First things first. My absolutely, hands-down favorite thing about Paris is my appartment. My fifteen-meter-squared château is my respit, my little hole where I come to think, relax, listen to questionable music and walk around without pants on. I also may or may not be typing this as I gorge myself on toast with goat cheese drizzled with honey.
And no one can tell me no.
If I don’t feel like doing dishes today, they can hang out there for a minute. Or a week. Ain’t no one gone tell me nothin’!
Not picking these up! Ha!
I found this place by chance. It was on the ClubMidd network (for those of you in dire need of details, I am a Middlebury College student. Google it up. We’re supposed to be royalty. You’re welcome) and it was the second cheapest option. I chose it on a whim, and because it had a bathroom inside.
Turns out there is much, much more charm to it than meets the eye. I’m on the last floor of the building, which dates from 1889, by the way. This used to be the servants’ quarters. They would live here in very tight conditions. There’s only one spigot for the whole floor and they had one latrine as well.
I have to take the “service” stairs after an elevator ride 6 stories up to get to it. It sounds uncomfortable, but in reality, it is not. I think it’s all part of the charm.
Was I terrified the first time I was going up to the apartment? Oh, yes! After riding a tiny, tiny elevator, I found myself in this odd landing with old wooden floors, funny wallpaper and a dark hallway. All the makings for The Shining II. But now, it’s home. And I look forward to it every day.
I have a kitchen, a washer/dryer, a fridge, a TV I never use, a huge desk, Narnia-sized storage units, a comfy queen bed that folds into a couch (NOT the other way around), a complete bathroom with shower, sink and toilet. Areas are, of course, interchangeable: the bed area doubles as a dining room/guestroom/extra storage unit; the bathroom serves as an extension of guest areas…you get the idea.
Have I eaten out of the pot? You bet I have!
Have I left dirty dishes in the sink for so long that Public Health will one day have to come and arrest me? The answer is…. 😀 (girls can be bachelors, too! Though I prefer to think it will just be a scientific discovery that will take place. Gotta look at that positive side!)
Is my diet based on tuna, pasta and couscous? You read minds now?
I used to cook more, of course. I’m not completely useless in the kitchen (after all, I am a woman. Roar) but after living alone for a few months I figured making elaborate meals for one person was 1)not cost-effective 2)boring.
I have been officially living on my very own since January. I had a roommate at some point, but he already found his own place.
I remembered how terrified I was of the silence- of the loneliness at first when we parted ways. People I talked to would say that I would learn to love it and, though I do thoroughly enjoy it, it does get a little dull sometimes.
I have watched every season of Say Yes to The Dress, Honey Boo-Boo (I can admit it), My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding and I am currently working through Law and Order: SVU. Christopher Meloni is super hot, by the way.
Back to the point at hand. It is in this little piece of Haussman architecture in the heart of the 6ème arrondissement that I have done most of my learning. And I don’t necessarily mean it in the academic sense. Here is where I sit and think about my life choices, analyze the situations I put myself through, pick myself up by the bootstraps and carry on.
Also, did I mention my house key weighs like a hundred pounds? and is probably the size of a small child? Ok, I’m exaggerating a little bit. But seriously, it’s pretty huge:
Is that a flashlight in your pocket? Naw, girl! It’s my house key!
Also, my lovely landlady, Madame Gagliano is pretty…BOSS (for lack of a better term). No, really. When I moved in, she had already stocked up my tiny fridge with essentials like milk, jam, cheese, and the like. I had some bread and pasta, too! She also gave us a tour of the neighborhood. She made me and my parents eat her dust as she dashed through the streets and red lights for pedestrian crossings. She happens to be 86. And has an arthritic knee. Good thing, huh?
She also told me charming stories of the apartment and the building. The time before the elevator was installed, the annoying neighbors from the 60’s, how a thief tried to break into my apartment but fell to his death because of false-footing his landing jumping from my kitchen window to the window of the hallway that leads to other apartments (think of an “L” shape, where the big stick is my window, and the small one is the other window and the empty space is, well…space).
It’s tiny, it’s cramped. I can fit only so many people at a time, but if home is where the heart is, then this is where my heart will forever remain in Paris.
MIA 