What Parisians Hate (Almost) More Than Anything
Hint: It's not tourists
Hello all,
Here’s a light and tasty slice of life from Paris because current events are all too heavy.
First, some exceedingly good news: Glynnis MacNicol and I are hosting a second (!) Paris writing workshop this September. Escape the ordinary, quiet the static. Write, wander, and be inspired by this glorious city. Here’s what our March participants had to say: “A Writer's Retreat That Changed How I Write–and Live.” THE BLUE HOUR early bird pricing is still available.
And now on to life in Paris and mistakes I’ve made so far this year…
I had a little gathering at my apartment last week, and naturally, the conversation turned to the thing Parisians hate more than almost anything else. (And no, I do not mean clumps of tourists that block Metro entrances.)
I am talking about calcium build-up.
Do not laugh. The struggle is real.
Let me explain: There is so much calcium in Paris water that it is like coronary artery disease for appliances. It kills water heaters, clothes washers, coffeemakers, and dishwashers. It makes your wine glasses and shower doors look like they have been splashed with watery white paint. Worst of all, it can leave your hair dull and flat.
When I first got here, I would stand blurry-eyed in front of the array of anti-calcaire (calcium) products in the grocery store. Sprays, tablets, and complicated descaling kits for coffee makers, dishwashers, and showers. Even irons needed to be protected from the dreaded calcium, a substance so pernicious it requires a huge defensive arsenal and constant vigilance. What an odd French obsession, I thought. I bought nothing.
Not long after that, I lost my young water heater to calcium at the tender age of four. Its pipes were clogged, and the bathroom ceiling was all wet with condensation. The appliance repair guy took a look, shook his head, and said one word: “calcaire.” Everything they do here is for a reason. Whether it’s the order in which they eat cheeses or cleaning products, or when to close the windows in a heat wave. I will never doubt them again.
When the repair guy installed the new (staggeringly expensive) heater, he made me promise to “never let the temperature go above 59 degrees (Celsius) because…” and that’s where my French plumbing vocabulary ran out. But clearly something insidious happens when overly hot water, calcium, and pipes interact.
I was also unable to save my coffee maker, which was supposed to have had a biannual calcium-oscopy with vinegar to keep it from seizing up.
So, when I had to buy a new clothes washer and the sales guy asked if I wanted a magic magnetic anti-calcium device for 29 Euros, I said yes, please!
There was, however, the ordeal of getting the washer and the device installed. When the French appliance installation professional arrived, he informed me that the bathroom doorway was a maddening ½ centimeter too narrow. If it didn’t fit, we’d have to pay to send the washer back to the store, which would trigger god knows how many levels of bureaucratic hell.
There would be no point in getting all New Yorky and telling him that I’d measured it, that he was wrong. That attitude does not work here. The best option was to dissolve into helplessness and copious flattery. Help him be a hero. Dignified? No. Sexist? Maybe. But it is also possible that I measured wrong.
I managed not to laugh when he asked for dishwashing liquid to slather on the bathroom doorway using the same urgent tone that a TV doctor might use when asking for a pen to do an emergency tracheotomy.
Me: I do not know what I will do if we have to return it! *Authentic sob*
French appliance installation professional: Madame, I would never leave a woman in such a state. We will make it work.
Me: Thank you! Thank you! You are a true chevalier!
French appliance installation professional: The only thing we can do is take the door off. Normally, we are not allowed to dismantle the machines, but I will do this for you.”
Me: *Sob* Thank you.
**20 minutes of dismantling and re-mantling**
Me: Here is something for you and your colleague. I promise not to tell anyone that you took the door off.
French appliance installation professional: Thank you. I am the chief of deliveries for this area. You may call on me anytime.
Me: I hope I don’t need any more appliances for a while. I have the anti-calcaire device now.
French appliance installation professional: Ha ha. Could you please use this QR code to leave me a Google review?
I told some of our guests that my new washer was protected by this cool calcium-fighting device. Not surprisingly, they wanted to see it. So we crowded into the bathroom. The small metal attachment is supposed to magnetize the calcium right out of the water before it gums up the washer’s innards.
Does it work? Who knows? The anti-calcium product market is half faith, half science. This launched a discussion of other calcium-fighting tactics: shower-head filters, special shampoos, a R2-D2-size water filter that someone’s husband bought to trap all suspect minerals.
I thought I finally had the calcium battle under control until I went to my French doctor. She wanted to prescribe a medication for me, but first, she said, “You need to have a CT scan to be sure the arteries of your heart don’t have calcium deposits.”
My first extremely paranoid thought was: Even human pipes get clogged with calcium in Paris?! I’ve only lived here 18 months, but I do drink a ton of tap water. No one told me not to. (Famous last words.)
But no, it was just calcium PTSD. I Googled “score calcique.” It’s a routine test, done all over the world. And my score was zero, my heart is calcaire-free, and so is my washer. Theoretically.
I went to see the legendary American singer-songwriter Lucinda Williams at the Trianon theater in Paris last week. Imagine young French women, older American couples, American men in cargo shorts, and some French rockabilly couples in a classic red velvety theater. Lucinda took us all back to Lake Charles and the beauty of Louisiana beyond the disturbing news of now. At the end of the show, she and her most excellent band played "Rockin' in the Free World,” an angry song that Neil Young wrote in 1989 after his tour in the Soviet Union was canceled. The audience rushed to the front and sang along with a ferocity and emotion I didn’t expect from the slightly older crowd. Maybe it’s because the borders of the free world seem so blurry these days.
More about The Blue Hour Paris HERE.
Spot on and so funny. Ah the calcium! It's the bane of our French existence. My hair is a drab dry mess. Any shampoo or conditioner recommendations? I'll be forever grateful :)
I love this story and dislike the problem which, as you say, is so widespread it comes up about as much as discussions about the weather !