Sunday, May 13, 2007
Paris, France

At one time, I believed the kinds of self-contained gringo groups you find residing in private residential communities (particularly in Latin America) didn’t appeal to me. Give me real life, I thought. Drop me in among the locals.

This is what we did in Waterford, Ireland, and, when we made the move, more than nine years ago, we didn’t think twice about taking up a place with the Irish.

We found, though, immediately, that we didn’t quite fit. Yes, they spoke English, but we often had trouble understanding what they were saying. And things worked differently than we were used to. The real estate scene, the banking industry, the administration related to establishing the IL business in the Emerald Isle…we quickly discovered that our American approach to navigating these things didn’t work. And we were on our own to try to figure out why, with no sympathetic Americans to commiserate with over a cup of tea or a pint of Guinness at the end of the most trying days.

Here in France, as in Ireland, we live among the French, not in a contained "expat community." However, we’ve discovered that, in Paris, there is a community of non-French. In fact, 250,000 Americans live in the City of Light full- or (like us) part-time. They’re not in homes side-by-side or together behind a locked gate. They’re out and about, among the Parisians. But you can find them when you need them.

When I want to hear American accents, to be among people I think will understand me because they come from where I come from, I know where to look. I go to W.H. Smith on rue Rivoli, where the best English-language bookstore in the city is always packed with fellow Yanks shopping for paperbacks. Or to the American Store on rue Grenelle, where Jack and I mingle with other Americans also in the market for Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, Jiffy Peanut Butter, and Aunt Jemima Pancake Mix.

Here we’ve found a circle of friends, fellow Americans in Paris, who sympathize with us when we complain about the lack of storage space in our tiny apartment, about the rigors of the French school system, about the difficulties of dealing with French banks or France Telecom. We wouldn’t trade the experience of Paris life for anything. But, no question: Not every day is paradise. On those days, I’m grateful to know where to find my American friends.

Kathleen Peddicord
Publisher, International Living

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