Letter From Paris

By Harriet Welty-Rochefort

Paris Kiosque - May 1996 - Volume 3, Number 5
Copyright (c) 1996 Harriet Welty-Rochefort - Used with permission.

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Watching the news the other night, I saw a report about a 74-year-old concierge who was being evicted from her tiny one-room apartment after years of loyal service. This, said the announcer, is indicative of what is happening all over Paris, a city where ten years ago there were 60,000 concierges compared to just half that today.

It would seem that in their quest for profit, building owners have concluded that if they get rid of the concierge and rent his or her apartment, they'll have the double advantage of gaining rent and no longer paying a salary. A concierge, they say, can simply be replaced by a buzzer or a door code.

When I look back at all the concierges I have had in Paris, I'm quite convinced that no code could replace some of the memories.

My first concierge was on the rue des Volontaires in a bourgeois building in a rather nondescript area. I was a student, living in an eighth floor walk-up and she took a liking to me, inviting me to share her onion soup and red wine (plenty of it, and bad, but I didn't know the difference at the time) in her little kitchenette. She mispronounced my name so that I became "Mademoiselle Wetly" instead of "Welty" and passed judgement on my various boyfriends. She only really approved of one: my future French husband, whom she called the "English-looking gentleman".

A move to the rue de l'Ecole Polytechnique brought us Madame Germaine. She also approved of my husband - even after the day he knocked on her door to innocently ask if she'd like to see what he had in his slacks - and then shook out a mouse which had inopportunely run up his legs as he was climbing the stairs. She literally jumped on a chair, but quickly broke into laughter. She's probably still telling the story.

My present concierge adores my cat, waters my plants, commiserates with me about what a boring neighborhood we live in (Neuilly is lovely and residential, but a bit dull compared to the Latin Quarter). She has a uncanny knack for knowing when her renter want to talk and when they prefer to be left alone. The other day she had tears in her eyes as she told me that one of the oldest residents had been taken to a nursing home and wouldn't be coming back again.

Can concierges who laugh over a mouse and cry when their renters leave be replaced by door codes?

When that day comes, this adopted Parisian will hightail it to a house in the suburbs.

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Harriet Welty Rochefort, a bona fide Midwesterner from Iowa, visited Paris for the first time while in college. She became so completely enamored of France that she stayed - and has been there ever since. Married to a Frenchman and the mother of two Franco-American boys, Harriet Welty-Rochefort writes on business, lifestyle and travel for major U.S. publications. Her forthcoming book - French Toast - is a lighthearted look at French manners and mores. She can be contacted at 101676.467@compuserve.com.