So I got married two weeks ago and had this incredible, overindulgent holiday seeing the Alps, Venice, the Greek Islands, and Turkey, etc., etc., and we'll get to all that great stuff later, but first, I want to talk about my room in Montmartre.
As I mentioned again and again before, the week preceding my wedding, I took off on a solo trip to Paris. Since this trip, I've become a fairly enthusiastic proponent for traveling alone. I am also now a vocal advocate for having a small, private wedding in a faraway land. Really, everybody should do it. Oh, and I'm a champion for warm, soft croissants beneath heaps of Nutella as well. Mm.... Yeah....
Anyway. I digress.
At first, I was apprehensive about exploring a foreign country where I knew absolutely nobody, without a GPS to boot. At the same time, I was also completely entranced and romanticized by the idea of taking a train to Paris alone.
Because there was something incredibly perfect, so meaningful, about taking off alone on my last weekend of single-hood. I mean, yes, I already had a bachelorette party before I left for Europe, and yes, it was pretty awesome as it was. (We made smoothies and went paddle boating. That night, I was the first one to fall asleep at 11 pm. After Year One of law school, this is my idea of the quintessential bachelorette party, no joke.) But wandering around Paris at my own pace, retreating deep into my thoughts, drinking in art and architecture in solitude...for me, this was my personal celebration. Of enjoying my girlhood. Of moving on to an exciting new stage of life.
Of course, the trip came with a rather, um, substantial price tag. In an attempt to cut back on some of the costs, I rented a bedroom from a stranger's apartment in the artsy, bohemian neighborhood of Montmartre.
Okay. I know what you're thinking. This was not one of my most brilliant moves. Please, please don't tell my mom, by the way. But! I was extremely diligent about my research. I used a well-rated, highly recommended vacation rental search engine and picked a listing with tons of reviews. And then I double-checked by confirming that the reviewers' profiles showed real people, real guests. I even triple-checked by reading the reviewers' reviews on other listings and verifying that the other listings were real places. Like I said. Thorough.
Even so, as I pushed past two heavy doors with big brass knobs and walked up the old, creaky stairs of the apartment building, I still ran through defense tactics in my head. Close fist, thumb out, thrust up beneath the jaw, I recited. Got it.
As it turns out, there was nothing to worry about. Obviously. I mean, I survived to get married and tell this story and everything.
But seriously. The apartment turned out to be one of the best parts of the weekend. For one thing, it was charmingly furnished with simple, minimalist pieces. Pictured below is the living room.
My bedroom was tidy and pink...and stocked full of travel guides for Paris. I had my own toilet and shower. And my hostess was really sweet. She picked up fresh croissants and coffee every morning for breakfast and served it to me on a tray along with juice, fresh fruits, yogurt, and apple sauce. And a newspaper! She also gave me tons of advice for traveling, told me which bus to take, gave me spare tickets in case I ran out, so on and so forth.
Then my hostess took me to Les Deux Moulins, or The Two Mills, where she introduced me to two of her friends who happen to hang out there frequently. You know. The ones who've earned the license to be all blasé when the tourists troop in with their big cameras and their delighted exclamations of "This is Amelie's Cafe!" I fought the urge to do the same (until I sneaked out of their sight and pulled out my own big camera and delighted grin. Amelie is my hero!)
At night, after a long day of sightseeing, my hostess would ask me about my day and I would tell her about the stops I visited and she would listen attentively, which was really sweet because she's probably heard the same stuff again and again from her previous guests.
But the absolute coolest part of it was that my hostess turned her living room into an art gallery every weekend in the summer. So she invited me to a party featuring an up-and-coming American artist who is my age. And of course, since I was all crazy about immersing myself completely in the Parisian culture, I had to go.
That in itself was another highlight of the weekend. I spoke with loads of interesting people and breathed in a lot of cigarette smoke and looked appraisingly at the art hanging on the walls. I also kissed a lot of cheeks in that chic, European, bisous-bisous way.
Actually, I caught myself doing it wrong from the get-go: the first time it happened, I was greeting the artist-in-the-spotlight. I gave him a hug and realized that he was leaning in for the cheek kiss. And then I froze in horror because I had swiped on lip gloss seconds before, and I didn't want to leave shimmery, sticky marks on his cheeks. What do I do-what do I do?? But it was too late; I closed my eyes, leaned in quickly, and planted my lips on both cheeks.
Fortunately, the artist was very polite and only subtly wiped it off. Ugh. I'm cringing right now.
Apparently for these type of kisses, you're not actually supposed to touch skin. At least, not with casual acquaintances or people you just met at an art gallery. Instead, you pretend and kiss the space next to the cheek, a centimeter or two away.
Oh well. Practice makes perfect. By the end of the night, I had the art of kissing air down to muscle memory. Easy.
Feel free to learn from my mistakes.
