In the US, a concierge is typically a friendly person at an upscale hotel who will help you get dinner reservations, theater tickets, whatever it is.

The French concept of a concierge is a bit different. In France, the concierge for an apartment building is the person who maintains the common spaces, distributes mail, receives packages, and generally keeps an eye on the place. And they usually have an apartment on the ground floor.

On the day I first got the keys to the apartment, I also met the building’s concierge, Madame Amalia, a small friendly older woman with glasses and blonde hair in curls. She has a key to my apartment (and all the apartments) in case of emergency and also to be able to drop off packages if I’m not here when they arrive.

In the first week, I went out to the back courtyard (which sounds glamorous — it’s not, it’s just a small space with the trash and recycling bins and a few bikes — but I don’t know what else to call it) to take out the recycling. The back door to Madame’s apartment opens onto the courtyard, and hearing me tossing things into the bin, she popped out. “No glass!” It seems that glass for recycling goes into the big bins a block down street, not in the household recycling bins. Good to know!

And then a week or so in, I was cleaning the bathroom and had opened the window to be able to clean the glass on the outside. A few minutes later, my doorbell rang, and I opened the door to find Madame Amalia. She said she had been outside the building and noticed that my bathroom window was open and the light was on. Apparently this struck her as unusual, and so she came up to investigate. I explained that I was cleaning the bathroom, and that was that.

While Madame was at the door, my cat Gertrude poked her head out. “Oh, you have a cat!” Madame’s face broke into a smile. She has a cat herself, she said, and asked if mine was a boy cat or a girl cat and what her name was. As she was leaving, she said she would be happy to look after Gertrude if I’m out of town, and I thanked her very much for the offer. I will likely take her up on it. 🙂

A couple days later, I was on my way out, and in the lobby, I ran into the bartender from Chez Cesar et Paulo, the Portuguese bar across the street that I had gone to a few times. I was unsurprisingly surprised to see him there in my building, but we said bonjour and each went on our merry way.

The next day, the owner of my apartment was in town and came by to take care of some things. I recounted the lobby incident to him, and he said, “Ah yes, he is married to the daughter of Madame la Concierge.” It’s a small world!

Earlier this week, I heard one of the other patrons refer to the bartender as Monsieur Cesar, so that would seem to suggest that he is in fact the owner as well. While I was getting a beer one evening, apparently in reference to the lobby encounter, he also mentioned that Madame la Concierge is his mother-in-law. I asked if he and his wife also live in the building, but he said that no, they live in the suburbs.

So it’s taking a little getting used to not to be quite as anonymous as I’ve always felt in American cities. And I think that might be a good thing.