I’m 77 years old, retired for 15 years, yet still think in terms of the Academic year. So, I still think of summer vacation and that real vacation time is always in the summer. Here in Paris, Parisians, (ones who can afford it), take the entire month of July off or the entire month of August. They stay in the same place, a country house in Normandy, an apartment near the water in Brittany. I envied that and this year arranged to spend a month in my favorite town: St. Jean de Luz, ten miles north of Spain in southwest France. I barely remember being there.
And then there was the Olympics which I loved and someday I will look at photos and read reminiscences. The most emotional event this summer, however, was, as I was signing the papers letting go of my home in Oakland, California, I found and moved from a one bedroom apartment to a two bedroom apartment in the 16th arrondissement—the physical sign that I am taking my writing seriously and needed a room for an office. I was tired of spreading books, my journal, and my many (some unneeded) accoutrements over my dining room table and eating meals on the couch.
When I moved to Paris in 2013, I came for one year. The taxi dropped me off in front of 1, rue Gît le Coeur with three suitcases and a cat, Banya. It didn’t take me long to fill up the closets and rooms with ‘stuff’. And here I still am, in Paris, eleven years later having had one of the most turbulent years of my life. None of it produced by consuming alcohol or sugar. I sold that Oakland home by Zoom and WhatsApp thanks to a realtor with the patience of a saint. I had moved one other time but, like giving birth, I don’t remember it being especially traumatic.
I had visited five apartments before I came to see this apartment halfway through the Olympics. I walked in and saw HOME. It is gorgeous with a living room/dining room larger than the totality of my last apartment. It has a terrace, something Parisians would give their right arm for. The two bedrooms are spacious and light. To top it off, there is a cave, a huge room in the basement for storing unneeded stuff. The only thing in it when I opened the door was a wine rack six feet high. Perfect for a recovering alcoholic.
It is expensive. I had been telling myself the entire time that my Oakland home was getting ready to be put on the market that I could now afford a more expensive apartment. It’s one thing to think it and know I deserve it. It’s landing on another planet writing out a check for xxxx euros a month.
I was excited. I planned well. I arranged for help in moving necessities so they wouldn’t get lost while my world consisted of nothing but boxes, and I hired a moving company. I couldn’t have done anything more. When I stood in the apartment my first night, alone with Bijou (cat #2), who has adapted beautifully I might add, my head was bobbing in a sea of boxes. Boxes on top of boxes. I didn’t sleep well that night.
I knew I wanted to start with the living room. I hauled the white couch that came with the apartment and weighed 10,000 pounds from the center of the room to the wall that faces the terrace and the Parisian roof tops. I put down my two Persian (are we allowed to say that?) rugs on the floor. I placed the two armchairs that just happened to accentuate the colors of the rugs facing the couch. I placed the only two table lamps I own on the seats of chairs so that they lit up the room. It was 8:30pm. I sat down on one of the armchairs and breathed it in. In its messy disorder, it was beautiful. This was my home. This was not an apartment for someone trying to make up her mind whether to stay in Paris or return to Oakland. This gorgeous,’ I can’t quite believe it’s happening to me’, apartment was mine, where I was going to live from now on.
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I’m told that moving is number #2 on the Stress List. If that’s true, I’m doing very well. But I’m actually not. One of the three days of moving, I pinched a nerve that resulted in the lower part of my left arm and entire left hand falling asleep with electric pizzassing and waking me up every morning around 3am. No matter how I tossed or turned, I couldn’t stop it. I would have to get out of bed and walk around until it stopped. It seemed only to be problematic when I was lying down. I couldn’t get an appointment with my kiné (kinestheologist) for anther five days. By the time I arrived at his office, my eyes felt that they had moved to the back of my head. I was sure I looked haunted and I was so sleep deprived that there was no doubt in my mind that should I ever be terrorised for information, I would cave on the first night. I felt some relief after that first meeting but it all returned four days later. I went back and he honestly said that probably I needed more than he could give me. A prescription for high strength anti-inflammatories, and a friend told me I had to go to her osteopath. I also was given some mild sleeping pills. It all has been working and I had such high hopes. Yesterday, I forgot to take the anti-inflammatory and, voilà, I was woken up with arm pain at 3pm.
This is just like sciatica. And just like sciatica, it will take its own sweet time in healing. And I don’t like not being in control of things. I want to believe I can go to the doctor and he/she has the answer. I will never be a good Buddhist. The arena of “not knowing” and accepting it if it’s uncomfortable, is hell for me. Yet, what can I do? Right now, I am so grateful for my aparment, my beautiful new home: where I’m typing at my brand new IKEA desk and IKEA office chair. I live in my Living Room, the one room I have made so lovely and looks exactly like the place I always want to come home to. And I’m upright for more hours of the day than I’m lying down. So it’s true, it could be a lot worse. And one of these days, it will be a lot better.
A bientôt,
Sara
Sounds like, apart from the arm-sciatica, that you are doing really well in your new Parisien life, and I’m very happy for you! 👏👏
I lived in the 16th too (the noble sounding Ave.Pierre Ier de Sibérie!) before my husband and I retired to the S.West. Great view of the Eiffel Tower if you hung over the balcony! 🤩
Sara, I couldn’t be happier for you in your beautiful new apartment! It sounds like a dream come true.