Apartment Life

If Paris has a "Top Ten Things it's Known For" list, I would venture that "super hilar tiny apartments" would be on it. I've been very fortunate to spend 12 of my 13 nights in Paris so far in three separate apartments, and it's been many things I expected... and many others I did not.

Nathan is le triste over the absurd smallness of our "entry way."

And so I present to you, Some Things I Have Learned.

In Parisian apartments:

1) You get intimate with your neighbors.

The stereotypical wooden spiral staircase that you may associate with Europe in general has most certainly been true for the apartments I've stayed in. The wood is often old (by which, of course, I mean, "It has character"), and marching up it is both a toil, and a noisy one. Walls tend to be super thin, so the arrival of morning is often announced not by sun peaking in through windows or the pleasant chirping of song birds, but the THOMPING of neighbors up and down the stairs.

It wouldn't really be an authentic European (or metropolitan, in general) living experience if you didn't get to know your neighbors well in some way or other. When I stayed in a friend-of-a-friend's apartment by myself for five nights, I got to know the neighbors by means of a different excuse... the leaking of my toilet into each of their apartments. I actually began to fear the sound of their ascent up the steps, having done all I could to minimize this burden on them (picture trashcans and plastic bags, artfully arranged to capture each erratic pattern of drips). It turns out, of course, that these neighbors could not have been more pleasant. They just wanted a concerned sounding board for their woes, and I gladly took tours of each of their apartments and, specifically, their water damage ("Ohhhh regarde-ca!", *tsk tsk tsk*, "C'est terrible! Pas acceptable.", shaking my head and the like). The highlight was probably the Roman-god-worthy construction fellow from the apartment below, who came to inquire why the water had stopped leaking as much as it had been before. I admit, I was pretty distracted by his manly presence so my French was not as spot-on during this particular encounter, but I proudly showed him my McGyver-worthy drip collection station, in secret hopes that it would help me curry some favor. I'm pretty certain he laughed me off (lovingly, I'm sure) in every way before heading back downstairs.

A view from that apartment.

These are the neighbors, I suppose, who don't hate my guts.

Our new apartment (see ...adorable pictures below) is fully functioning, which is a plus. It does, however, lack direct sunlight, and our window instead opens up onto a very miniature courtyard whose only purpose can possibly be to give us all an excuse for a window. As the weather has gotten warmer the past few days, all have taken to throwing open said windows at all times, and neighborhoodly relations have gotten, well, more intimate. This morning, it was not chirping birds, sunlight, nor stair thomping neighbors that brought me into a state of consciousness. No, it was a truly delightful Epic Temper Tantrum. I call it delightful for several reasons. One, it gradually woke me up--as it increased in severity, I slowly put the pieces together as to what in the world was going on (Was I dreaming? Was Nathan completely inappropriately upset about something?), which just felt charming. Two, even more charming, it was of course in French, and as you can probably imagine ANYTHING said by toddlers in a foreign language you sort of understand is almost too cute to bear. Three, finally, it followed the classic trajectory--the Platonic ideal, even--of The Temper Tantrum.

Step one was initial protestation: Statement of desire, followed by an attempt at its underlying reasoning. You could say this stage is still completely reasonable, logical, and perhaps even cool-headed.

Je n' veux pas, Maman! C'est pas l'heure!

I don't want to, Mom! It's not time yet!

Internal-Dialogue-Me: Buhhhh French toddler-ness SO CUTE and clearly worth waking up forrrrr.

Step two, brought on merely by lack of desired outcome, is really only a change in tone and emphasis, i.e. it is the steadily increasing desperation of the child. This step is often accompanied by, as you can bet it was this morning, by the child beginning to pace, then run, around the apartment. Mind you, this is all brought to me by sound alone, wafting through the "courtyard" window.

Je n' veux PAS, Mamaaan! C'est PAS! L'HEURE!

I don't WANT to, Moooom! It's NOT! TIME YET!

Step three is breakdown into complete emotion/irrationality, and, from afar, totally the most hilarious step. This child has, I can only imagine, dropped to the ground, become completely nonverbal, and is pounding his feet upon the floor in violent, outraged protest. Life is seriously NOT FAIR.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh Maaammmmmaaaaaaaaannnnnnn!

