Bonjour tout le monde

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.