On a sunny Sunday morning in Paris, I drag my suitcase on wheels along the steep cobbled street Rue des Saules and pause to catch my breath. There’s one more flight of stairs, and I see Rue Saint Vincent–my home for the next three-and-a-half weeks–at the top. Amelie was right; she had warned me in an e-mail that the streets of Montmartre, near the great basilica of Sacre-Couer, are full of high, winding hills.
Charming! I thought, as I sat in my office in New York reading her message. That was before I decided to save some euros by taking public transportation, rather than a taxi, from Charles de Gaulle airport. But as I ascend the steps and reach Rue Saint Vincent, the exhaustion in my jet-lagged body floats away as I see the tiniest of vineyards–la vigne de Montmartre–tucked into the southeast corner of the street.
“It’s just so French!” I explain to Amelie, a few minutes later, after I arrive at her apartment on the fifth floor of an elegant balconied building, where flowers spill over wrought-iron grillwork.
This is my first time meeting Amelie in person, and I hope she understands I say that with deep appreciation for her country’s love of wine.
It’s hard to know what to say exactly. All I know is this: I’m about to hand this stranger the keys to my similar one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan, where she will spend the next three-and-half weeks, I assume, enjoying the restaurants and shops of the Upper West Side, exploring nearby Central Park, and spending lazy afternoons on my 9-by-12-foot terrace–a New Yorker’s dream that often has envious friends inquiring when my lease is up.
But already, I don’t feel like Amelie is a stranger. We “met” several months earlier on the Internet, after I placed an ad on the Web site FUSAC (France USA Connection, at www.fusac.com) to swap apartments for the month of August.
While I received e-mails from several interested and polite Parisian men, I decided to swap with Amelie simply because I felt more comfortable switching apartments with another woman. Neither of us had done an apartment exchange before, and felt the self-managed process was a bit of a leap of faith.
We e-mailed descriptions and digital photographs of our similarly sized apartments (about 400 square feet); provided some brief biographies of ourselves; and picked exact dates that worked for both our vacation schedules.
Eventually, we spoke by phone (fortunately, Amelie speaks English quite well) and agreed the plan sounded perfect. Next, I forged ahead and booked an unrefundable round-trip ticket to Paris, and e-mailed the flight info to Amelie. Our dilemma of how to exchange keys was solved when she was unable, due to summer crowds, to book a flight to New York until a day after my arrival in Paris. That conveniently allowed us to meet in person, a scenario that simultaneously filled me with relief and trepidation.
“What if she’s some psycho, and I have to give her the keys to my apartment?” I say to friends and family, who were curious about this apartment swap idea.
My fears, which I had already sensed were unfounded, diminish as soon as I arrive at Rue Saint Vincent.
Amelie immediately passes the “normal” test–that unscientific but remarkably reliable sizing-up we all do when meeting someone for the first time. And as I walk through her apartment, the digital photos Amelie had sent come to life–and I know immediately this Parisian dwelling will feel like home to me in coming weeks.
We share similar tastes; this is exactly the apartment I would chose for myself here. The rooms have hardwood floors, with high ceilings; the living room has French doors that open up to reveal a tiny foot-wide balcony with a graceful wrought-iron railing. From this vantage point, facing the north of Paris, I look down to see rows of residential apartment buildings, each with its own set of 20 or so orange chimneys, extending into the hazy distance and far-away lavender-blue hills sloping across the horizon.
Amelie calls a few days after she arrives at my apartment , which is great because I haven’t figured out how to turn on the lights in the kitchen. There’s a little light above the rangetop; she patiently explains to me how to find another, under the kitchen cabinet, which I had not seen. She tells me she has enjoyed petit dejeuner (breakfast) on my terrace.
It’s funny to picture her in my apartment as we talk, and I wonder what she thought as she arrived. When she opened the door, she must have noticed right away my vintage poster in the front hallway–all in French–advertising a Paris music event.
Then it occurs to me: I have decorated my New York apartment, which has similar hardwood floors and high ceilings, with many French touches–drapery made of cream-colored toile de Jouy; numerous fleurs-de-lis, even a reproduction Louis XV armoire.
Amelie’s apartment, on the other hand, is dotted with black-and-white photos of New York and art posters from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Clearly, this apartment exchange was meant to be.
I have come to France to steep myself in the Parisian culture, to study a musical language that always seems beyond my grasp. And after an intensely busy year at work that has left me physically and emotionally drained, I have come to rest.
What a perfect city for an extended vacation on one’s own. Cafes in pretty neighborhoods like St. Germain-des-Pres are meant for unrushed lunches in the sun, sipping wine and lingering over chocolate crepes. The parks with bursting pink and purple blooms, such as the Tuileries and Jardin du Luxembourg, are excellent for strolling and napping.
The museums are world-class; with more time on my hands, I can visit more off-the-beaten-track museums than the Louvre, which I’ve seen on previous visits. I discover the collections at Musee Jacquemart-Andre and Musee Marmottan are breathtakingly beautiful.
But what makes this time in Paris special is simply this: After a day of studying, exploring and “faire du shopping,” I don’t go back to a hotel. I go home. I take the Metro to Lamarck-Caulaincourt and stop at my neighborhood boulangerie for a baguette, then the little grocery for more supplies, such as excellent bottles of wine that cost less than $5. I hike up the hills and then take the phone-booth-sized elevator to my apartment, where I open the French doors and collapse on the couch, letting the wind of Montmartre sweep through the apartment. If only for a few weeks, I live in Paris.
– – –
Ready to trade places?
The apartment exchange isn’t for everyone, of course. Skeptics and deeply private individuals might think twice. Much depends on the process–the more e-mails and phone calls and digital photos that can be exchanged between the “swapees,” the better. An in-person meeting, if possible, can do wonders to soothe worries.
– Swap similar apartments, or at least be conscious of the differences. New Yorkers and Parisians are particularly well-suited for apartment exchanges. Both are used to apartments that are small and old (meaning not everything works). Someone used to suburban living or a modern apartment may find it to be a bigger adjustment.
– Give yourself extra time to pack. You’ll need time to tidy your place for your visitor. Plus, you might want to stash any valuables or personal records in a safe spot, such as a trusted friend’s home. Take time to leave out fresh linens or towels, if that’s part of the agreement.
– Leave a list of emergency numbers and other useful information. Indicate the location of the fuse box, the kitchen fire extinguisher, the extra set of keys. Put together a list of rules for use of the apartment. Get approval from your landlord about the exchange, if necessary.
– Expect a few surprises, especially when changing apartments abroad. There are many great mysteries in Europe, including Stonehenge and the ubiquitous hand-held shower. Doors with giant, unmovable knobs in the center may be tough to open for the uninitiated. In Paris, many residential buildings have a multi-digit door code a visitor must find out in advance to gain entry to the lobby and building directory.
– Don’t be afraid to ask. In my situation, Amelie in Paris wanted to make sure I had air conditioning, because she remembered a miserably hot summer she had spent in New York without it. I installed an extra AC before I left. (When I asked if she had AC, she replied by e-mail: “No one in Paris has AC.” But she assured me I wouldn’t need it because of the windy conditions–and I’ve been fine without it.)
— Colleen DeBaise
