Sketches of Rue Raymond Losserand

I live at 74 Rue Raymond Losserand, Henry Miller lived at number 60 when he was in Paris. Hemingway lived in a number 74 on a similar mouthful of a street- Rue Cardinal Lemoine. Jean Paul Sartre is buried nearby. I came to Paris for the reasons most people do. Because I came once before and it got into my soul and came back a few more times and found it was never enough, because it called to me, because I like to think of myself as the kind of sophisticated continental gentleman who takes long vacations in Paris, because I have been trying to write a novel for four years and when one cannot finish a novel one moves to Paris and assumes they will become Hemingway. I came here briefly and wrote and ate and saw things and met people but most of all I lived a little life on a little street, un petit vie.

The Intersection

The center of my little world is the intersection of Rue de Raymond Losserand and Rue Pernetty. On either corner are the dueling cafe’s and the Metro station. To the north is the cemetery, Gare Montparnasse, the bustling Avenue Main and Avenue Montpranasse and beyond that the Ile de la Cite and the Paris City Center. I haven’t made it more than a few blocks south, there is definitely a Pizza Hut and after that what appears to be some relatively unexciting industrial zones.

Number 74

I live in building B. The way you access building b is by walking through the lobby of building a and into a corridor that we share with a chinese restaurant and through a very creepy and unlit courtyard until you get to another building, then walk up two flights of narrow stairs. Here is something that is annoying about Europe. Lights everywhere are constantly turning off to save energy. There are never ever lights on in my building, you can’t see where you going in the corridors or staircases even during the day time because it also has no natural lights. You have to hit these buttons on the wall to get lights going, which sometimes you can’t find at night and sometimes it’s just annoying.

Also Europe is very serious about recycling. In the courtyard between my buildings there are legitimately seven different containers for recycling different items. As of now- I have met no one who lives here, nor seen anyone in the hallway or run into anyone in the courtyard. Below is a summary of what I have heard happen.

• The people above me having sex, it didn’t sound very passionate, maybe it was like, hey it’s tuesday and you want it and I don’t but I guess I will maintenance sex.
• A loud knocking and someone shouting “police!!” this was incredibly exciting but then nothing happened after
• A guy who sings motown songs in english
• A very overbearing sounding old french lady who is always yelling at someone about something, but my french isn’t good enough to know what
• A guy across the hall who seemingly only watched television programmes that feature non stop singing. It’s like 24 hour french X Factor over there.

The Newsagent

This guy is thoroughly confusing but also I love him for knowing what newspaper I want to buy. The first two days I lived here this newstand was a card table set up with like 5 papers on it and they didn’t start working until like 11 AM. Then one day a giant kiosk opened with multiple employees and an incredible selection of newspapers and magazines. I basically judge every single one of my interactions with people in the neighborhood on whether or not they remember me, because I desperately want to be a French regular. This guys knows I am here to buy L’Equipe and I thoroughly appreciate that. On a side note in the two weeks I have been here, L’Equipe has cost 1,40–1,50 and 2 euro on seemingly random days. Also L’Equipe rocks and makes me wish America embraced more than the big four sports. L’Equipe is definitely dominated by soccer and rugby coverage but they are not above putting some sailing champion on the cover for three days or doing a multi day coverage of off road rally racing. It also has serviceable coverage of the NBA and acts like the NFL does not exist, it’s a good world.

The Pernetty Metro Station

The Pernetty station serves Paris Metro Line 13, which I am told is unpopular but I can’t see why. It’s clean, efficient and the the train always comes within a few minutes of arrival. I think anyone who dislikes the Paris Metro in general, has never relied on the New York City subway system for daily commuting. On my first day here I wanted to buy the Navigo Decoutee, the equivalent of a metro card that gets you on all trains in Paris for a weekly or monthly unlimited rate. In order to get one you have to take a picture of yourself at a kiosk, buy a card from a machine that’s not in english and then take it all to a subway employee to assemble. I arrived and the woman working the metro stop diligently helped me with all of this. Can you imagine a guy showing up Jay Street/Metrotech speaking french and asking an MTA employee to help you buy a metrocard? I fucking love French public transportation.

