Paris Digs

As unbelievable as it may seem, having crappy housing, even in a city like Paris, can be a real drag. So with a little Internet savvy and a few extra Euros to spend, we managed to secure ourselves a sweet pad overlooking the Seine.

Two marble fireplaces, big dining room, flat screen tv. Heck, this place is better than home. Did I mention the view of the Seine? The man who owns the place has impeccable taste. The décor is both attractive and comfortable with a couple bits of whimsy here and there to help you connect a personality with the collection of things. But, whimsy aside, the dude definitely likes his things.

I do not consider myself a snooper. When I go to someone’s house and use their bathroom, I do not look in their medicine cabinet. As an overnight guest, I never rummage through a closet or peak under the bed. I guess it’s because I just don’t care. Not that I don’t care about knowing people better. I guess I’d rather notice what they want me to see - their book collection, framed photos in the hallway, the art they’ve hung. Their box of sex toys or genital creams in the bathroom are not interesting to me. Barring the discovery of a dead corpse in the freezer, not that much shocks me, so I just don’t snoop. However, when you’re living in someone’s home for several weeks, you’re bound to come across a few things.

Because we had no Mac-friendly Internet access when we got here, we needed to find Internet access in order to set up internet access (comprennez-vous?). Yes, we could find an Internet depot or go to the wifi café directly below us, but wouldn’t it be easier to just use THIS guy’s computer? Since there’s only one closet in the place, we didn’t have to snoop too long. Sure enough, on top of a stack of neatly pressed shirts was a working laptop. Plugged it in and bingo - Internet at our fingertips. But wait…something about that closet. Something about it made me want to go back and take a second look.

It was a sea of Christian Dior suits. The neatly pressed shirts were all Dolce & Gabbana. A row of shoes – Gucci. I’d never seen so many designer clothes in one person’s closet. And it didn’t end there. Making dinner that night, I worked my way around the kitchen. More Dior – cups, plates, an ashtray. A Christofle champagne bucket…no, make that three Christofle champagne buckets. Even the espresso machine only accepted coffee from a haute couture shop. That night, after drying my face with a Lacoste towel, I snuggled into Calvin Klein sheets. I fell asleep staring at my second-hand-store dresses hanging in the closet. I dreamed the closet kept spitting them out and begging for more Versace. I had to go shopping in the morning.