So, you want to DIY in France?
It'll be fun they said
Coucou y’all! If you’ve been following idiomatic since the beginning, you may have noticed that the last issue brought this little story full circle. I’ve now caught up to myself in time and have nowhere left to go but forward! In the coming weeks, idiomatic will be getting a bit of a makeover, or a relooking as the French call it. (Catch up with the first eight issues, here.)
To mark this transition, I thought it appropriate to share a story about another sort of relooking: DIYing my new apartment.
* This story is about DIY home renovations. As such, it may contain curse words and some violence. Reader discretion is advised.
Due to scheduled renovations in my apartment, I decide to move in with my boyfriend, who’s apartment needs renovations. When you put it that way, it doesn’t make much sense. But there it is.
Before being promoted to the position of boyfriend, Yann was my French teacher. One of the first assignments he sent me—three years ago now—was a YouTube video about a home castle renovation. I dubbed it Castle Makeover and subsequently began daydreaming about DIYing in France.
The only caveat: I’ve never DIYed a thing in my life. It feels like an important adult milestone that I’ve somehow skipped. At dinner parties, my friends regale one another with stories of cutting tiles and demolishing walls. We marvel at their craftiness and vision. And these are normal humans—most of them—with no special training or skills. Why shouldn’t I be able to DIY, too?
Yann and I decide to convert his former office into a bedroom—after ripping out the wallpaper—and transform the adjacent, windowless antechamber into a workspace—after cutting a hole in the wall and installing a window. It will be a comfortable first home by the time we’re done with it.
We take a week off work, and if you include the two weekends, that gives us nine days total for a relooking. Plenty of time. Yann and I even make plans for an overnight trip to the Loire Valley, where we’ll celebrate a job well-done over a bottle of Sancerre.
After peeling back the first panel of mottled wallpaper, I soon realize our new castle has a few cracks. An ominous seam runs horizontal along the back wall of the bedroom and extends onto the patio. Around the doorway, splintering fissures crackle outward like vines.
“You should really let them know about this,” I tell Yann.
“Who?”
“You know, they. Them. The people in charge.”
“Le syndicat?” He asked, meaning the apartment’s HOA. “They already know.”
“Well, aren’t they going to sue someone?”
“Who?”
“The architect, for example?”
“He’s probably dead by now.”
Hardly a valid excuse. There must be someone to sue.
While I apply putty to the back wall, Yann tackles the door. It’s in worse shape than anticipated. Without the wallpaper holding it together, the sheetrock crumbles like old cake. Yann attacks it with some hooked tool and it falls to the floor in depressing thuds. I don’t look back. I just focus on my putty project, as the wall behind me disintegrates.
A few days from now, this will room will be light, airy, and balanced. Fresh and clean like my Pinterest feed. It will be a space to sit and read in the filtered afternoon glow. I’ll send before-and-after photos to my friends who will induct me into their DIY club.
“Look,” Yann announces. “I made a hole.”
He is correct. There is now a football-sized hole in the wall. Unfortunately, this isn’t the hole he was meant to make, as we still have to install a window in the other room.
As the days pass, there are further discoveries. Once we’re ready to start painting, Yann turns to me asks, “Do you like painting?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done it before.”
His smile slips.
Later, when we are prepping the accent wall—a vibrant Seychelles blue—it is revealed that Yann is colorblind.
Ok, not really colorblind, but we see the world differently. He says my hair is black; I say it’s brown. He says the wallpaper in the entry is blue; I say it’s grey. As I slather this very, very blue blue onto the bedroom wall, I wonder what color he thinks it is.
At some point, my mom calls.
“So, how’s it coming along?”
I collapse onto the sofa. “We’re two days behind schedule.”
And the bedroom is a disaster. The paint is splotchy, revealing every crack and hole I failed to fix. There’s blue somehow everywhere. I’ve got paint and putty and dust in my hair and up my nose.
After a pause, she asks, “Are you and Yann still getting along?”
In my experience—and apparently, my mom’s—men do not have the emotional fortitude for home repairs. Another reason why I’ve avoided DIY. So, it’s a happy surprise that Yann has not completely lost his shit and kicked a hole in the wall.
I, however, have misplaced my shit a long time ago. The scope of this project is spiraling out of control like a galaxy spraying dust into the universe. Each task breeds an additional ten. It’s utterly inescapable. And we haven’t even started the office. Clearly, obviously, of course, we are not going to the Loire Valley to celebrate a job well-done. It will never be done. I’m going to putty holes for the rest of my life. I realize now how wrong I was. My friends aren’t addicted to DIY; they’re consumed by it.
