The More Things Change...

I've been thinking a lot about all the changes Nick faces--in fact, I have been thinking about them ever since the first time he called me as a Parisian. "No one will talk to me," he wailed. "I don't speak French!" Now, strictly speaking, this is not true. Although he never formally studied French until pretty recently, for as long as I've known him he could convey information well, and his comprehension is substantially better than mine.

I knew what he meant, though--it's different when you're thrown in to something entirely new without a net. All you can see is what is unfamiliar. Sooner or later, though, you start to notice that there really are universals. (Sorry, Andrea, but Mentos Cassis aren't on the list.)

Furniture Delivery

Okay, so in Nick's case, it's appliances, but the premise is the same--it's all one with getting cable installed, in a very Platonic sort of way. I'm sure that Nick had his own little shiver of genetically-coded recognition when he heard that his kitchen appliances would be delivered tomorrow. Between 8 and 1.

Neighbors

I have 2 1/2 problem neighbors. The half is the woman upstairs whose place I accidentally broke into last week (yes, both of our locks have now been changed). She wouldn't be a problem, except that my building (and, charmingly, Nick's as well) is built with super-solid walls, paper-thin ceilings, and creaky floors. So while we relax, trusting that the wall construction=great soundproofing, we are all driving the person below us insane. Plus, she uses something that sounds like a blender every night around 1 or 2am.

Unfortunately, I have no idea where the other two live (my windows open onto an echoing courtyard; they could be anywhere), which is inconvenient for sending the police their way. On the upside, I am now an friendly terms with my local graveyard-shift 311 guy. Actually, I have only ever called them about the person who blasts Spanish torch songs at 2am (only every so often, but with disturbing consistency--same music, same time, same duration). The porn star, on the other hand, is far too entertaining to shut down.

Nick has just the one, so far, and at least it isn't malicious: his upstairs neighbor is mostly deaf, and loves television. Remember what I said about the ceilings and floors? Every morning she creaks over to the TV, and turns it on loud enough to be heard in the lobby, three floors down. It's charming, say I, because it will make him less homesick.

Right?

Thugs

I came of age in one of those suburbs where we laughed at the kids with the baggy pants who listened to hip-hop and acted like it was their lives. I'm sorry, but we just don't have "hoods" in Connecticut, and the teenagers who pretend otherwise are just sad.

Apparently, they have those same teenagers in France.

"They must have some sketchier areas," I say, as some 16-year-old boys with piercings and chains harass a girl on the Metro.

"It's France," Nick argues.

But the thing is, I was sitting on the NYC subway the other day on the way out to Washington Heights, and I was watching this kid with a 4-karat chunk of plastic in his ear yo-yoing into his tricked-out cell phone (you get reception around 125th St.). And I caught myself thinking, "Who is he kidding?" And, really, if that isn't the place to find the real thing, then what is?