Let’s start by clearing up that ever-so-slightly misleading headline. I do not own an apartment in Saint-Germain des Prés. It’s on my bucket list though but for now, I’ll happily rent via Airbnb while on holiday. Got it?
Had you read my previous post here, you’d have learned that I arrived in Paris on Monday afternoon. My conman taxi driver had deposited me safely, and a few hundred euros lighter, at No. 11 Rue xyz; the address on my booking receipt.
Far too easy!
While in transit, a text message from my host directed me to No. 12 across the street. I was to enter the building and make my way up to the 3rd floor, where I’d find a white ‘master key’ box which housed the door key, then hike another floor up to the apartment. Here’s the deal. My luggage was 6kgs over the airline limit and the apartment block did. not. have. an. elevator! Right, let’s get lugging.
Flight one, I sweated. Flight two, I swore. On the third landing, I started seeing black spots which forced a rest to catch my breath and the removal of a few layers of clothing. Halleluh, I also saw the white box in question but there was nothing in it. No code, no flap, no lever, no key.
Five panicky texts later, my host realised he had confused me with another tenant and No. 11 was, in fact, my rental.
Heading back downstairs was a little easier but more dangerous. I basically clung to my suitcase for dear life as it careered ahead of me down each flight like a mudslide on a mountain slope.
Back on the pavement, I piled on the layers of clothing again, crossed a street no wider than a bathtub, let myself into No. 11 and started all over again. Yes, you guessed it. No elevator.
Sweat. Swear. Spots. Disrobe. Oh sherbet, one more flight to go. Repeat steps one and two at the same time. Finally, I let myself into the apartment and headed straight to the fridge for something wet.
Surprise! I found nothing! My host had not even left me a bottle of water. You wanna know what, I didn’t even bat an eyelid. After the month of Mondays I’d had to get to Paris, seven flights of stairs and an empty fridge meant two things. I’d probably lost some weight already and I could go wine shopping.
So I hit the streets and headed straight to the untrendy but uber-convenient Monoprix. (That’s like our Pick ‘n Pay.) Dinner that night saw me dining sumptuously on soup, bread, cheese and wine like a real Parisienne in her apartment in Saint-Germaine des Prés, Paris.
I love this city.
love & light
PS: Of course this apartment doesn’t have a corkscrew. You should see how creative I got with a steak knife.
Note to self: Find that bistro which offers wine all day.