When you get onto the platform there is a digital sign that not only tells you when the next train is coming but when the train after that is coming. Its insane. And the times are basically always 1 minute and then 4 minutes. It’s literally a modern fucking marvel. Also they have vending machines that sell good french candy. I drunkenly tried to buy a twix on New Year’s Eve and ended up with something called a Kinder Bueno, it’s was like a Ferrero Rocher but bigger and more delicious. The only food on NYC subway platforms are that one churro lady at Court St and the little kids selling candy for their basketball team.

Cafe Losserand

Across from me is the Cafe Losserand, its always empty and the staff is kind of mean and distant. In the morning it is an old woman and at night an arab guy. I go in there for coffees sometimes because I want to be a regular in the neighborhood, but frankly it’s pretty unpleasant. After a morning run I go into the Losserand for a coffee and I swear at least two of the patrons are drinking wine at 730 in the morning. They don’t look drunk, they don’t look like they have been there all night. They just look like guys who want a glass of red wine for breakfast. Viva la france.

Cafe Au Metro

Across from the Losserand is the Cafe au Metro, presumably named because it’s five feet from the Pernetty Metro station. Slowly this has my become my hang out. On New Years Eve I came in and one of the waiters shook my hand and greeted me like a regular and when I was told I couldn’t get a coffee he yelled at the barman and got me a coffee. We are basically best friends. I come to the cafe every morning for coffee. Sometimes I stand at the counter and try to read the headlines of L’Equipe, sometimes I sat at the tables and write, as I am right now. I usually get two double espressos and frankly it still does not wake me up. I start every american morning with about 35 ounces of ice coffee and nothing but that mainline of caffeine to my brain will do.

As far as I can tell there are three staff members. A really good looking blond haired woman who works the bar in the morning and two waiters. A middle aged woman and my best friend from New Years Eve, a bald guy in his 20’s. Both of them seem fascinated by what I eat even though I am just ordering off the menu and it’s all normal food. My first day there I ordered blood sausage and the middle aged woman made a point of double checking, assuming I didn’t know what it was and didn’t really want it. The next day I ordered a cassoulet and the next time I came in the mid 20 guys called Monsieur Cassoulet. It was weird.

I think if I liked beer more this would be a good beer bar. Looking at the taps it seems to lack the Kronenberg and 1664 I see everywhere but instead has Brooklyn Lager and London Stout and other seemingly fancy things. I also must comment on how bad and annoying the music is here. They always have music on and it’s always 70’s pop. Not even good 70’s pop but like the bee gees and bands that arent even as good as the BeeGees but sound just like the BeeGees, also ABBA, lots and lots of ABBA.

Monoprix versus Franprix

The neighborhood has two grocery stores. The Monoprix and the Franprix. Prix means price in French which makes me assume one store means “single price” and the other means “french price” then again I learned French from an ipad app with a cartoon owl, so this is all questionable.

The Monoprix is honestly kind of a dump. It is in the basement of a two story building and the first story is this weird,shitty store that looks like an Ames. It has nothing but crappy looking appliances and weird fabric and stuff that just no one wants to buy. The basement is the grocery story which smells kind of funky but since it’s in France is full of delicious and decadent food. Seriously it has an end cap that is just foie gras. We have hostess cakes and they have duck liver pate. It has a great wine and booze section and this confusing section that can only be described as “stuff you spread on bread” which features butters and soft cheeses and pates, hummus and these very odd items which are like different crushed up vegetables as some kind of bread dip. My favorite is called the caviar tomate which has no caviar in it and basically tastes like a cold paste made of crushed up bruschetta. It tastes fucking dope. I also found white chocolate oreos here, which apparently is a thing because France is a good and glorious mother who gives us all we want and need.

