Angels in France, c'est normal.

Onboarding - Key Account Manager Training

The words loomed up at me from my Google calendar, practically glowing, permanently etched onto my schedule for Monday, and today was Friday. 

And I had no internet.

Moving into my first “real” apartment in Paris had been relatively easy; my entire life’s belongings were still reduced to two suitcases (and I was deep into my Daily Yoga Pants Era). Thanks to aggressively harassing my bank, I had a working bank account and running water and electricity the day that I moved in.

The owners of my new apartment, Monsieur and Madame Lafond, had asked if I wanted the bedsheets that came with the furnished apartment, to which I said a firm non, however I had not managed to buy new sheets before I moved in; I ended up spending my first night in my new apartment wrapped in Heineken-branded fleece blankets, graciously lended to me with much amusement by the beloved neighborhood bar owner downstairs. 

The next day, I went out to the Zara Home store and bought a full bedding set, falling in love with a duvet cover decorated with delicate, pale-blue flowers reminiscent of Rococo designs. It was my first real home purchase in Paris and made me feel like I was dressing up my studio with a little touch of French classicism. 

I still had no CDI contract, but was instead signed with a European (non-French) marketing company, where I was to work officially in a “consulting” role to build business (it meant they could get away with paying me next to nothing and with zero benefits or job security). I was not thrilled with the job, but desperate for the paycheck, any paycheck, until I was able to find something better in Paris.

So there I was on a Friday: freshly off a phone call with my new boss, who had scheduled a four-hour Zoom video call for the following Monday to onboard me into the company. 

And I had no internet.

The internet technician wasn’t due to arrive until next Friday, and all I had was my American phone, still on my American plan. Hooking up my laptop to my phone's limited internet was completely out of the question. 

I had neglected to tell my boss I had no internet set up, even though he knew I had freshly moved into my new apartment. I was absolutely terrified I would lose this job, since it was 100% work-from-home, if I revealed that I wouldn’t have internet for at least a week. 

In hindsight, I was probably a bit paranoid. My boss was also European and understood the, shall we say, unique constraints of getting any kind of service set up on this continent.

But I was scared, I needed the money from this job, and we were still technically in a full-fledged pandemic with a shaky economy. And I had nothing really to fall back on. So I smiled and nodded as he detailed what the onboarding would look like, seeing the ping of the event on my calendar, to which I dutifully clicked Accept. 

In the privacy of my Airbnb, where I had wifi, working had been no problem, but since I had an older MacBook Air with no Lightning jack outlet and no AirPods, it would be impossible for me to use headphones in a public setting to connect to a call. 

I pondered my options and scoured the web, looking for places in Paris to work. WeWork was still very much a thing at this point, but to rent a private room for hours-long video calls seemed astronomically expensive and beyond my budget.

So I was stuck, panic was setting in, and I had no idea what to do. I decided to walk to Le Marais to clear my head, get some air, and grab dinner at a bistro. I had learned by then that every time the stress became overwhelming, every time I was in a crisis, felt I had no options left, and disaster was looming, the best thing was to go outside. 

Paris feeds my soul.

Even a twenty-minute walk outside on the beautiful streets, meandering through little cobblestone alleyways in my neighborhood, the magnificent facades of the Parisian buildings all around me, the chatter of people lounging on the terraces with their beers and glasses of wine, the screams and laughter of children at the local park, the smell of the kebab shops and bistros wafting onto the street, the occasional cat primly sitting on a balcony and peering haughtily down at me; all this would feed my panicked soul, reminding me I was in the right place, that I would figure it out.     

And so I found myself in front of a bustling little restaurant in Le Marais, and after a cursory glance at the menu to reassure myself that the prices weren’t inflated and affordable on my meager budget, I was seated inside what seemed to be the perfect antidote to my panic: a beloved local spot with great food and wine. 

A slightly older woman with dark hair came to take my order, and I asked her for a plate of their marinated octopus and a glass of Pouilly-fumé in my now much more confident French.

She peered at me curiously and asked, as so many French do, where I’m from. To which I explained my upbringing, partly in Europe, partly in the USA, joking with her that I know my accent in French sounds “unusual.” She laughed, agreeing with me that it had been difficult to “place” me and left with my order, reappearing after a moment with my glass of wine.

“And why move to France?” She asked, setting down my glass. “What do you do for work?”

I was quite used to the curiosity and questions at this point, as everyone asks me this, so I launched into the story of my love of France since childhood, that I moved here during the pandemic, and was now working a shitty job and still looking for a CDI. She seemed fascinated by my story, incredulous at the risk I had taken to move here without a job when I had a stable career and financial situation back in the USA (understandable, also a common reaction I get). At this point, my marinated poulpe had shown up, and she left to let me eat.