[Translation not necessary]

To sum it up, the most amusing part of this story for me, is that the issue was probably over taking his morning bath or something. Anywho, apartment is life is all about getting to know your fellow city dwellers as well as (and well beyond that) you could ever hope to.

A chaotic but faithful view of the window. Nathan sleeps on the floor below it.

Super classy, I know, but I also have no idea how he slept through this affair entirely.

2) In Parisian apartments: You get intimate... with yourself.

No, no, not like that, ew gross. No, since Parisian apartments are completely and often impossibly small, you find yourself with the most condensed version of "personal space" you've ever considered appropriate (see Nathan, top), and this has surprising effects on your psyche over time. This effect is only exaggerated when you insert roommates into the mix.

Exhibit A: Tiny kitchen, Kavita's apartment, by Place D'Italie.

But look at it, it's SO ADORABLE I can't even be mad at its complete lack of legitimate anything!!

When your kitchen is one square meter, and your bathroom is half that, you become surprisingly aware of your limbs. Before, you could waltz about your personal space, swinging those limbs to and fro--"Shall I grab the potato over here, or the shampoo over there? la dee daaaa"--you can reach as you please. It's all very easy and carefree, and certainly not necessitating conscious thought or effort. Now that your available space lends itself to using "postage stamps" as a legitimate frame of reference for describing measurements (the fridge is 8 across, the table is 12, etc.), such a cavalier swinging of the arm could result in disasterous consequences--usually ones that involve your possessions tumbling to the floor multiple times a day.

Worse yet, with all those cabinets and walls creepin on your minimal floor space, when you do drop something (And you will. Avoid bringing home objects unnecessarily made of glass), you'll think to yourself, "Hey, I am so going to bend over and pick that up!" and instead you find yourself vertically trapped, without any bending room at all. This is particularly difficult in the bathroom. After hitting my head on the sink each morning when I've dropped the soap in the shower, this morning I was particularly sleepy and just forewent conditioning my hair entirely when I dropped the bottle. It just wasn't worth the further loss of brain cells.

Exhibit B: Tiny bathroom, rented apartment by Republique.

It's actually impossible to take a picture of the entire shower, it is so small and crammed.

Bridget has a photo, that I'll have to steal, of me using this toilet seat as our legitimate third seat in the apartment for when we all want to sit and socialize.

What's probably the most amusing is how USED to it you get. You move slower, more delicately, and what was at first tons of deliberate effort, really does become old habit. It's particularly impressive, I believe, when you and two other people in such a heinously small space begin to not only tailor your own movements but anticipate each others', as you flit about, bending around cabinets, tables and people to get to your target destination, which cannot be more than 2 meters away.

Exhibit C: the rest of the Republique apartment.

Mentally piece together this picture with the one of the window above, and that's actually all we are working with. The mirrors fold down to reveal a bed.

And so, I am naturally led to the third and clearly most impressive thing I've learned in Parisian apartments...

3) The number of tricks to efficiently use space are ENDLESS.

Tabletops are attached to the wall and fold down with the flick of a wrist. Washing machines are the size of a cat kennel and slip under countertops. Shelves appear just above the 5'8" mark or so, and extend upwards towards the ceilings. Pot & pan racks and drying racks are screwed into the wall tile. Stovetops are tucked into hard-to-reach corners American kitchens wouldn't even notice. Beds morph into walls and, it's true, even ceilings. Bizarrely impressive shelving, cabinets, and other items designed to affix to walls exist here that fit the most uniquely shaped spaces and corners. WHATEVER YOU ARE WORKING WITH, Europe's got you covered. Our joke of a studio still manages to have room for THREE french presses and a salad spinner--totally under- or (un-) used items I'm convinced the landlord threw into the kitchen just to prove that he COULD, along with the sink, cabinets, microwave, washing machine, fridge and electric stove top. It's really commendable stuff.

<-- Tiny kitchen, ur doin it rite.

Bungalow bed, in the CEILING -->

<-- Stovetop, ready for duty

A glam shot of Bridget and Nathan, whose actual purpose is to show how bad ass our keys are -->

Upcoming are Things I Remembered, Part II and Tales from Auvers St. Oise, as I slowly get my act together. We leave for Amsterdam tomorrow!!

Over and out,

Jessie