French 75

You Expected A Bunny?

Clarification

I have nothing against pastel flowers, I said. "Just not in my apartment."

Please

Retina-Searing Floral Bliss

So I said that I liked all flowers, pretty much. "But please, no pastels."

Boy howdy.

 

Stéphane Chapelle
Fleuriste
29, rue de Richelieu
75001 Paris
01 42 60 65 66

Opting Out

A very talented designer friend of mine, sharp of eye and elevated of taste, has long been passionate about wallpaper. Years ago, when we probably ought to have been working on some freelance project or another, we talked at length about the raw power, majesty, and cool -- or the potential for same, at least -- of wallpaper.

And being familiar with both her work and her home -- both of which could be described as clean, intelligent, invigorating, and precise, and so inimitably and personally her -- it was easy to imagine just how lovely the patterns she had been contemplating would turn out.

Time only served to prove her right. Her interest back in the day was prescient: wallpaper is in full swing -- and not only the rolls of it, but other kinds of graphical home decor, like wall stickers. When I went to Maison et Objet last fall, the place was crawling with it.  But that’s no surprise really. She’s simply one of those tuned-in people who picks up radio waves far earlier than the rest of us. It’s part of what makes her good at her job.

Just today she sent me a link to the web site of some too-fabulous Manhattan ceramist-slash-interior designer-slash-reality TV doyen who sells a full line of signature products, which includes wallpaper and textiles, and who has opened flagship boutiques in Los Angeles and Miami, and, and, and…

…and, despairing, my friend asked, “What’s wrong with me?”

The question deserves an answer. Yes, it would appear that instead of developing and launching her own line of wallpaper (and afterwards logically branching out into tabletop, area rugs, and outdoor furniture before moving on to leverage her talents and her discerning nose in the burgeoning home-fragrance vertical), she chose to do other things. She worked and traveled and spent time with her friends. She surfed and skied and enjoyed herself, and spared no one the sunniness of her smile. And ultimately she moved to a place that suited her better than Los Angeles -- a valley high above the sprawl and snarl of the city -- and set about living a life there.

That, to me, is plenty. There is truly something to be said for opting NOT to spin yourself into a lifestyle brand. There is an argument, I believe, for just remaining a person who loves their family and friends, who enjoys certain activities, is particular in sensibility and interests, and feels no compulsion whatsoever to spread them with evangelical zeal or entrepreneurial fervor.

I am not advocating lowered expectations, self-chastening, or a blanket refusal to share with the world one’s gifts. Indeed not. I am all for bold and decisive action. I am all for chasing down one’s dreams. I am all for seizing opportunities -- provided that we are absolutely clear what we mean by "opportunity," and that we are honest about what the pursuit of said opportunity might require us to forfeit. Show me where it says that we are beholden to transform our hobbies, our discoveries, our points-of-view, our little loves, into multi-million dollar businesses.

And show me where exactly it says that we are failures -- or suckers -- if we chose not to do that. Because  that notion is at the top of the list of crap I resolutely do not need and things I will not buy. No, thank you.

All that to say, my dear friend, that the answer to your question is “not one ding-dang thing.”

Avenue de l'Observatoire

The New Joint

I needed some time to settle into the new joint. It had been over two years since I had moved into a new home, and there were all these things that I had forgotten about -- the adjustments, masterings, and making-friends-with -- that one is either required to endure or to pursue in order to make oneself safe and comfortable and at-ease.

My apprenticeship of the newly arrived took up most of February:  calibrating the shower just-so, in order neither to scald nor to freeze; learning the weight of doors, so they close gently and without slamming; committing to memory the treasure map of where things have been stowed away -- not the everyday things, but the special things, the sometime-things (for example, I still cannot find my sunglasses).

Then there is the spectrum of ambient noises and events to be memorized so that, like a script, they can be abandoned and one can focus: the water heater ticking to life; the gentle thump in the stairwell of the neighbors; the path the sun cuts across the south-by-southwest-facing living room in the afternoon, which may or may not require the ceremonial closing and re-opening of the shutters once a day.

So that was February and now it's March 1 and I feel at home. I think mostly I am grateful to still be here -- not here on earth (though of course there is that) but rather here in Paris. My apartment search (10 weeks from giving of notice to signing of lease, with a week off for Christmas) was so disheartening that I considered several times just packing up and going back to California because it seemed easier than riding out the twists and turns and near-daily disappointments of looking.

Admittedly I was spoiled because I had  come to live in my first home here under such magical terms. (Read the short version here.) It required so little effort -- only that of following through on an impulse to write an e-mail to someone with whom I hadn't spoken in a long time. And of course, saying "yes" at the appropriate moment. But "yes" -- that particular "yes" -- didn't require effort, or even faith. It was more like flinging something as far as I could -- "Why not? Here's goes nothing!" Why not, indeed. I could always move home.

But this search was discouraging in just about every possible way, starting with the usual urban state of affairs, i.e., that apartments are uglier and more expensive than you would hope, and are snatched up at whiplash speed. Then, add the Parisian factor: apartments are smaller than you could ever imagine. And once you get your brain wrapped around the fact that you can live comfortably in less than 375 square feet, you learn that is only true if the square feet are well laid out. So there's that reality.

Then, there's the reality-reality: rent laws here so favor the tenants (and make it so difficult to evict one, even in the case of non-payment) that any prospective tenant is presumed to be a deadbeat, period. I took great offense at this, having been (with the exception of my three and a half years as a property owner) a tenant in good standing SINCE 1984. DAMN IT. I was lucky in that friends of mine offered to act as my seconds (non-local guarantors not allowed, sorry) for the few landlords who were willing to consider a foreigner, and a freelancing foreigner at that, as a tenant.

I kept the lessons of 2005 in mind, and tried to make my own magic wherever I could. Just put it out there, I said to myself. Just keep going, Winston, I said to myself (Churchill was the one who counseled, "If you find yourself in hell, keep going.")
Heaven knows I tried. Each phone call and apartment viewing was yet another movement in my take-no-prisoners (ha!) charm offensive. Charm was doubly difficult to muster as my health was nothing short of terrible -- I had been laid low by a mean cold on New Year's Day, one that didn't let up for two weeks.

I hurt, all over and everywhere. And in January, if I wasn't asleep, I was blowing my nose; and if I wasn't blowing my nose, I was scouring the online want ads for listings. And if I wasn't online, I was crying my eyes out.

In the end I found a truly lovely apartment not all that far from my original one. I had been hoping to move across the river, to the ninth arrondissement, where so many of my friends live, but that didn't happen this go-around. It's in Montparnasse, on the fourth floor, at the top of some pleasantly creaky oak stairs, overlooking a leafy -- or soon to be, as spring gallops apace -- courtyard.

If the sun is out, even on the colder days, I can open the windows and let the place fill up with light and with air, and suddenly January is really far away. Magic.