15. Survive a Gas Leak

Pro tip: try not to schedule it for August.

As someone who once happily thought I would a) never leave New York, b) never marry, and c) never have kids, sometimes I think about how I now a) live in Paris, b) am married and c) have two kids, as not actually my real life.

Instead, my life in France is just a hyperreal dream caused by a gas leak. Sometimes I refer to this as my Gas Leak Decade (a joke I stole from Community), and soon, I'll wake up again in Brooklyn, back on my spinster grind. But each year, the gas thickens and I find myself more firmly entrenched in my Parisian life. I speak French. I have a French social security number. I have on me, at all times, at least 2 snacks, 1 pair of baby socks, and a pack of wet wipes.

I call it my Gas Leak Decade not because it’s bad — in fact, things are better than I ever could’ve imagined. This life is just utterly bizarre to me.

But then, dear reader, there was an actual gas leak.

There I was, nine months pregnant and giving my daughter a bath when the fire alarm went off. Except it didn't sound like the fire alarm. I took the baby out of the tub and called Dustin, who confirmed it was the carbon monoxide detector and told me to get the fuck outta the apartment. I ran waddled out of there, carrying a tote bag full of snacks, water, and a phone charger in one arm and the damp kid in the other.

It was August, so Paris was dead. Dead and unbearably hot. I called the fire department from a shady spot across from our building. This was my first time doing so, and I quickly Google-Translated the phrases "gas leak" and "carbon monoxide detector."

Me: [in French] Hello, good day. There is a—

Them: Good evening.

Me: Oh. Good evening. There is a gas leak. My carbon monoxide detector told me. Could you please send someone?

Them: Huh?

Me: There is a gas leak. But I am outside now. I need someone to look at my apartment. I have a baby. Oh, and I'm pregnant. Très, très, très pregnant.

Them: What is it that you want?

Me: In fact, there is a gas leak. Gas leak. Leak of gas? In fact, I cannot return to my apartment. In fact, it is not safe. You understand me? A gas leak?

Them: Tock, tock, tock.

Me: Hello?

Them: Please hold and let me transfer you to an English speaker.

Eventually four cops showed up and leisurely stood around, making phone calls. I wasn't sure why they were there. Then a group of firefighters languidly strolled up. They went upstairs and spent an hour looking around, while I remained across the street, placating the baby and chugging water. 

At one point, a firefighter came down and acknowledged my giant belly. He asked me if I was dizzy or felt sick. I said no. He told me if later I did feel dizzy, to go to the ER. I nodded. Got it. Good talk.

Eventually a man from the gas company came by to inspect the apartment and gave me the okay to return. Inside, he told me there was indeed a gas leak. We would have no gas or hot water until it was fixed, but as long as we left all the windows open, we would be fine. I was just glad to be indoors and not at risk for carbon monoxide poisoning.

Once the cops, firefighters, and tiny man from the gas company were gone, all the windows were thrown open, and the kid was asleep, I finally unclenched my jaw. You did it, I told myself, You willed an actual gas leak to happen, ya little sociopath.

Of course, it wasn't all me. It was also our building's ancient French pipes and exhaust system. They were soon repaired, and the gas leak became yet another French mishap. The air cleared, things went back to normal, baby #2 was born, we moved apartments, and life went on.