I first moved to Paris in the late fall of 2009, hopelessly searching for whatever “that thing” was. It was a time of great change not just for me, but for a lot of people. My ex decided he wanted to move to San Francisco and I, terrified of even entertaining the thought of changing my life for someone else, decided to cross the Atlantic in search of greener pastures.
Sans boyfriend, sans cool one bedroom apartment, sans 50+ pairs of heels, sans any sense of direction, I collected by belongings from the baggage claim area and made my way into the new country.
Arriving in Paris that afternoon, I checked into my hotel and rushed to meet a woman who was going to show me a couple of apartments that were for rent.
I use the term “apartments” loosely as anything one rented at the time looked more like a prison cell with a tiny sink in the corner than a place to call home. Months later, I would finally come upon a beautiful apartment in the 3rd arrondissement with great windows that overlooked a quiet street.
Fast forward to 2016 —I touched down in Paris in mid April for round two…