass door, which gives you access to the stairs and the apartments. So, I knew the door code, but I was now without a badge— I couldn’t get more than ten feet into the building.
Three days ago a family of five or six just moved into the apartment above me. I can always hear their children running around upstairs.

Thankfully my host responded right away, and we made a plan. A locksmith was coming in thirty-five to 40 minutes. In 40 minutes, I was going to go to the apartment building, buzz my new neighbors on the 6th floor, and they would let me & the locksmith in past the second door. After that the locksmith would replace the lock to the door and let me in to the apartment— at my expense.

So, I sat at the Starbucks just three doors down from the apartment for 40 minutes with an iced latte and tried to swallow down some of my panic. I was beginning to feel a little ‘lost at sea’. I also wrote down everywhere I had walked and even cross referenced it with my phone map because after this was all said and done, I still wanted to see if I could find the key, at least to get the badge for the second door back. I took out the bag my bracelet had come in and looked up the vendor on Instagram. I thought to hell with it and shot her a message. “heyyyyy cute jewelry also please for the love of god did you find my key?” (Those were not my exact words.)

After 40 minutes, I went back to the apartment. The locksmith wasn’t around but I let myself into the first door—my host had said she would message me when he arrived anyways. I could get in, set down my things, and wait just by the second door for his arrival.

I buzzed the new neighbors. No answer. I buzzed again, nothing. I buzzed the other apartment on the sixth floor, nothing. I buzzed the new neighbors one more time. Nothing. Maybe I was supposed to speak as I held down the button? Was that it?

After five minutes the first door opened, and in came the whole family.

I greeted them and introduced myself, Kennedy, the one who lost the key. The father of the crew had told me that he was sorry to keep me waiting, and that my host had told him the locksmith wouldn’t be here for another hour.

I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself. I think he’d also said he needed to leave and then also come back in an hour? I decided to hell with it, he’s got a key I’ll go in through the second door now while I can, I’ll sit in the hallway and wait for the locksmith, and when he get here I’ll use my purse to keep the second door propped open. Boom.

I headed up to the fifth floor, with the family following just behind me, feeling so awkward all the while. The door to their apartment is right next to mine— they’re going to have to go inside and I’m going to just be sitting here, so they’re probably going to feel obligated to invite me in which they do not have to do.

At the fifth floor I dropped off my blanket just to lighten my load (and also to look like I had a purpose for walking all the way up there) and said “Okay, so, come back here in one hour?”

“Yes, Mercedes said the locksmith will be here in an hour. You can come in and wait here if you like.”

I am very greatful for their kindness, but my God did I feel like an inconvenience. I walked the entrance stairs that were lined with dark grey carpeting (and filled with toddlers) and said many, many merci’s.

It’s funny, there’s actually been some mystery to the sixth floor— the winding stairs and hallways of this building all follow the same pattern. One apartment on each end of the hallway, staircase is to the left. Except the sixth floor, which has a locked door, and that door is perpendicular to mine. I could tell no one lived there, and there probably weren’t any actual apartments, if the windows I could see of this floor were anything to go by.

Then a family moved in three days ago, and I realized I was wrong. I also learned the entrance to their home shares a wall with my bathroom.

I got really curious about this apartment upstairs, I don’t know why. And obviously I assumed this whole trip would come and go and I would never know what it really looked like for as long as I lived. One of life’s great mysteries. This was something I actually thought about, more than once.

And now I was sitting in it.

The father told me to make myself comfortable as he tidied up the living room — I took the first chair I saw and he said, “No, really, make yourself comfortable,” so I moved to the couch. He told me they had just moved to Paris, and I asked where they’d come from. Then I spotted a light blue and yellow flag hanging on the wall to left. This family had just moved here from Ukraine. It felt really pathetic, but I told him I was sorry for what was happening there.

““That’s life, what can you do?” He said. “I didn’t want to leave but I didn’t have a choice, I have children.” ”

He asked where I came from, I told him Wisconsin in the US. His sister joined me in the living room, she looked to be about my age (but if she told me her name I unfortunately can’t remember anymore. I don’t know why but I think it started with an M, so we’ll call her M. I’m sorry, it’s been a day.) The dad then told me that he almost moved his family to America.

