Carpenter - French like moi: a Midwesterner in Paris

Praise for French Like Moi

A delightful read...essays filled with levity and grace. A winning and witty collection offering humor and insight into the French way of life.

Kirkus Reviews

Carpenter captures the ironies, oddities, and attractions of the French capital in a way few writers have achievedwhich is saying a lot, considering how many have tried their hand at conjuring the City of Light. French Like Moi is a delightful romp through French life and Midwestern sensibilities, all combined in one compelling story.

Midwest Book Review

Sit back with a croissant and an espressoor better yet, du vin et du fromage and treat yourself to the delights and dilemmas of being a Midwesterner in Paris. Scott Carpenters tales of life in the French capital will make you laugh, marvel, and daydream about amping up the adventure in your own life. Merci Monsieur Carpenter!

Lorna Landvik, author of Chronicles of a Radical Hag

Deeply French but also deeply Midwesternand thus rather perfect.

Alethea Black, author of Youve Been So Lucky Already

French Like Moi is not only full of spot-on cultural observations and the laugh-out-loud-yet-self-deprecating humor Minnesotans do so well, its also beautifully written with a timeless literary flair.

Heather Stimmler-Hall, author of Naughty Paris ,
editor of Secrets of Paris

I laughed until my sides hurt at Carpenters lighthearted and self- deprecating take on living in lHexagone . For loyal lovers of Paris and France, and anyone whos moved abroad or is thinking about it, French Like Moi is a jovial reminder to pack your patience and your dictionary, and gobble up every single, butter-soaked morsel of the journey.

Kimberley Lovato, author of Walnut Wine & Truffle Groves

Carpenter greets the language, cuisine, culture, and daily details of life with a wit and honesty that makes for a rollicking read. We encounter vivid characters, impossible scenarios, and such hilarious tableaus that soon we all feel French like lui !

Erin Byrne, author of Wings: Gifts of Art, Life, and Travel in France

A hilarious look atfiguring out life.

Readers Favorite , five-star review

Copyright 2020 Scott Dominic Carpenter. All rights reserved.

Travelers Tales and Solas House are trademarks of Solas House, Inc., Palo Alto, California

travelerstales.com | solashouse.com

Art Direction: Kimberly Nelson

Cover Design: Kimberly Nelson

Illustrations: Liam Golden

Interior Design and Page Layout: Howie Severson

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

978-1-60952-183-7 (paperback)

978-1-60952-184-4 (ebook)

978-1-60952-185-1 (hard cover)

First Edition

Printed in the United States

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Paul and Muriel.
You guys always have my back.

Acknowledgment is made to the following publications, where various pieces from this book first appeared (often in modified form or under a different title): The Rumpus : French Like Moi (including the image reproduced in this edition); Mark Twain House Royal Nonesuch Prize: Squirrel Pie and the Golden Derrire (later published in Lowestoft Chronicle ); Catapult : The Medi-Morphosis, War of the Worlds; Ducts : Too Soon, Too Close; JMWW : La Modification; Lowestoft Chronicle : The Acute and the Grave, Squirrel Pie and the Golden Derrire; Secrets of Paris : The Tab, Underground Man, Either/Or, The Cartesian Method.

What cant you find in a large city
when you know how to walk and how to look?

Charles Baudelaire

T O BE HONEST , Madame C replied in French, the problem is the neighbors. They refuse to die.

The comment sent my tea gurgling down the wrong pipe. While I hacked and wheezed, our hostess pinched her brow with concern. Her sandy-haired partner, Patricia, tendered a napkin in case my insides came out.

a va, Monsieur Carpenter?

a va , I croaked, flapping my hand to keep her at bay. Repeating it seemed a good idea. a va, a va .

Anne, whod been off inspecting the kitchen, returned to the living room for the chore of pounding her husband on the back. Madame C watched from the sofa, and Patricia added cubes of sugar to their tea. The mood was far from homicidal.

This kind of situation occurred with distressing frequency in Paris: Id start a conversation on one topic only to find it veering into another. While I squinted at the butchers explanation about cutlets, the road would somehow fork off to plumbing. At the post office Id be learning about air mail options, only to feel the clerk had hairpinned to the subject of Etruscan pottery. Swerves like this generally meant Id misunderstood some crucial word, had careened off the conversational cliff, and had gone airborne for an undetermined amount of time. So, when Madame C mentioned murder as the reason for selling her apartment, I recognized the floating sensation and braced for impact.

Where, I wondered during the fall, had I gone wrong? After all, the verb mourir had definitely whizzed by, calling to mind the deathiness of mortgages and mortuaries. And I was pretty sure shed said something about neighbors. Of course, thered been a slew of other words, too, some of them possibly significant. Its always hard to tell which parts of a foreign language are the engines and axles, and which are the hood ornaments and air fresheners.

Sometimes, if you play along, you can avoid a crash landing.

So why do you suppose that is? I said. I mean, why is it the neighbors wont? And here I made a rolling gesture with my hand, inviting Madame C to fill in the gap with a clarifying comment.

She shrugged. It was inexplicable. Monsieur and Madame Pottard were old and infirm, but they simply refused.

You mean they refuse to? My hand swirled.

They refused to partir , she saidthat is, to leave.

Like, to an old folks home?

No. Her look went steely. To the grave.

Ordinarily thats where this story would end. Madame Cs apartment had promise, but I was burdened with these pesky things called principles. I frowned upon stuffing bodies under the floorboardsnot just because of the stench, but also on account of it being morally questionable.

Problem was, we were running out of options. After deciding to move our family to Paris, Anne and I had started our search in the center of town. But prices had nudged us outwards, farther and farther into darkness, like NASAs Mariner probe. If Notre-Dame Cathedral represented the center of the Parisian solar system, we were now prospecting between Uranus and Neptune, also known as the thirteenth arrondissement. This was one of the less glamorous parts of the capital, which explained why Madame Cs compact abode on the Rue Bobillot was within reach of our budget. It was a tad on the small side co-zee as the realtor put it in his best franglaisbut what did we expect? Your average Parisian makes do with quarters the size of an American bedroom. In some parts of town, immigrants carpet their floor with mattresses and sleep in shifts. It doesnt get any more co-zee than that.