My new abode

So it happened… I’ve moved into the ghetto.

Thankfully, the “ghetto” in Paris means that you live in a sort of Section 8 amongst the poor immigrant community—lots of Arabs, Asians and Africans— who are more likely to pickpocket you than slit your throat. Juvenile delinquents hanging on the corner, smoking cigarettes, being loud and obnoxious—that sort of thing. As a friend put it, its 125th Street not the South Bronx. And since I’ve already had my “Welcome to Paris” mugging experience, I’m a bit more aware of my surroundings and it’s not so dangerous.

I’ve always been very proud of myself for having braved the world of “budget living” in New York—the projects in BedStuy (where 16-year-old mothers had their toddlers outside at 2am while they flirted with their drug dealer boyfriends), the West Indian ghetto in Flatbush (to get home from school it took an hour on the train, followed by 15 minute bus ride or, if you were desperate and fearless, a trip in one of the rickety $1 vans) and a crackhouse in Chelsea (my bathroom was in the hallway, enough said)… and I managed to walk away that much tougher and wiser because of it all and ultimately settle into a cute apartment that I adored in the East Village.

Now I’ve just moved into the 18th arrondissement of Paris at the Porte de la Chapelle metro stop. Tell any Parisian that and their first reaction is to raise their eyebrows and go, “Ohh… well. It’s not so bad” with a forced smile that actually means, ‘Yikes, I feel sorry for you’. My apt is on the top floor (4 flights, no lift) of a decrepit building on an even more depressing street. Its about half the size of typical Manhattan studio (everything is smaller in France) and is furnished with a futon, an armoire, a folding chair and an old radio. Each morning I climb over a pile of tools/crap, squeeze past a couple bikes and pick my way down the crumbling staircase to get out of the building… it’s lovely.

My former apt was a temporary base to stay while I looked for my own place (its nearly impossible to find an apt in Paris from NYC). About 2 weeks after I arrived, this current apt was offered to me, I didn’t have to look for it (and I am grateful to have a place, don’t get me wrong. I could very well be homeless). A friend of my aunt’s, a Haitian/Parisian woman named Francine, had a friend who was renovating a place and it happened to be ready at the same time that I had to move out of my sublet. And although it had technically been promised to a student coming from Martinique, they would let me have it instead—I was able to move in without any paperwork or anything. Francine was super excited about the place and said I would love it. Of course, there are no doorknobs, the heater isn’t in, the walls aren’t finished and there is a pile of wood propped against the front door… but I’ve been assured that all that will be taken care of “soon”, which in French-time means about 6 months from now.

So needless to say, I’m apartment hunting… at this point, I’m willing to suck it up and do the roommate thing because it is so hard finding an apartment in Paris—worse than NYC. Landlord’s ask for a ridiculous amount of paperwork, proof of income, references, plus require that you have a guarantor. And if you’re a student/foreigner/under 30, forget about it. The only thing I feel guilty about is ditching Francine after all her help. She’s been so sweet and accommodating and unsuspecting; I probably shouldn’t tell her where she can stick her “beautiful apartment”…