“I figured I have two options, move to France, or move to America. But in America the health insurance is so expensive, and we’re a big family. Here it is free.”

We talked about the over the counter cost of insulin, and the cost of delivering a child. I told him how hospitals in America actually charge a mother for skin to skin contact after the baby is born. You should’ve seen the look on his face.

He went into the kitchen and I got to chatting with M. She told me that she’s been living here in France for awhile as an engineer, (she works on trains) and is just in Paris visiting her brother. She clarified that her and her brother are from Morocco, and her brother’s wife, Katya, is from Ukraine. Their two daughters, who are 7 and 5, have lived in Ukraine their whole life and only speak Russian. So when M, who speaks French and very good English, wants to speak with them, her brother actually has to translate between them.

As we chatted the youngest, a two year old boy, was devouring an ice cream bar in his diaper, and it was very cute. It got every where.

They offered me some water (which I declined, due to the one smart decision I made today), and brought out a bowl of fruit, and then brought me a glass of orange juice anyways as I waited.

I noticed the artwork on the walls— the Ukranian flag, a small canvas of Mario looking at a police officer, who is holding a shell. A picture of that famous painting of the girl holding out a red heart shaped balloon. There was another one of a monkey. Did that come with the apartment or did they bring that?

After maybe 15 minutes, the locksmith arrived. On my way out the door, the father apologized for not having introduced himself, and said his name was Amin. I thanked him and his sister profusely— especially after I found out that they had (to my understanding) left a Ukrainian help center they were at to come and let me back in.

Words can not describe the guilt I feel. I can’t believe just yesterday I was grumbling to myself a little bit about always being able to hear the kids upstairs. I’m going to get them a big box of macarons and a nice bottle of wine that comes highly recommended by my friend Christian. (PS. Christian if you’re still reading this I tried the Sancerre it’s incredible.)

I let in the locksmith, and showed him to the door. He told me it would cost 240 for him to get open the door, or 200 if I paid cash. I told him I would run to an ATM while he worked.

I got my 200 (big sigh) and quickly returned. By the time I was back, the door was open, but he wasn’t finished with the job yet. He was actually replacing the lock all together.

We chatted for a little bit, he asked where I was from and I said the US. He asked where in the US.

“Wisconsin… do you know it?”

“No.”

“No one in France does.” He laughed at that.

He asked how long I was here for, if this was my first time, if I liked Paris or the US more. I told him Paris, because the health insurance is too expensive in the US. Hah. He then said he’d been to the US before, he’s going to Las Vegas in September, but that the food here is better in France.

He said he didn’t know what the word was in English, but he explained that, in his experience, when he ate things like cheese in the US… something about a thing that sounds like ‘goo’ (gou? gout? goú?) was not very good.

I got the picture.

He finished his work, asked to wash his hands (it wasn’t until after he left I realized I still had underwear hanging on the towel dryer from this mornings load of laundry—and not cute underwear, believe me. I should’ve shown him to the kitchen sink.), and then he called my Airbnb host to update her on the door.

Afterwards I handed him the 200 cash. He then told me that it was actually 400 total— 200 to get me into the door, but he had also replaced the locks, so it was 200 for that service. He apologized for the confusion, he thought I knew that my host had opted to get the locks changed, but I didn’t.

I gave him the 200 cash and charged the rest to a card (UGH.), and he apologized maybe three more times. He then left me his number and his name, Fares, and told me to send him a message if I needed help with anything else while I was here, or at the very least a good recommendation for a restaurant. (The French.)

When he was gone, I had to just sit for a moment. This is a lot to deal with on your own— and in a different language.

I went looking for the key again until it started to rain, then I decided to give up and come home. I’ve been writing the experience as I drink a glass of Sancerre (thanks Christian) ever since.

My god, was it a day. I thought it might’ve been the worst I’d had since I got here. Now I think it actually might’ve been the best? It definitely makes for a good story… It’s a good thing I had my good luck charm on me the whole time. Could you imagine how much worse my day would’ve been?

Jusqu’à la prochaine tasse de café!

-Ken