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DB: The flight into Paris was tolerable, though not a lot of sleep was had. Interesting that no matter how bad airline food and coffee is, air stewards still insist on waking you up 45 seconds after you’ve finally nodded off asking if you want some.
To our great fortune, my mum and her partner would be in Paris at the same time. Given we had struggled with a Paris real estate proxy to confirm our reservation of an apartment or have it ready for our early-morning traveller, we were thankful to be skilled to tumble into mum’s small apartment and collapse.
After finally organising access to our apartment we walked over, with rolling bags in tow, like a family of ducks heading to a pond. Our apartment, in the Marais district, promised to be fabulous, with the only drawback being that it was on the fifth floor, with no elevator.
We met the owner who showed us around and, after my third trip up the old timber staircase, we marvelled at our new home for the next week. It was old, though not run-down, colourful, astute and, thankfully, sans Ikea furniture. What is it about the need to fill homes with standardised Ikea gear? Perhaps in generations to come archaeologists will surmise that the world was conquered by a Stalinesque interior decorator…
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