The week slips by and suddenly it’s Friday. Blissfully, the bedroom is done and surprisingly not awful. The blue and cream walls compliment the vintage, mid-century modern bed set we found. It immediately makes me feel classy and French. As I sink into the bed, visualizing the rug and new lighting fixture I’ll buy, Yann is quick to remind me that we still have to install a window in the office. Little do I know; we saved the best for last.
The circular saw whirs into the wall amidst a cloud of white dust. A few seconds later it shrieks to a stop.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Yann brushes the dust away and peers into the hole.
“C’est pas possible.”
What’s not possible, I wonder.
“Comment c’est possible?” Yann looks at the sawblade. It’s been ground flat on one side. “Ah merde. Putain de merde. Ça fait chier.”
That’s a lot of curse words. “What’s wrong?” I demand.
“It’s brick.”
Sure enough, when I peer into the fresh cut, I see the rusty color of brick seething beneath the white sheetrock. Yann says the bricks are hollow and bound together as some kind of conglomerate. Merde, indeed…
“We’re gonna need a bigger saw,” I remark.
Yann borrows a saber saw from his uncle. It looks like the sort of weapon that would be illegal in France. When he starts cutting into the brick, the entire apartment rattles. Finally, I think, this will get the best of my boyfriend’s Zen demeanor. He’s been so steady this entire time—as I’ve swung between hope and despair like a trapeze artist—but, at last, he’s starting to lose it.
After a few hours, he calls for me to come help. I see that he’s removed the bottom half of the brick wall, leaving the top section wedged in place. I’m not sure how we’ll remove it. This hanging block reminds me of the Utah desert, where thunderous slabs of rock are pinched together by delicate friction. I’ve seen what happens when they fall.
“The problem…” Yann begins.
“Why did you cut the bottom out first?”
“Je ne sais pas…”
I put my head in my hands. Eventually, we decide to lift it out. I try supporting the block with my shoulder, but I’m not tall enough to reach it. Overhead, it jiggles and veers.
“You have to keep your hand here,” Yann urges. “It will fall on your head.”
“I can’t reach.”
“You’re too short.”
“No, you!”
Yann pushes the block back into place and wipes his forehead.
“Go to the other room.”
“But…”
“Just go. And close the door.”
I shuffle away and wait silently. Suddenly, there’s a jarring blow, followed by another. The floor shudders with a resounding crash. I swing the door open and see Yann in a storm of dust. He’s standing on a table looking through the new window hole. Brick is scattered across the floor.
“What did you do?”
“Kicked it.”
“Voilà.” DIY.
By the time we’ve hauled the mess away and swept and vacuumed and mopped and installed the putain de window de merde, it’s Sunday afternoon. Somehow this has taken all nine days available to us. (And it’s not Parkinson’s law.) I reflect now on why I’ve never done DIY before. I think it’s because possibly, well, I knew it would suck.
In a lot of ways, “having done DIY” was a similar goal to “being fluent in French.” It was an outcome not inclusive of any real action. I envied my friends’ DIY accomplishments, but not necessarily the months they spent doing it. Three years ago, I called bullshit on this sort of empty ambition and began taking French seriously. I hired a professor (Yann), devised a study plan, and dedicated countless hours of my week to learning another language.
And look where that got me.
A week later, Yann and I take an impromptu trip to the Atlantic Coast and celebrate a job well-done. The bedroom is just as we imagined it and Yann’s office is illuminated with fresh air. It’s perfect.
I set my glass of wine down. “You know that grey wallpaper in the entry? I think we should deal with that next. I’m thinking white will brighten up the entire room.”
“And the kitchen needs new shelves.”
“And I wouldn’t mind relooking the bathroom too…”
Questions for the comments
Have you called bullshit on “empty ambitions,” those goals that don’t include any meaningful action to attain? What was the outcome?
Merci for reading and following idiomatic. I’m headed back to Colorado soon, and will be taking a short break between issues. If you’re looking for something to read in the interim, here are a few stories I’ve enjoyed recently:
I recently stumbled across
’s work and immediately devoured this beautiful piece of travel writing about conversing with a former self. Do give it a read → What I Mean to Say Is GraciasThe value of learning another language extends beyond communicating with others. It influences how we talk to ourselves. This is a great piece from
about that very idea: The Unexpected Perk of Learning a Second LanguageIf you’re plotting a recalibration,
’s recent post about her first week on sabbatical is a lovely insight into our relationship to work, the achievement mindset, and feelings of safety. → a gift, a shift
Just started watching Chateau XXL (in French) after moving to France last month, so this was good timing to prepare me for future chateau-inspired DIY challenges. Will have to check out what’s on YouTube too.
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