Jenna’s Model Life

I did procure a prepay phone and a SIM card this afternoon, braving an out-the-door line at a shop on the Champs-Elysées between castings to wrangle the device. The phone-seekers were mingling with the smokers on the pavement when I joined the queue; to its credit, the shop had staff everywhere but it still took me 30 minutes to wait my turn for help. The store clerk was speedy in showing me the phones available for purchase when buying a SIM card, I asked him what the cheapest handsets were, said, “I want the black one,” and off we marched to the counter.

It was at this point I realised where the flaw in the system lay: Buying a phone in France involves paperwork. The recondite store filing system demands yellow documents in duplicate, delivered to different folders in different drawers, and white documents in original ink stapled to receipts and folded carefully for posterity, and if one wants to buy a SIM card, a phone, and some airtime with which to speak on the phone, one must wait in a separate line for the airtime, pass a request form provided by the person at the checkout of the phone line to the person at the checkout of the airtime line, and then return to one’s original red-shirted checkerouter, before waiting while some more forms are completed and the final tally prints. Then you have to sign the tally. I think one copy of it might have been wax-sealed and stamped by a live-in notary with a repetitive stress injury, but thankfully they must keep the notary in the basement, because he didn’t hold me up. And then you pay.

This gave my checkerouter plenty of time to check me out. Note his phone number, which he cannily inscribed on the back of one of the forms (for simplicity’s sake, I left the yellows and whites and stapled receipts out of the picture and in the shopping bag, where I intend to leave them forever). What a smooth move. He said he was a nightclub promoter, and — omg! — he totally guessed my new profession on his first chance (I don’t look that much like a model already, do I?). John. J-O-H-N. (I love it when foreigners Anglicise their names to make me feel more comfortable, it’s dreamy.)

On second thoughts, I think that photo makes my phone look fat. This one makes my hand look mottled and purple, but it shows the downright enviable tininess and slimness of the phone to full advantage.

The one good thing about the process? In France, cellphones are sensibly given half a battery charge so you can use them out of the box with no fumbling for the cord. How thoughtful.

And meanwhile, in the hallway, a table o’ objets-d’art lingers, hoping for some action.

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Sorry objets, I’m distracted by the giant green-brown moss ice-cream cone in the living room. Nothing looks more like a farm’s worth of very dusty, threadbare soft bunnies that’ve been skinned, sewn up, and stretched over polystyrene. Yummy!

I call this one, “Still life with parquet floors and suede Robert Clergerie flat (for Margaret).”

Today

Castings: 6

Castings where asked to walk: 3

Castings where asked to try on clothes: 2

Distance walked, in km: 0.5 + 1.3 + 1.3 + 0.2 + 1 + 0.2 + 1.5 + 0.3 + 3.6 + 0.4

Number of different Metro stations glimpsed: 18

Metro lines traveled: 1, 11, 9, 3

Number of times lost: 1, on way to last casting

Models skinnier than myself: N-2, where N is the total number of models at the castings

Quantity of biscuits eaten by over two dozen models at last casting: 3/4 carton

Quantity of pretzels consumed: less than 1/8 carton

Number who ate a slice of the pizza offered: 2

Number of models with recognisable faces: 0

Number of models with recognisable names: 1

Number of models who wore short shorts over black tights with heels: 6, including me

I’d never worn shorts over tights before, and had been saving the outfit because I thought it would be special. I spent far too much of the day tugging at a small hole in the tights to try and make the hole sit above the hem of the shorts.

It was a tough day. I need to drop the inches that have crept back on to my hip and waistlines (after being plied by long lunches at In N Out and Desperate Housewives-marathon snacks of oven fries and mayonnaise straight from the jar, those lengthening bastards) and I have to make my walk look, well, better. Nothing is free about this trip: My agency is advancing me the cost of my flight, my lodgings, living expenses, the cost of my handy book of maps, even the cost of François, but today I met The Accountant, the person who’s writing all the costs down and will be taking all of every check I earn until I get out of the red. (Advances for these kind of expenses are standard in modeling, and I knew before I came that I was inviting the possibility of leaving Paris indebted in more than one sense to my agency.) But the gut fear of not seeing a paycheque for months, and having of necessity to travel and amass more debt in that time, is real enough.

But I’m still in Paris.

And this is worth coming back to.

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The bare lightbulb normally has a shade, but I could tell I would hit my head on it every time I approached the bed or table, so my landlord took it off. (Update: Then, on October 4th, he removed the entire light fixture! Now all the light I have in my room is one piddling floor lamp. Who does that — just walk in and take somebody’s perfectly good lightbulb? I can’t even read in my room at night now.)

This is the living room.

And this is the living room as goofily reflected by the bulbous head of the Castiglioni-inspired floorlamp.

I knew it was Paris when I hit a genuine transit strike as soon as I left the airport. François, the driver who picked me up at Charles de Gaulle wearing an awesome black ultrasuede modern frock coat, and who obliged me by speaking French, explained that the taxi drivers of Paris are currently on strike because of government plans to liberalise access to the permits required to operate a taxi: It seems that being a Parisian taxi driver is kind of like being in the Académie Française, in that the number of positions available is firmly capped, and hopefuls have to wait for one of the anointed few to kick it before they can seize their moment. Retiring drivers have been able to on-sell their permits for upwards of 200,000 Euro. News that the permit market might suddenly get a lot more liquid has not been taken kindly by these guys, who were among hundreds to park their taxicabs on the autoroutes around Paris today.

Did you know that the French independent taxi drivers’ union is called the National Federation of Taxi Artisans? Neither did I until twelve hours ago. If I meet any artisans in Paris, I hope it’s the folks at Fragonard — or perhaps the very talented women who sew the designer frocks I’m so dying to wear. (Ever since I watched every episode of Signé Chanel on YouTube in one torrid evening, I’ve been even more obsessed with the details of sewing than I thought possible.)

François deposited me about two hours later at the offices of my Paris agency. It’s located right off the Champs Elysées, and everyone there filled me with confidence (which is just the feeling one wants from the persons one tithes income to). There was a little coffee-colored bulldog wandering around the place, and it was very amenable to scratching behind the ears.

Next I was whisked to the apartment where I will spend some period of time. I’ll learn tomorrow what the general outline of my schedule will be, but how long I will stay here is fundamentally a function of how popular I become with clients.

Let’s dwell on the apartment for a second: It’s beautiful. Dark wooden parquet floors creak after my every step, the living room has a massive chaise longue (rivaled in size only by the ceramic vat of a tub in the master bath), and there is a full kitchen (with fish, which the landlord kindly requests that I and my dancer room-mate feed, just not too much). Right now I’m staring at a marble fireplace topped by a giant gilt-framed mirror, which reflects a beautiful Clifford Possum canvas.

Oh and I can see Notre Dame from my balcony.

My first sorties into Paris — gentle walks around the neighbourhood to procure an electrical adaptor, a cheap dinner, and a sense of my bearings — have been lovely. The Hôtel de Ville is a block or so from the apartment, and I spent a little time walking around Notre Dame and Île de la Cité, especially the gardens between the backside of the cathedral and the Seine.

Now, I must figure out a way to improvise an alarm clock from my laptop, and simultaneously charge the batteries of my borrowed camera, which might be difficult given I have one spare power outlet in my room, and only one adapter, anyway.I was going through my purse today and found a voucher for the Bread Garden. It was made out for me for $25.00 by my mother, and it still has a balance of $18.76. First Iowa Citian to comment gets it.