Hear me out: French Airbnb hosts sometimes come across like desperate animated candlesticks. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, it’s just different.
If it isn’t written down, analyzed, and delivered with a lovely little narrative bow on it, full metaphors and all, did it actually happen? I’ve given up journals before during hard times in an attempt to reject reality, a tactic that both works and doesn’t. On the one hand, there is no written history and reflection to cure the cement of what I decided “was” in that time. On the other, without busily scribbling my little thoughts about events, finding their meaning, inventing meaning often, neatly fitting them into the larger story I have in my head for my life, then I’m left to just live in the moment. No more mining my day for content, or feeling that I’ve got nothing to show for it if I live without documenting.
Ten weeks ago, the idea of hour-long lunches everyday would have terrified me. Now, I’m grateful-ish for them.
It’s been 7-ish weeks of quarantine, folks. That’s 147 French meals, some of which featured food I never knew existed.
I’m all coats and dirty hair now, and hopefully blending in a bit.
You merely adopted the isolation. I was born in it, molded by it.
I’m not talking about obvious stuff you read on Buzzfeed. I’m talking niche and deeply biased advice for living in Paris, France.
Some differences between LA and Paris are obvious–like trading freeways for metros. Others, I would never have thought of.
A very biased account of everything you need to know when you visit Disneyland Paris, especially about how bad the Indiana Jones ride there is.
French breakfast is different from your breakfast, but it’s also extremely important so don’t talk shit about it.