Okay so while I am complaining about my Internet I might as well continue complaining about the whole apartment. You see, I Hate this apartment I live in. Hate. When I moved in I hated it too. Coming from a really big apartment with two bedrooms, one living room, several closets, real kitchen and two bathrooms it was really hard to sqeeze into this one. Although I am and was fully aware of my luxurious existence in the first one. But I learned to live with this new place. For five months I ignored my inner feelings and realized that living in the central of central Paris had it’s sacrifices. Why? Well.
*Walking distance to everywhere. I mean the Louvre in five-ten minutes. The f*cking Louvre!
*Not to mention the coolest cafés with the most interesting histories. Sartre! Picasso! de Beauvoir! Greco! Hemingway! Dalí! …!
*The chic neighbors. – Gotta love the ladies and their Loubotins, Fendis, Balenciagas, Louis Vuittons…
*The fact I was living in a smaller version of Oxford Street – shopping!
*Silence, total silence from the streets.
*My own bathroom (trust me, that is not anything you take for granted as a poor student in Paris.)
*Most beautiful park in Paris one block away. The place to be for a true Parisian scenery.
*All I need and more (besides two things) within hundred metres.
*Two rooms – one bedroom and one living room – I could change environment in my apartment compairing to other poor souls I know.
*I dreamed away each time I saw the roof tops and the towers of Saint Sulpice from my cute balcony. Even more when it rained. I felt like a French version of Carrie when I was typing on my computer, blogging for you.
*I loved the fact of living in the same area as the writers, actors, singers, designers, philosophers… I pretended I was going to be one of them when I got older and join them over an espresso at one of the lovely cafés. I just had to find my own thing. Eeeh. To be continued.
*… and so on. Dreamy. Lovely. Chic. Historical. Paris.
However there was bad things too.
*Dirty. So dirty. We were four people that spent three days just cleaning the shit. And it never got clean enough. I still clean it constantly. I clean this small place more than I clean my three times larger apartment in Sweden. Weird.
*The kitchen. Or can I even call it a kitchen? You bump into it as soon as you open the door to the apartment. There are only two hotplates, one zink and a refrigerator. Nothing else. No oven, no place to put your dishes. Nothing. Oh, and I can’t barely reach to the only, single cabinet. My arms only reach to the first shelf.
*The fact that I could never go out looking like crap. Not that I never like to do anyway. But who knows, maybe? I’d like the opportunity. But when the women are standing in the line of Monoprix buying their salads and wine in the latest fur from Givenchy I simply could never…
*The horrible stairs. Six floors. Oh well, good exercise you might think. So did I. But after a while, not so much fun anymore. I assure you. Especially if you forget something when you just hit the ground floor. Or have a big, heavy suitcase. Or have been food shopping. Or wear heels and are a bit, just a bit, drunk.
*Never my own things. My own style. My own whatever.
*The bloody shower. I can never take a really long hot shower. But that is common for Paris I guess. If your name’s not Mme Paradis.
*The space. Or which space? There is no space. I can’t dance by my own here. Which was the first thing I did when I arrived to my Swedish apartment this summer. Without even thinking about it. Just danced. Glory times.
*And those two only things missing in this area (as mentioned above): a tailor and a shoemaker. Does everyone have a private one in this posh arrondissemang? Everywhere else in Paris you find them everywhere!
Gaah! Reading the second list I get really upset. Reading the first one though, makes me really happy again. I could add so much more on both lists. But geez such a long post. Let’s stop now. Watch the pics instead, that I took from my apartment. Does look cute though, sort of.
- By the way, Sweden really spoils me. Gosh. I love my apartment there. I could lick the walls how clean it is. And spacious. And light. And comfy.
My ‘living room’. I have watched that tv perhaps six times…
The not so lovely kitchen.
The alright toilet with the dreadful shower. Sweden spoils me. Okay, gotta love the window though.
Rest of that charming small living room. I decorated the walls with posters from Fashion Week since there were big cracks all over.
The room where all magic happens. What a crib right? We have skyview from here – I find that rather luxurious actually.
From the living room through the hall/kitchen passing the bathroom and into the bedroom. (I use the door to the bedroom as a hanger for all my scarves. I miss my walk in closet in Sweden.)