A Room of One's Own

Given that I’ve never really had my own place (sans roomies), I never properly grasped the significance of having my own room. Nor did I think about what one must sacrifice in order to have as much in a place like, say, Paris. I have had extraordinary luck finding awesome apartment shares for cheap in NYC. Once I lived at the famed Apthorp: http://ny.curbed.com/tags/the-apthorp

Most recently, I had a huge room with a huge antique bookcase and marble fireplace in a Park Slope brownstone. There was also a bathroom with a claw-foot tub.

One of the reasons I moved to Paris was to have a chance to write all day—all expenses paid—with my own studio separate from the family I’m nannying for. I’d seen pictures of the studio (it was small). If I squinted, I could see a shower. I was told there’d be a shared toilet. I decided to overlook the trees (crappy room) for the forest (Paris). I thought it would be okay. But nothing prepared me for the panic I felt my first night in my new space. I was alone. Friendless. In a FILTHY, GROSS room.

There were hairs stuck to the wall. A cleaning lady had supposedly come, but she did a shoddy job. The floor was mucky and dusty and one light fixture didn’t work. Soap scum abounded in the shower (which was elevated at least a foot off the ground, making for treacherous descent). One clothing rack dangled precariously from the wall. There was a faux-wood floor (of the stick-on, vinyl variety) and it had dirt clumps ground into its surface. There was a hair on a fork. Check out my “new,” “clean” stove. (I tried to cook an egg last night and after an hour, the water had still not boiled.) You look at this picture and tell me with a straight face that it’s been cleaned:

In order to get to this treasure of a space, I had to take an elevator to the sixth floor, then ascend another staircase outside the building, then ascend yet another (spiral) staircase to my servant’s hall of doom. (Anyone who knows me well knows that I don’t handle spiral staircases gracefully. My last incident with a spiral staircase resulted in busted knee cartilage.) That’s right, my new home looks strangely reminiscent of the hallway in Downton Abbey where the servants lived, the one Mary capered through with Sir-what’s-his-name, the one who had a heart attack as a result of Mary’s astounding sexual prowess. Here’s a photo:

Oh, and my room key only works half the time.

Nevertheless, there was a cheery picture awaiting me on arrival (from the girls I’m babysitting), along with clean sheets. I threw my suitcases down and plopped into bed, sleeping for a solid 17 hours. My first thought before I went to sleep was that, for all its faults, this room was mine. And that meant something. It was a place where I could pick my nose if I wanted to. I could talk to myself aloud without fear of anyone thinking I was a total nut. I could lick my plate clean (this really is one of my secret single behaviors, though picking my nose is not). In essence, I had FREEDOM!

And as it turns out, I also have sunlight. When I fall asleep at night, my little window on my slanted wall reveals the moon and a plethora of stars. When I wake in the morning, sunlight streams in, keeping my space brightly-lit all day long. This is something I’ve never had, and it’s something I adore.

I have since made multiple trips to the Monoprix and Casa (a home store). I have made minor adjustments to my apartment’s decor and cleaned the shit out of it. I’m still making tweaks, but I’ll post pics when it’s complete. And I can guarantee it’ll have my stamp on it. I am unhealthily affected by my surroundings and can’t rest easy until a place feels like my own.

Despite the shared bathroom (I’ve managed to utilize it only once per day, thanks to the American Library around the corner), there’s no way I can be disappointed when I have this view from my landing:

And this from the sidewalk:

[image error]