Ahhh, comme ca fait du bien d'avoir une gardienne. Isabelle was the Portuguese woman with a jovial smile (when she gave it to you) who was always trying to make the building better. She lived on the ground floor of the building in Belleville where I lived for 4.5 years; the only time she ever left was to see her family for 1-week in summer. I hope she changed her phone b/c she no longer responds to text messages. But I can also imagine returning there one day (where my brother now lives in my old apartment) and seeing her spraying down the terrace. A Parisian can dream.
Ah, the key: "when she gave it to you." The restraint of a Parisienne's affection makes it more powerful when they choose to show it! I also think the dedication to making the building a better place to live is interesting, because once a gardienne has the job it seems it is hers to keep. So there is a definite pride in the work that goes beyond the hope of continued employment.
Thank you for this. I lived in Paris for two and a half years, some years ago. I have a son who was born there. I hope you'll take a look at a novel of mine titled When Clara Was Twelve, almost all of which takes place in Paris in the 1950s. Clara is a Catholic American girl in Paris for a summer trip with her parents, when she learns of her mother's affair as a teenager with a handsome Irish boy who was living in the U.S. with his parents. The resulting little daughter is given up for adoption, and disappears. However, here in Paris many years later, Clara is shocked to meet a young Parisian woman, Emma, who tells her that she is Clara's sister. Clara attempts to bring Emma and their mother together, which results in a very difficult series of confrontations. The book is available everywhere. https://www.amazon.com/When-Clara-Twelve-Terence-Clarke/dp/1732919526/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3UR8NH69JEWNO&keywords=Clarke+When+Clara+Was+Twelve&qid=1689700984&sprefix=clarke+when+clara+was+twelve%2Caps%2C191&sr=8-1 Again, many thanks, Terence Clarke (aka Terry). terenceclarke.substack.com
This all happened in 1972. Our motivation for making him a French citizen was the American government's involvement in the Vietnam war. As card-carrying hippies, my wife and I were planning on staying in France more or less permanently. The irony of the situation is that in that time, if you were an American or a French, you had to choose one or the other nationality. Dual-nationality was an unheard-of concept (of course, much of that has changed now.) I checked out the situation with the French government the day after our son was born, and the stern, unsmiling woman at the counter told me about that restriction, and said we had three days from the moment of his birth to make the decision. I walked into the American Embassy in Paris that same afternoon with this news in hand, and encountered another woman at a counter, an American, whose advice was just as stern, although I've never forgotten the kindness with which she expressed it. Something like, "You know, you and your wife will have your American nationalities, and your son will have his French, and you'll have great difficulties arranging for his visits with his American grandparents in California. He'll have to qualify for visas. He'll have a French passport, while you'll have your American passports, and you'll probably be questioned in both airports as to who this little baby is, and is he your little baby, and why are there two citizenships here?" She offered a smile. "I know you probably don't want to hear this, Mr. Clarke. But I must be truthful with you. If you give him French citizenship, you will be causing possibly serious problems for your baby and for you and your wife, for many years." In my life, I can't remember such stern information being given to me with such fellow-feeling and sympathy. I thought about it for ten seconds or so, thanked the woman, and went back to the American Hospital in Neuilly, where my wife and son were. I explained the situation to my wife, and we agreed that he had to be an American. When I returned to the American Embassy, the same woman, a smile on her face, handed me the paperwork, which I read. There was a loyalty oath, to the U.S. government, at the bottom of the final page of paperwork, just above where I was to sign my name. I objected of course and expressed my anger with the Vietnam situation. "That's all well and good, Mr. Clarke. But what I told you yesterday is the same today. Sign the paper, and your boy is in. Don't sign it, and he's not." Again, she expressed this with considerable patience. She didn't have to wait long, though. I asked her for a pen and signed the loyalty oath...with a flourish. I've always been happy with the decision. Thanks again very much for writing back to me. Terry Clarke
What an interesting story! I spent a lot of time in the embassy during my Paris years. They are good people. It is no surprise that the woman you spoke with there delivered news you didn't want to hear with kindness, clarity, and patience. And yes, of course--what other choice could one make for this little baby, who had suddenly become your life?
So beautiful, Michelle! Madame Gateau! I feel that I am in that Paris building, retrieving a package from her ("Bonjour, Madame," "Bonjour"), and listening to her watering the flowers.
Oh my goodness, Kate, I just put the last name together! I'm so happy to see you here! How ARE you? Can you believe Oscar is going away to college? His years at your preschool are still some of our happiest memories. That was such a joyful place.
I am doing very well. We live in Cloverdale California. Oscar is going to college! Wow, it has been a long time. I am working at our local high school as a special ed teacher. A big change from preschool. My email is kate bria@gmail.com. Let's stay in touch!
He's fifty-one years old!