When she came back to graciously refill my wine, she continued chatting with me, digging more into what my work was. Feeling soothed at this point by my surroundings in this cozy little restaurant (and bolstered by the wine), I opened up completely to her, telling her I was very stressed with an imminent video Zoom call that was mandatory on Monday and had no idea of where and how I could connect to this call. She listened sympathetically to me, nodding and rolling her eyes when I recounted the pain of setting up the internet technician appointment. 

“It was all online, and there is no real customer service number, so I have no one to call to explain the urgency, and they are taking so long,” I lamented. 

“C’est insupportable,” she said, in full solidarity with my pain of the French experience. Then, to my great shock, she offered to help. 

“I have a small space above the restaurant where you can work,” she told me. “Mondays are my day off as the restaurant is closed, but you can meet me outside, and I’ll let you in. There is wifi and you won’t be bothered.” 

I was absolutely floored. This woman didn’t even know me, was willing to meet me on her day off, and let me use her workspace without any worry? I couldn’t believe it. 

“Are you sure?” I stammered in French. 

“Of course!” She said breezily and handed me her card with her WhatsApp number on it. I laughed when I saw her name: Marie-Ange. Ange means “angel” in French.

“Well, your name is very appropriate,” I joked with her, before gratefully thanking her. She gave me a cheery and dismissive wave of her hand.

“See you Monday,” she said, topped off my wine, and turned to say an enthusiastic goodbye with cheek kisses to some locals who were on their way out after dinner. 

I stared at her card in my hand, unable to believe her kindness. She came back after some minutes to chat with me further, offering to put me in touch with some friends and colleagues of hers to see if they could help me find a real job, even going so far as to call them on the phone in front of me.

I was deeply moved. Her compassion and kindness for my situation I will never forget. Despite my limited and polite French, she had fully understood that I was scared, very alone, and in complete distress. For Marie-Ange, helping me had been matter-of-fact; she had repeated to me “c’est normal” (it’s normal), a phrase I have grown to love in France because the French say it when they humbly downplay any level of their kindness or generosity. 

Marie-Ange stayed true to her word; come Monday, she was waiting for me outside her restaurant, on her day off, and let me in, leading me up some rickety, narrow Parisian stairs that are ubiquitous in this city, and triumphantly showed me the space she had described to me. It was indeed perfect for my work; there was a table with a comfortable sofa, several outlets for charging, and plenty of space to spread out.

“Merci, merci,” I kept repeating as she led me around, indicating to me where I could plug in and leave my bags. I was so grateful. She went on to show me the small adjoining kitchen, where her staff would come and go throughout the day to prepare certain dishes, assuring me they wouldn’t bother me. And then, with a friendly bon courage, she left me to it.

And my Zoom call went perfectly.

There is a saying in the USA: “The East Coast is kind but not nice, the West Coast is nice but not kind.” In that vein, I would say Parisians behave exactly like New Yorkers. They might be gruff, a bit impatient, and sometimes cold. But as a new immigrant in Paris, I always felt that Parisians are extraordinarily kind; if they see me in distress, they talk to me, help, provide advice, and connect me with others who can also help.

Marie-Ange did not just give me her workspace for the day; she also set up a meeting with her cousin, who works in the same industry as me (ultimately, he wasn’t able to help me, but he was also very kind). Her nonchalant attitude and complete understanding that I was new to the city and about to cry into my marinated octopus plate because I didn’t have internet was to her only fuel that everything is merde in Paris (an attitude shared by most Parisians), and she rose to help.

This is not an isolated incident. I always laugh when American friends or colleagues visit and exclaim to me incredulously, “Parisians are so nice!” Yes, they are actually quite nice.

I find the cliché that they are rude to be very outdated and probably related to less well-behaved American tourists of the 90s. Today, if you are polite and try to learn some basic French manners (greeting everyone with a “bonjour”, etc.), you would be hard-pressed to find rudeness. But beyond the polite niceness to visitors, the kindness shown to me by strangers in that first year of living here, when I was really hanging on by a thread, are memories I will always cherish. 

A few days after Marie-Ange lent me her space, I returned to her restaurant again with a small bouquet of flowers and a thank-you card, telling her that her help had meant the world to me, and promised to come back regularly to eat there. I wish I could say here that my technician showed up as promised and all my internet issues were fixed, but of course, this was not the case...

But, as the French say, c’est normal. 

How to not descend into despair when you need internet in France:

1. While most bistros and restaurants still do not provide wifi, many places open all day serving coffee do. Politely ask for the wifi, even if wifi is not indicated; they will sometimes share the password if they know you intend to stay and work.
2. Be wary of the outlet situation; many older restaurants have limited outlets for charging. Ask for "une table avec une prise, s'il vous plaît."
3. American-style coffeeshops have become very popular and can be found in the arrondissements with high concentrations of young people (especially in the 11ème). Note that seating can be scarce as these are the "trendy" places to hang out.
4. Remind yourself that in France, you have the incredible ability to buy just one small cup of espresso, and you can stay all day long and work, you will never be bothered.
5. When all else fails, go to a Starbucks.