On every street in Paris, I found a reason to abandon my new old house and move into a place with dubious plumbing, cramped space and a totally dreamy facade. I took enough apartment photos to make a local gendarme look twice, and maybe he would, if he wasn’t busy with cafe and croissants, the French cops’ answer to a Dunkin’ Donuts break.
Already annoyed, this particular madame in the 6th arrondissement was much too peeved to notice me.
“Oh, when I see that Marie I will box her ears! The stupid girl never waters the plants.”
Whoever lives up there, the buildings in central Paris stand like solid urban fairytales, full of geraniums and tall windows and ironwork. Since there are thousands of them, why should I keep the fantasy all to myself? Pick your own Paris apartment.
No. 1: Mon dieu! That Madeline roof, those arches, the view. Gerard has just called Therese to say he bought an excellent Brie de Meaux, but will be home, ahem, a bit late – and that’s fine with her, because she is entertaining Jean-Luc.
No. 2: Merde, that’s a lot of stuff going on up there! In America, we’d call it ‘busy’ – there, we’d call it charming, and pay double.
No. 4: Bonjour from the uptight Right Bank! Genevieve the maid will be in today, but she drinks all the Bordeaux and smokes while she cleans, no?
No. 6: Living right over Chinese takeout near the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Where do I sign?
Honestly, I’d take any, and if I won the lottery, I’d take them all. Which one is yours?