Ahhh, comme ca fait du bien d'avoir une gardienne. Isabelle was the Portuguese woman with a jovial smile (when she gave it to you) who was always trying to make the building better. She lived on the ground floor of the building in Belleville where I lived for 4.5 years; the only time she ever left was to see her family for 1-week in summer. I hope she changed her phone b/c she no longer responds to text messages. But I can also imagine returning there one day (where my brother now lives in my old apartment) and seeing her spraying down the terrace. A Parisian can dream.
Ah, the key: "when she gave it to you." The restraint of a Parisienne's affection makes it more powerful when they choose to show it! I also think the dedication to making the building a better place to live is interesting, because once a gardienne has the job it seems it is hers to keep. So there is a definite pride in the work that goes beyond the hope of continued employment.
Hello Michelle,
Thank you for this. I lived in Paris for two and a half years, some years ago. I have a son who was born there. I hope you'll take a look at a novel of mine titled When Clara Was Twelve, almost all of which takes place in Paris in the 1950s. Clara is a Catholic American girl in Paris for a summer trip with her parents, when she learns of her mother's affair as a teenager with a handsome Irish boy who was living in the U.S. with his parents. The resulting little daughter is given up for adoption, and disappears. However, here in Paris many years later, Clara is shocked to meet a young Parisian woman, Emma, who tells her that she is Clara's sister. Clara attempts to bring Emma and their mother together, which results in a very difficult series of confrontations. The book is available everywhere. https://www.amazon.com/When-Clara-Twelve-Terence-Clarke/dp/1732919526/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3UR8NH69JEWNO&keywords=Clarke+When+Clara+Was+Twelve&qid=1689700984&sprefix=clarke+when+clara+was+twelve%2Caps%2C191&sr=8-1 Again, many thanks, Terence Clarke (aka Terry). terenceclarke.substack.com
Thank you for sharing your books, Terrence. What a gift to your son to have French citizenship!
Hi Michelle,
This all happened in 1972. Our motivation for making him a French citizen was the American government's involvement in the Vietnam war. As card-carrying hippies, my wife and I were planning on staying in France more or less permanently. The irony of the situation is that in that time, if you were an American or a French, you had to choose one or the other nationality. Dual-nationality was an unheard-of concept (of course, much of that has changed now.) I checked out the situation with the French government the day after our son was born, and the stern, unsmiling woman at the counter told me about that restriction, and said we had three days from the moment of his birth to make the decision. I walked into the American Embassy in Paris that same afternoon with this news in hand, and encountered another woman at a counter, an American, whose advice was just as stern, although I've never forgotten the kindness with which she expressed it. Something like, "You know, you and your wife will have your American nationalities, and your son will have his French, and you'll have great difficulties arranging for his visits with his American grandparents in California. He'll have to qualify for visas. He'll have a French passport, while you'll have your American passports, and you'll probably be questioned in both airports as to who this little baby is, and is he your little baby, and why are there two citizenships here?" She offered a smile. "I know you probably don't want to hear this, Mr. Clarke. But I must be truthful with you. If you give him French citizenship, you will be causing possibly serious problems for your baby and for you and your wife, for many years." In my life, I can't remember such stern information being given to me with such fellow-feeling and sympathy. I thought about it for ten seconds or so, thanked the woman, and went back to the American Hospital in Neuilly, where my wife and son were. I explained the situation to my wife, and we agreed that he had to be an American. When I returned to the American Embassy, the same woman, a smile on her face, handed me the paperwork, which I read. There was a loyalty oath, to the U.S. government, at the bottom of the final page of paperwork, just above where I was to sign my name. I objected of course and expressed my anger with the Vietnam situation. "That's all well and good, Mr. Clarke. But what I told you yesterday is the same today. Sign the paper, and your boy is in. Don't sign it, and he's not." Again, she expressed this with considerable patience. She didn't have to wait long, though. I asked her for a pen and signed the loyalty oath...with a flourish. I've always been happy with the decision. Thanks again very much for writing back to me. Terry Clarke
What an interesting story! I spent a lot of time in the embassy during my Paris years. They are good people. It is no surprise that the woman you spoke with there delivered news you didn't want to hear with kindness, clarity, and patience. And yes, of course--what other choice could one make for this little baby, who had suddenly become your life?
So beautiful, Michelle! Madame Gateau! I feel that I am in that Paris building, retrieving a package from her ("Bonjour, Madame," "Bonjour"), and listening to her watering the flowers.
Thank you, Harriet!
What a lovely surname. And story!
I was transported back to Paris and you reminded me why I love it! Beautiful story.
Cheers,
Kate
Oh my goodness, Kate, I just put the last name together! I'm so happy to see you here! How ARE you? Can you believe Oscar is going away to college? His years at your preschool are still some of our happiest memories. That was such a joyful place.
Merci, Kate!
Hi Michelle,
I am doing very well. We live in Cloverdale California. Oscar is going to college! Wow, it has been a long time. I am working at our local high school as a special ed teacher. A big change from preschool. My email is kate bria@gmail.com. Let's stay in touch!
Thank you, will continue our convo via email:)
Just lovely. :)
Thank you!