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While Sacré Cœur is a lovely church, it wouldn’t be way handy to attend it on a regular basis. Fortunately, there’s another parish just a few blocks away, Notre Dame de Clignancourt. I attended the Sunday evening Mass there this evening.

It looks as though there are no regularly scheduled ministers. Instead, there was a middle-aged lady who went among the congregation about 15 minutes before the liturgy began to recruit lectors (one for the first reading, one for the second reading, and a third for the prayers of the faithful) and people to take up the collection. I was one of the people recruited for the collection: I tried to demur, but she was having none of it. All I had to do was take my little basket up the center aisle and take the collection on the right and bring it to the back of the church. So I dutifully took up my share of the collection. And resolved *not* to show up early to Mass, at least not until I’m a little better settled in!

I went out this evening in search of someplace to have dinner and possibly turn into a regular hangout, and I think I found it.

The Table d’Eugene is just a little ways away, and it looked as though near about everyone there is a regular. It’s the sort of place where the patrons think nothing of getting up to get a bit more bread or being asked to help translate the menu for a hapless pair of tourists (not me; another table). The food and wine are tasty and reasonably priced. The proprietor is very genial, with a bit of a Richard Dawson complex.

Between the time change and the unfamiliar (and uncomfortable) bed, it was nearly noon before I got up.

After getting dressed and finishing my unpacking, my first order of business was to go out to do some grocery shopping. My landlord had given me some brief guidance on shopping, which basically amounted to go left on leaving the building to find a supermarket and go right to find good food. Since I wanted to start with staples, though, I went in search of a supermarket, which I found a few blocks away.

Some of the things that I found: a modest selection of decent looking produce, plenty of cheese, some unappetizing-looking charcuterie, an entire refrigerator section with a dazzling and confusing array of yogurts, some unfamiliar looking cuts of meat and fish, more prepared and frozen meals and salads and such like than I had been expecting, a dozen or more different brands of bottled water, and a generous selection of wine and spirits.

What I didn’t find: do the French not eat oatmeal? What am going to do for breakfast? (For now, I’ve settled for some bananas and randomly selected yogurt, most of which seems to come in cute little tubs holding 125 grams, about 1/3 of a cup, I’d say.) Nor was there much by way of frozen fruit or vegetables.

I also searched for adapters for my computer and travel speakers, but to no avail. Fortunately, there’s an Internet cafe right across the street from me, so I was able to send email off announcing my safe arrival.

After talking about it for years (since Mom’s and Di’s deaths in 2003, to be precise), I’ve finally arrived in Paris.

I allowed British Air to talk me into an upgrade to business class, which was very comfy. The section was designed to seat 20, but had barely a dozen passengers (which is presumably why they were offering upgrades at such a discount), and we had two flight attendants all to ourselves.

Despite being able to recline at full length, though, I still found myself unable to sleep on the plane.

On the advice of my landlord, I took a taxi from the airport. My cab driver, alarmingly enough, was *not* impressed with my new address. To hear him tell it, there would be junkies and prostitutes on every corner.

The apartment itself is very much as advertised, though. It’s very bright and has obviously been recently and carefully renovated. And the building and neighborhood generally are quiet enough at night to belie the cab driver’s comments.

I’ve already made the acquaintance of my neighbor across the hall. She’s a widow, with poor eyesight, whom I would estimate to be in her 70’s. Her husband was a great friend of my landlord, whom she describes as très génial. She was one of 11 children and was kicked out to make her living at 12. She worked as a maid for 6 years before getting married.

She invited me into her apartment, which is laid out very differently from this one. She has basically one long hallway, with the rooms that let off to the left: a kitchen, a dining room, a living room, and a bedroom. Judging from the pictures on the walls, she has several children and grandchildren. She is, or was, an accomplished needlewoman: she has several beautifully worked tapestries hanging. She told me proudly that she’s been offered a great deal of money for them, but she has refused it, as she worked them for her own pleasure.

I realized when I tucked myself into bed that, no, I had not been truly been prepared for the enormity of what I was doing. "Omigod, I am completely and totally insane." and "What do I do now?" Not only that, but the bed here is tremendously uncomfortable. I wonder if the French think that mattresses with even a tiny bit of give are effete?