The Nouveaux Weds: My Comfy Hoodie

Oh, who are the people in your neighborhood,
In your neighborhood, in your neighborhood.
Say who are the people in your neighborhood--
The people that you meet each day?

These lyrics were amusing to me as a child while I watched (and adored) Sesame Street, and perhaps unlike then, when it was more the fact that a large yellow bird and a grouchy indistinguishable animal that lived in a trash can were the singers, the lyrics are now relevant to me. Maybe it is because unlike Julia, who seemed to be able to talk to every vendor at the marché despite no grasp of the language (at least initially), I don’t have a bond yet with any people in my neighborhood. In fact, until Saturday, Matt and I hadn’t even really explored our neighborhood, let alone made friends with the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker (or in our case, the fromager).

We live in the 11th arrondissement -- a fact that perplexes people when we tell them we live there. This confusion stems from two possible situations. Either the person has never heard of it (or tells you that they have never been but they have heard that it is the new “hip arrondissement,” a translation that even I can figure out: “up and coming,” or in a less cloaked way, peppered with bo-bos (bohemian bourgeois) and homeless). Or they find it seemingly odd that two Americans with no French skills, whose only prior Parisian connection belongs to the Louboutins I wanted for my wedding, ended up in a district reserved for the French and French alone. At first I was frustrated by our decision to sign a lease in an area we had never been (and most people never will be). We have to fight the riff-raff for a washing machine some days, and the fact that it takes me six miles to walk to any meeting or event I have, can be cumbersome.

However, upon further inspection on Saturday, the Monceau Flowers on the corner may be blooming even greater than before. I say that as I think about the Whole Foods-esque store on the street behind ours, where we could get some tofu delight (a gem in Paris) and then sit in the park that is a block from us. Or we could grab a book and a bottle of wine, and sit by the Nation monument that, with the blue sky above it, is inviting and both intimidating at the same time. Or, we could simply sit by our window, sipping thé and watching the incessant movement down below -- apparently a rarity on the weekends for most districts. If we want to leave the "comfort" of home, we could saunter over to thé salon next to an even larger, more luscious park, and enjoy bon-bons from a patisserie, or work on our quilting with the squares we purchased at the sewing store nearby that sells toile pajamas (which is why I initially walked in). And, to top it all off, after a night out in the trendy Oberkampf area of the 11th, we found a supermarché open right across from us. Frozen pizza and friend potatoe balls never tasted so good.

But the question still remains, “Who are these people in my neighborhood?" (Some of it more like 'hood.) After a long chat with our new French friend, Julien, at Au Chat Noir on Saturday evening, apparently we are living amongst the young artists and budding cinematographers. Hipsters, yes, but so much more hip because they are Parisian. Julien had heard of my old neighborhood, Philadelphia, complements of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. He also likened Au Chat Noir (the bar we headed to after La P'tit Garage) to the “The Central Perk” from "Friends" (a neighborhood meeting spot for those of you without a "Friends"-watching background -- think Cheers). I think Julien and I are going to be very good friends, indeed (now if he quotes Brigdet Jones’s Diary, Matt and I may need to have a talk). All signs pointing up, in order to proceed on my 'hood high, all I need to do now is make nice with the young monster upstairs so that when I bang on the wall, he ceases the mind-numbing activity that never ceases to annoy me. Or better yet, if I make friends with the garbage men in my neighborhood, maybe I can just accidentally have them take away his scooter so as to eliminate that noise as it cascades across the floor. Oh wait, I wanted to make friends. Well, I think Bert and Ernie would have agreed that doing the right thing is the most important way to operate. Which is why, for the sake of my sanity, I am going to stand outside with a plate of my finest Nutella-smothered cookies, and wait for the garbage truck to arrive. It is my civic duty to make friends with them, right? The Cookie Monster would most certainly be on my side.