On my late evening walk tonight, I went down some streets that I don’t usually frequent. Upon lifting my head, I was welcomed into a world that is largely unknown to visitors to this city: the Parisian’s apartment. (I single out Parisians because they are still somewhat of an anomaly to me. The way they dress, the way they live, the way they manage to have any money to spend… I digress. That’s a topic for another day.) Now, I have always appreciated this about nights in Paris –walking around when it’s dark out means you can peer into the lighted apartments and see things that aren’t at all visible during the day. Tonight I wandered farther and farther into unfamiliar territory and eventually happened upon a house.
In just the last day I have come to learn that houses, real houses, exist in the Paris city limits. Huh? Maybe I’ve been living in a box the last few years – oh no, that’s just my studio! – but I never thought this was even possible to have a bona fide house in Paris. Dreaming of bringing together two things that I feel I can’t live without – Paris and space - my mind immediately goes to a conversation that might take place in one of these houses… “No, Sweetie, it’s upstairs in the salon.” Upstairs? Downstairs? Ha! I’m only used to the limited options of “it’s in that corner” or “it’s on that shelf.” Not that easy to lose stuff when you live in a shoebox!
Where was I, though? Had I wandered into Neuilly? I know they have houses there. I thought that had to be a bit farther than I had traveled. In the end, turns out I was still in the 17th and had strolled along Boulevard Pereire. I praised the darkness for allowing me this glimpse of molded ceilings, impeccable décor, and impressive art work that seemed to be hanging in each and every lighted apartment. My dream of having one of my own was again in the forefront of my mind.
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