My First Paris Apartment
And, some pics of the second...
For those of you who’ve been following along, we’ve been on the lookout for a new apartment…
For reasons explained there, and here, we saw dozens of places, some wildly overpriced, some in dubious condition. Some we loved but were in neighborhoods too far from where we wanted to be. For example, we first began looking in La Campagne à Paris, an extraordinary quartier with rows of charming houses. (At that link, the city of Paris rightfully describes it as a “delightful parcel of land.”) It’s colorful and quirky, with tree-lined cobblestone streets and the perfect neighborhood in many ways…except: 1) Not many places there go up for sale, 2) It’s on the edge of Paris, and there are not a lot of restaurants, cafés, markets, etc, around there, 3) Métro service isn’t very robust. So we stopped looking in the area, even though we do like it. It just wasn’t for us.
Things do seem to be happening more and more in the 20th arrondissement, however, partly because the prices are gentler than the rest of the city, although rising steadily. But you do sacrifice being closer to the center of town. Parts of it are served by one métro station that literally has only four stops, so if you’re near that station, you’re always changing métros.
I LOVED this little house (below) we saw in the 20th, with this A+ custom stainless steel kitchen— #schwing!
But it was expensive and Romain didn’t like it as much as I did. (And I was stressed out during our visit as the agent didn’t have his mask pulled up over his nose, which was running badly, accompanied by some sniffling and wiping.) So even if I talked Romain into it, I’d never hear the end of its downsides. Yes, the kitchen was small*, but just to the right, there was a big supporting post that couldn’t be moved. So it couldn’t be any larger. It was also on the (in)famous métro 3bis, the one with only four stops, so that was another issue.
*On the plus side, that stovetop PULLED OUT, as well as the pot racks beneath it. And all I can think of now is how much I want to have a kitchen where you can pull the stovetop in and out.
And another place we’d looked at, that had an impressive private backyard, turned out to be a disappointment when the real estate agent representing it went on vacation and someone else in the office sent us the true building plans…which showed the backyard was mostly owned by the entire building, so it wasn’t as “private” as we thought. The recording studio that we found out that was right next door wasn’t mentioned either, which helped unsealed that deal for us.
One of the things that surprised me most when I wrote L’Appart was how many people wanted to see before and after pictures of the renovation, with impassioned messages begging me to post pictures. I mentioned in my book how that felt when I stopped writing about the renovating as it went south, and people continued to ask…while I continued my spiral toward a nervous breakdown.
After my renovation was finished, folks kept asking (rather insistently) when I was going to do “the big reveal,” which was something I never planned on doing. (Or realize that I was supposed to!) When all was said and done, I didn’t know if I wanted to show where I went to the bathroom or where I slept. My bedroom is generally the one place I want to keep for myself, although I’m happy to share it with Romain. But that’s about it. (Or at least all that I want to say about that in public....) Here’s a “before” of one of the walls, though:
I didn’t go into the renovation as something I thought I would ever show - or even write a book about, so I didn’t take very good pictures to showcase the project.
I also didn’t want to hear, “Oh no! You’re going to hate those kitchen counters you put in. They’re going to be ruined and you’re going to have the replace them!” or “OMG!! We put the same tile in our bathroom and now it’s all discolored and awful. You’ll regret those…trust me!!!”
No thank you. I made a lot of mistakes and fessed up to them in my book, and didn’t feel the need to have my decisions, good or bad, questioned online.
The last reason I didn’t show my place, is that in France, one’s personal life is kept private and people don’t do the “House Tour,” like when you arrive at someone’s place for dinner in the U.S. and people show you everything, from bedroom to bathroom, accompanied by how much everything cost. Money is a taboo subject in France, which is why all those grand mansions in Paris have small doors and gates; they didn’t want to show-off…or let people know how much they spent. (I’ve also heard the small doors were easier to close if they were going to be attacked.) And now that for all intents and purposes, I’m French, I understand all of that because I’m been there.
Recently I was moving my life to a new computer and opened a few files of pictures of the renovation that I’d stashed away, ones that had given me PSTD to look at just a few years ago. But now I can now laugh at what happened, and marvel that I made it to where I am today. And now that I have paid subscriber-only posts here on the newsletter (thank you if you’re a subscriber!), I can share and show you a little more of my personal life without throwing it out there for the world to scrutinize.
Above was my first apartment in Paris, taken the day I packed everything up to leave it for good. I’d left San Francisco in 2003 to move to a top-floor chambre de bonne (maid’s quarters) where I lived for nearly 10 years. People used to say to me, “I want to do what you did…but I can’t.” And I’d say, “Sure you can. Just give up your house or apartment, and everything else you have, and move into a one or two-room apartment.” Also worth mentioning was the lack of hot water, completely ineffective heat in the winter, and stifling 110ºF/40ºC temperatures in the summer, with no AC.
My apartment was about one-tenth of the size of my former place in San Francisco, and no one bothered to tell me when I moved to Paris that every day wasn’t spring. I wore a down coat and hat in the apartment in the winter and in the summer it was so hot I dipped my sheets in cold water before getting into bed every night just to try to get some sleep before they steamed up, too.
My head still has some permanent dents in it from banging it on the sloped ceiling, and I got stuck in the minuscule one-person-only elevator more than once —one time I called the emergency number and the woman on the phone said everyone was out at lunch and that I should call back in a few hours. Then she hung up on me. There was also a neighbor who had a hygiene issue that made the hall smell like someone had left a thousand overripe camemberts out there. If I happened to enter the elevator after my neighbor had exited it, it was a less-than-pleasant journey, up or down.
The place was charming and très Parisien, and even though I admire all those people who move to Paris, who post pictures of living in magnificent Haussmanian apartments with fireplaces, wooden parquet floors, and dreamy balconies where they have croissants and café au lait in the morning, as well as apéro hours in the afternoons, my p’tit place (and life) was what it was.
I also met Romain shortly after I moved to Paris, and by sheer coincidence, he grew up right across the street, where his parents still lived. After hearing some chilling stories about French in-laws, I was a little concerned about meeting them, but I instantly hit it off with his mother, who loved that I brought over chocolate cakes and cookies, and his father, who appreciated my sarcastic sense of humor. I was home.
Well, almost.
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