La Fuite
Adventures in Parisian plumbing
Bonjour everyone! I didn’t publish a letter last Monday because the “most Mondays” clause came into effect. When I announced that I’d be ramping up my publication schedule, I mentioned that you’d be receiving notes most Mondays, meaning that on some Mondays I might not be able to write, proofread, format, and hit “publish” on this newsletter.
Last Monday, I was drowning in some plumbing drama.
But before I begin telling you my tale, here’s a little French vocab lesson:
la fuite = the leak
le plombier = the plumber
la plomberie = the plumbing
le chauffe-eau = the hot water heater
le ballon = the tank
le compteur = the meter
l’eau = water
un dégât des eaux = water damage
Up until last Monday, I lived with various leaks in my bathroom for nearly a month. It all started in Provence, when I received a text from my cat-sitter announcing that my hot water tank was leaking, and that she’d placed a pot underneath it.
Upon returning home to Paris, the hot water tank was indeed leaking from one of its seams. I wasn’t surprised—the thing was probably 30 years old—but it was very annoying. I won’t delve into the details here, but finally getting it replaced was harrowing. I’m a renter, and I’ll just say that I’m looking forward to the day when I’ll be able to make maintenance decisions about my home (that I own).
At one point the leak transformed from a minor sprinkle to a splash tinged with an ominous orange hue: the tank was completely rusted inside, as were the screws holding it together. The water filling the pot swirled with colors of cinnamon and dirt.
Paris is a city of waters. When we think of wet cities, we usually think of Venice or Amsterdam with their ubiquitous canals, but Paris is saturated in a more subtle way. First, there’s the rain. Gosh, the rain. It feels like it’s been raining all spring—and it looks it’ll be raining the rest of this week. Even the Seine flooded last month, its muddy waters lapping over the cobblestoned quais.
Plumbers came and replaced the tired tank with a shiny new one. It was a tricky job, they said, but I didn’t pry for details. All I know is that they arrived around 9:30 a.m. and weren’t gone until 3:30 p.m. Upon their departure, they announced that they’d “discovered” (or was it more like “created”) a new leak, this time from the water meter.
Paris is humid. The winters here are cold, gray, damp. From condensation fogging up the single-pane windows that are common in many old buildings to invasive mold, the dampness always finds a way to creep in.
The thing about having a leak from the water meter is that usually those pipes are part of the building, and the stopping of said leak has to go through the copropriété (HOA). On the phone again with another plumber, another appointment scheduled. I’ll live with more drips for another week or so.
I’ve never heard of so many leaks until I moved to Paris. It seems like everyone has a leak and nobody can stop them. I know it’s due to the aged buildings and their charming vintage plumbing systems, but still. This city is made up of drizzles and dribbles, splashes and plops.
The water meter leak was easier than the boiler. That plumber had to turn off the water supplying the entire building, though. He replaced a washer that had eroded within the pipe, and voilà—no more leak. When he departed I breathed a sigh of relief.
Fifteen minutes or so later, I went to fill up a glass from the kitchen sink, and there was no water to be had. The plumber had left and forgotten to turn the building’s water back on.
I called him in a panic. He was too far away to turn around and come back. I went down to the building’s utility room and took a look at the pipes and knobs. I got the plumber on FaceTime video, and he carefully instructed me on which lever to pull to get the water back. It worked; there was water anew.
It’s funny—I opened a pipe to get water flowing again after being mired in leaks for several weeks. I despised leaking water so much, and yet in a flash of a moment I desperately needed water. Flooding to drought, wet to dry. This is the way of the world.
After my foray into the world of Parisian plumbing, I value dry bathrooms, but I also value boiling water for mugs of hot tea, taking warm showers, splashing cool water on my face at the end of a long day.
Merci beaucoup for reading!
—Victorine
Just turn the red leaver, one of them is bound to work!