And if you're taking a trip to Paris and need a place to stay, drop me a line. I will so recommend this place to you.
As I mentioned again and again before, the week preceding my wedding, I took off on a solo trip to Paris. Since this trip, I've become a fairly enthusiastic proponent for traveling alone. I am also now a vocal advocate for having a small, private wedding in a faraway land. Really, everybody should do it. Oh, and I'm a champion for warm, soft croissants beneath heaps of Nutella as well. Mm.... Yeah....
Anyway. I digress.
At first, I was apprehensive about exploring a foreign country where I knew absolutely nobody, without a GPS to boot. At the same time, I was also completely entranced and romanticized by the idea of taking a train to Paris alone.
Because there was something incredibly perfect, so meaningful, about taking off alone on my last weekend of single-hood. I mean, yes, I already had a bachelorette party before I left for Europe, and yes, it was pretty awesome as it was. (We made smoothies and went paddle boating. That night, I was the first one to fall asleep at 11 pm. After Year One of law school, this is my idea of the quintessential bachelorette party, no joke.) But wandering around Paris at my own pace, retreating deep into my thoughts, drinking in art and architecture in solitude...for me, this was my personal celebration. Of enjoying my girlhood. Of moving on to an exciting new stage of life.
Of course, the trip came with a rather, um, substantial price tag. In an attempt to cut back on some of the costs, I rented a bedroom from a stranger's apartment in the artsy, bohemian neighborhood of Montmartre.
Okay. I know what you're thinking. This was not one of my most brilliant moves. Please, please don't tell my mom, by the way. But! I was extremely diligent about my research. I used a well-rated, highly recommended vacation rental search engine and picked a listing with tons of reviews. And then I double-checked by confirming that the reviewers' profiles showed real people, real guests. I even triple-checked by reading the reviewers' reviews on other listings and verifying that the other listings were real places. Like I said. Thorough.
Even so, as I pushed past two heavy doors with big brass knobs and walked up the old, creaky stairs of the apartment building, I still ran through defense tactics in my head. Close fist, thumb out, thrust up beneath the jaw, I recited. Got it.
As it turns out, there was nothing to worry about. Obviously. I mean, I survived to get married and tell this story and everything.
But seriously. The apartment turned out to be one of the best parts of the weekend. For one thing, it was charmingly furnished with simple, minimalist pieces. Pictured below is the living room.
My bedroom was tidy and pink...and stocked full of travel guides for Paris. I had my own toilet and shower. And my hostess was really sweet. She picked up fresh croissants and coffee every morning for breakfast and served it to me on a tray along with juice, fresh fruits, yogurt, and apple sauce. And a newspaper! She also gave me tons of advice for traveling, told me which bus to take, gave me spare tickets in case I ran out, so on and so forth.
Then my hostess took me to Les Deux Moulins, or The Two Mills, where she introduced me to two of her friends who happen to hang out there frequently. You know. The ones who've earned the license to be all blasé when the tourists troop in with their big cameras and their delighted exclamations of "This is Amelie's Cafe!" I fought the urge to do the same (until I sneaked out of their sight and pulled out my own big camera and delighted grin. Amelie is my hero!)
At night, after a long day of sightseeing, my hostess would ask me about my day and I would tell her about the stops I visited and she would listen attentively, which was really sweet because she's probably heard the same stuff again and again from her previous guests.
But the absolute coolest part of it was that my hostess turned her living room into an art gallery every weekend in the summer. So she invited me to a party featuring an up-and-coming American artist who is my age. And of course, since I was all crazy about immersing myself completely in the Parisian culture, I had to go.
That in itself was another highlight of the weekend. I spoke with loads of interesting people and breathed in a lot of cigarette smoke and looked appraisingly at the art hanging on the walls. I also kissed a lot of cheeks in that chic, European, bisous-bisous way.
Actually, I caught myself doing it wrong from the get-go: the first time it happened, I was greeting the artist-in-the-spotlight. I gave him a hug and realized that he was leaning in for the cheek kiss. And then I froze in horror because I had swiped on lip gloss seconds before, and I didn't want to leave shimmery, sticky marks on his cheeks. What do I do-what do I do?? But it was too late; I closed my eyes, leaned in quickly, and planted my lips on both cheeks.
Fortunately, the artist was very polite and only subtly wiped it off. Ugh. I'm cringing right now.
Apparently for these type of kisses, you're not actually supposed to touch skin. At least, not with casual acquaintances or people you just met at an art gallery. Instead, you pretend and kiss the space next to the cheek, a centimeter or two away.
Oh well. Practice makes perfect. By the end of the night, I had the art of kissing air down to muscle memory. Easy.
Feel free to learn from my mistakes.
And if you're taking a trip to Paris and need a place to stay, drop me a line. I will so recommend this place to you.
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