The Franprix is much nicer. It’s a block north of the metro and looks like a clean modern building. They dont have the tomato caviar thing but they have a larger selection of pates and they have an EXTENSIVE selection of prosciutto, I mean like an entire aisle of proscuitto. I have never ever seen this many different kind of proscuitto, no joke this place easily has three times more brands of packaged proscuitto than it has soap. The only thing more widely available at Franprix is red wine.

They also sell a pre packaged hot dinner that is two enormous chicken legs and a giant thing of potatoes and carrots for €3.90! 3 fucking 90! You can’t get a fucking whopper for €3.90 but they have god damn chicken cooked that day and fresh veggies for €3.90. I swear when I bought it I thought the price would actually be three times that. I love Franprix. They also have a cheese aisle that is more extensive than the bougiest american cheese shop I have ever been to.

The main thing that annoys me is that they make you pay for bags, like in San Francisco, which I know is environmentally friendly but it annoys me. In America I have a giant collection of plastic supermarket bags under the sink that I use for all sort of purposes, in France these bags are precious commodities. Also they make no effort to bag your groceries for you and as an American I actually have no idea how to bag groceries. I know this sounds ridiculous but at American supermarkets they do it for you and I legit had to look at my groceries and wonder where to put the eggs. France, man.

The Many, Many Bread Stores

I have no idea what the market economy for boulangeries is. The extent of my neighborhood life is maybe five blocks and we have at least eight boulangeries. They are all always packed. I have no idea what the business model is here. Don’t they take business from each other? If i was going to open a boulangerie in Paris I would try to do it at least three blocks away from another boulangerie. There is one directly across the street from my house and it is pretty serviceable. They have good baguette but the pastries are not very exciting. There is one right next to Francprix that is run by two super charming old ladies and they have cakes and pies that are literally mind blowing in size, You can buy a slice of pudding or pie for three euro that is easily four times larger than your expected pie size slice. And they say everything’s bigger in America.

The Best Bread Store

Easily the most french thing I have started doing is walking past at least four bread stores to get the fifth better bred store. It is the smallest one and always has the longest line and also features the clerks who seem most annoyed by poor French, but it doesn’t matter because it’s so god damned good. The baguette is the best on the block by far and I am usually one of the first people there in the morning so often when I bite into it, it’s still hot. They also make a croissant with almonds that is so perfectly moist and rich and decadent that I am sure when I am dying, one of my final thoughts will be of how good this croissant was. Of course my final thought will almost certainly be of the Canele. Annoyingly they never have the canele ready when I get there at 8am so I have to come back later. They also never seem to have more than two or three canele available and I always buy all of them. I can’t even describe to you how good the canele is. Imagine your fondest memory. Your best vacation, your first kiss, the way your childhood dog leapt into your arms every day after school when you get off the bus and life was innocent and good and free. Now imagine that feeling is a rum flavored, tiny, ultra dense french pastry shaped like a bell. That is basically how this canele tastes.

The Meat Guy

Across the street from me is a butcher and every single thing in his store looks absolutely delightful. When I first moved in I was determined to go in and buy some fresh cuts of beef to cook some big meal but as of yet I have been to intimidated. I have never been to a butcher in America but it strikes me as kind of confusing even there. I don’t know what the different cuts of meat are and I get the feeling the butcher expects you to know, I also literally don’t know any butchery words in French besides “cut” and “meat” so I ultimately decide I am too much of a coward to go in. Eventually I do and I buy a whole rotisserie chicken that I see is available. It costs 25 euro which is pretty expensive but I get the sense that this is going to be a good chicken and it fucking is. I take it home and immediately eat a leg and it’s the best chicken I have ever tasted. I carefully put it away and decide to eat it for three meals but then come home drunk on New Year’s Eve and devour the whole thing, shamefully.

I don’t care it was amazing.

The Dry Cleaner

The lady who runs the dry cleaning business speaks no english but is super friendly and understanding about it and not at all annoyed with me for my shitty French. She dry cleaned a shirt for me, it was perfect and took one day. I have weirdly high standards for dry cleaners, In America I only use one dry cleaner who is like fourteen miles from my house and all my shirts take like four days to come back. This lady is much better than them.

