The Paris Posting: Flowers, Foreign Land… and a Gate That Defeated Me

If someone had told my younger Bangalore self that one day I’d be posted to Paris, I would’ve assumed they had mistaken me for someone far more glamorous.  And to think that two decades ago, this unlikely miracle had actually happened. In those days, barely 40–45 officers were deputed to foreign postings each year, chosen from a pool nearly three times that size, in an organisation that boasted a staggering workforce of 2.2 lakh. Somehow, finding my name on that tiny, blessed list, felt less like routine HR movement and more like a divine typing error.

For someone who had never travelled outside India, this was an adventure waiting to happen. Visa cleared, bags packed, nerves tucked in, I boarded my Air India flight. Because I was eligible to carry 100 kilos of luggage, the airline upgraded me to Business Class at no extra cost.

For a man loyal to domestic economy, this was not an upgrade. This was a spiritual experience.

To complete the magic, my fellow passengers in that exclusive upper deck were none other than Gulzar and his daughter Bosky. I spent eight hours in that rarefied space assuming Air India had curated the entire ambience just for me.

Paris welcomed me with a crisp chill and my 100 kilos of checked-in confusion. The  driver, that the office had organised, was supposed to pick me up. But fifteen minutes passed, everyone else disappeared, and I started imagining myself as the last soul at Charles de Gaulle.

Then I saw my name, hovering a full two feet above normal human eye level.  The placard was held by a six-foot gentleman in a stylish suit and sunglasses, who had been completely hidden behind a fully open newspaper. No wonder he blended into the scenery.  He looked nothing like my mental image of an “Office Driver.”

He looked more like a CEO on a sabbatical.

He looked puzzled that I took so long to identify him. “Sir, I held it high so you could see,” he explained sincerely.  I didn’t have the heart to explain that visibility decreases sharply when it’s above cloud level.

He drove me to my studio apartment near Sèvres–Lecourbe. Soon after, the colleague I was replacing arrived and took me shopping for the basics I’d need right away, where I learnt my first Parisian lesson: in their supermarkets, every single label is strictly in French. Milk, curd, bread, water… all suddenly resembled chemistry formulas. He reassured me that I’d adapt in a week. My jet-lagged brain disagreed.

We took the metro to the office so I’d know how to get there on my own from the next day.  Our office was perched on a prime corner of the ever-buzzing Champs-Élysées, a location so posh it felt as though the street itself was showing off.  The CEO and team received me warmly, assessed my sleep-deprived state, and sensibly sent me back to rest. On the return trip, my guide, the same colleague, got off three stations before mine and declared, “Yours is the 3rd stop from here. Just walk back.”

Simple instruction.

Overconfidence: 100.

Reality: waiting outside my building.

I reached my building, congratulating myself for navigating the metro on Day One. But, the main gate refused to open. No guard. No doorbell. Just a mysterious electronic gadget blinking at me in digital French. I tapped, swiped, pleaded, pushed, pulled, nothing. Meanwhile, the Paris cold worked overtime to remind me I was far from Bangalore.   I stood outside in the cold, wondering how my grand Paris dream had boiled down to this: a tired man unable to enter his own residence.

After ten minutes, a resident arrived, tapped something, and glided in. I sought help. He wasn’t thrilled, but humanity prevailed, and I followed him inside.

Only once I entered did I discover that I had the exact same electronic key in my own pocket.

That was my grand arrival in Europe.

The next morning, when I described my heroic struggle at the gate, my colleague apologised for not briefing me. And that’s how my four-year Paris journey began, not with wine, cheese, or the Eiffel Tower, but with a life lesson:

Before conquering a foreign land, first learn how to enter your own building.

In Bangalore, every door had a bolt, latch, or at worst, a neighbour.  In Paris, the door had attitude.

But that’s where all good adventures begin.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.