There's No Place Like Home

   
    I don't know how, but sometimes I forget how beautiful this city is. The other day, I walked by the Pont Alexandre III and looked up at the gold statues on top and thought, Shit, this town is so legit. For real. It's easy to forget how amazing every little thing is when you're focused on métro signs or watching out for dog shit on the sidewalks. Looking up is a risk you need to take, or you'll miss it all.

    Looking up is also something I have to do to get into my new apartment, which is on the top floor sans elevator. On Monday, I had my housing appointment and the order of appointments depended on the order that we submitted all our housing documents over the summer. Clearly, I did mine right away, because my appointment was on the first day possible and I obviously got the good picks. In the database, we could filter the apartments that AUP has relationships with by our own criteria. My only stipulations were price and location. After living in my foyer last year, I was prepared for anything. All I wanted was to be within the périphérique (The highway that borders Paris from its suburbs) and not have to pay the price of a small car each month for rent. Luckily, I had the advantage of knowing exactly what I wanted, compared to other people who had never even been to Paris before. Choices varied, but mainly options were in the sixteenth, seventh, fifth and sixth, with a few randomly placed in the other arrondissements. First, off I'm a Lefty (In more than one sense), so the Right Bank was ruled out, though I'm thinking it might be fun to move to the eleventh or third next semester when I'm legally allowed to end my lease. I really didn't want to live in the seventh, because, albeit very beautiful and the location of my school, it's just too privileged for my taste, as is the sixteenth. I decided today that I prefer a grittier Paris and I've had conversations with people and we've agreed that Paris is not just the sum of its monuments- it's much better than that. I actually love the outer arrondissements. To me, these are the real Parisians; people who don't inherit their wealth and don't hold prestigious government positions. What's life without struggle? Boring. And life in Paris is never, ever boring for me.

     Since I know my way around, I didn't worry about commuting and instead chose to look primarily in the fifth and sixth. Even though the sixth is also a pretty wealthy area, I think it has a lot more character and atmosphere than the seventh and isn't so pretentious. I picked a place on the avenue de l'Observatoire and a student advisor went with me to meet the landlord, see the apartment and ultimately make a decision. It was a yes once I saw the view at sunset-I can see the Observatoire de Paris, the Sorbonne, the Tour Montparnasse, the Eiffel Tower, Saint-Sulpice, the Palais Garnier, La Défense and Montmartre. And the Jardin du Luxembourg is literally my front yard.

My first night at home

     My landlord is a sweet, elderly woman named Pierrette and she owns the rooms above her own (amazing and gigantic) apartment. Concerned about my satisfaction, she asked me countless times, "Tu es contente ?" and then warned me about the dangers of Paris and its pickpockets. She chuckled and put her hand on my arm, saying in French, "I feel like you're my daughter." I think she's got my back.

Pierrette's staircase

My staircase. It's extremely steep.

     When I first entered my building, I saw a beautiful staircase with molded plaster. When I moved in, Pierrette showed me my staircase.It's not much better than a ladder. It's that steep. I guess I took my foyer's ground floor room for granted. Six or seven flights, two suitcases (one of which was fifty pounds), a backpack and exhausted lungs later, and voilà, my "apartment," if that's what you want to call it. You should have seen me carry that up. I started laughing because I always laugh when I lift heavy things and I was inches from falling to my death, probably. I can't get to my place without feeling like I'm having an asthma attack and I don't even have asthma. The lights are also on timers so they usually turn off when I'm on about the third floor so I have to feel my way over to the wall to turn it back on, trying my best not to plunge to the ground floor. I feel bad for the nineteenth century maids who once lived here.

      My apartment, a chambre de bonne or old maid's quarters, is in the building's mansard, the top floor which is gray on the outside of a Haussmann-designed building. It's about nine or ten square meters and has a small kitchen, futon, bed and terrace that will need a bit of TLC but should be perfect when everything's finished. Luckily, I don't care one bit about having a ton of space, because honestly, that's just a big waste of money in this town when you could use that money to actually do something.

     Now I can step out of my apartment, go run or study in the Jardin du Luxembourg or have a bottle of wine on my own private terrace. The word "terrace" should be used liberally because it can only fit my desk chair. But, damn it, I'm calling it a terrace. That's another place from which I'm hoping I don't fall to my death.

Come visit me, y'all. The futon is waiting.

Bisous,
Rachel