I also tried to get her to repair a ripped pair of pants for me, which she could not do but she directed me to a local tailor.

The mean old tailor who is actually very nice, he just doesn’t speak English and I am an asshole American

I roll into this tailor shop and an old man who speaks zero english and has zero time for my French is watching the horse racing channel. I show him the pants, he sits down at a sewing machine and fixes them in two second and charges me five bucks. This service is unheard of. In America this guy would make me leave the pants for a week and charge minimum 40% of what I originally paid for the pants. My only real problem with the guy is that he didn’t smile or seem charmed by attempts to speak french. He was kind of gruff but he got the job done quickly and efficiently so really I just have dickish standards.

On the way out the door I decide to blow his mind because I realize I know how to say “good luck with the horses” in French. I turn to walk out the door and slowly turn back, like Han Solo and smile and say:

“Bonne chance avec les chevals”.

…

Right! Right! ARE WE BROS NOW OR WHAT????

He does not look up.

The Post Office

One of the man ways my intense desire to be French manifests itself is my fascination with the banality of french life. The absolute highlight of my Parisian life is owning a Navgio Decoutee and I was just as excited for my first trip to the French post office. The first thing I noticed about the post office is that it is evidently also a bank. Most of the people there appeared to be making financial transactions, which I found weird.

I found two guys in their 20’s behind the main desk and was instantly nervous they would be annoyed millennials and unable to help me. I don’t know the words for mail, stamp, international or envelope so I was basically going to have to ask these guy to speak english to me, which always makes me feel like a dick.

Thankfully the one guy speaks english and is exceedingly pleasant. I have noticed that in France when I encounter someone who is in their 20s and speaks english they are always really friendly and ready to chat, presumably to practice the language or show off their skills. Immediately upon hearing my request to purchase stamps he apologized which I assumed was going to be followed by an explanation of why I can’t buy stamps but instead he told me:

“I’m very sorry, in France our stamps are not beautiful at all”.

Which I found to be a thoroughly French statement. Can you imagine an American postal worker apologizing for the aesthetic value of stamps?

The Laundromat

Being in France for a long period of time I knew that for the first time in my life, I would have to conquer doing laundry in a foreign country. This was particularly vexing to me as I have actually struggled to figure out how the machines work in American laundromats, basically anything that isn’t a basement washer and dryer in my own home and I am lost.

So I plan. I bring an enormous amount of change, I have a translator on my phone and I go right when it opens at 7AM so no french people can’t laugh at me trying to figure out how washing machines work.

I get there and quickly divine that there is a machine on the wall that controls all the washers and dryers. So you put in the number of the machine you are using and then put money in and then the machine turns on. Easy enough. Next I stare at the machines and I swear to god, I have no idea which is a washer and which a dryer. This is partially because I am an idiot and partially because these machines all kind of look alike and have only french writing on them. I examine them each for five minutes and finally decide the machine that appears to have temperatures on them must be dryers because washing machines don’t need heat settings. Although they do, I go with it and it works and I feel like I cracked the human genome code.

90 minutes later, I have clean clothes and feel like the champion of the world.

The Dueling Fromageries

One of the most french things about my street is that within three blocks we have two separate cheese shops. I only frequented one because the guy was a bit more willing to communicate with me. While my french is improving I don’t really know many cheese words other than the actual word for cheese but this one cheesemonger spoke a little english and I used a little french and we met in the middle and bought some Roquefort, which was god damn delicious but also made my fridge stink. I later came back for Brie and Camembert and all of them were the finest cheeses I have ever eaten.

The cheese Shop also sold this amazing butter that had an expiration date of like four hours. Seriously it was the freshest and most delicious butter I have ever tasted.

The Chinese Restaurant

Directly next to me is a chinese restaurant. I never once ate there. I always sort of wanted to but also I never really felt like eating what appears to be average eggrolls over the amazing French food everywhere. One thing I do find notable is that General Tso’s chicken here is called “chicken with caramel” which is actually an insanely accurate description of what it is and if people actually called it that in America, no one would eat it. The French are so honest.