Adventures in Swapping: Paris
“What are you going to do there?” asked my friend Jill.
“It’s Paris,” I said. “Wander the streets. Sit in cafes. People watch. Why? You think I’ll get bored?”
“Of course not. There are so many museums, you’ll always have something to do.”
“But I don’t like museums.”
“Oh,” said Jill, sounding a lot like she was resisting the urge to add, “well, then you’re in trouble.”
That’s when I panicked. What would I do alone in Paris for two weeks?
In an instant, I was no longer a would-be Sabrina, happily scribbling in my journal and finding my true self while gazing into the dreamy distance off the Pont des Beaux Arts, but one of those tragic lost souls who populate more traditional French films – you know, the ones where nothing ever happens and that’s the whole point.
I’m not going to lie. I was worried.
In fact, my trip may very well have devolved into a real life version of a cinema verite masterpiece had it not been for Christophe. Was it luck? An act of divine intervention? Or had I manifested him through some mystical law of attraction straight out of The Secret? I can’t say, but to this day, I still cannot believe my good fortune in having stumbled upon him.
We met in the most unorthodox of ways. I was staying in a one-bedroom Paris flat that I had found through Craigslist’s Housing Swap section. Vincent, the guy I was swapping with, had left the keys to his apartment with his friend Christophe. While I was still in the States, Christophe and I connected on Facebook and arranged a time for me to pick up the keys. We also had plenty of opportunities to check each other out through our posted items and photo albums.
The minute Chris walked out of his office to greet me, I was confirmed in my suspicions. He was tall, lean, and, if you pardon my French derivatives, had a certain insouciance about him that hinted at vast inner reserves of nonchalance, largess and joie de vivre. The feeling must have been mutual, because in no time at all, we had made plans to get together for a drink.
Now, normally, I probably would have taken the keys and left it at that, but there’s something about traveling alone that forces one to go beyond the comfort zone. Bereft of all the trappings of our carefully constructed, real lives, not only are we free to explore, but we have no choice. In other words, it was either take a chance on Christophe, or stay home with nothing but a book, an internet connection and a stale baguette to amuse me.
And in all honesty, it wasn’t as if Chris was some sort of quantum leap out of my so-called comfort zone. He was a friend of Vincent’s. I’d checked them out online and knew quite a bit about both. They were fashionable. And being thirtysomething eternally going on 21, that was enough for me. In fact, that was more than enough.
We arranged to meet at the Hotel Amour restaurant on the Rue Navarin, near the Pigalle district.
“Before, zees place was secret, just locals,” Christophe explained on our way in. “Now, newspapers write about eet and ees very popular. Ees not so easy to get table without reservation. But we try.”
Sure enough, the courtyard was packed to the gills with French filmmakers and fashion types. I was pleased to note that Christophe seemed to know everyone from the waiters and maitres to some of the diners, and that after a flurry of how-do-you-do’s, we were seated in a most advantageous location in the outdoor garden.
After a dinner of scallops, tuna tartare, and prying into each other’s love lives, we jumped on Christophe’s scooter and took a ride to Chez Julien, a hot new restaurant just off the Pont Louis Phillipe. Upon our arrival, Christophe introduced me to Alex, the owner, who treated us both like old friends. Fantastique, I thought, one night in the city, and I’m already a girl about town.
We drank Bourdeaux on the terrace and discussed where we would go next. I wondered for a moment if Christophe had any romantic interest in me, but then dismissed the idea as irrelevant. I was having too much fun to think about anything but the moment.
We decided to go to Le Baron.
“Eet ees very hard to get in,” Chris said. “But we try.”
At the door, marked by Le Baron’s famous red neon top hat, Chris whispered something to the doorman and we were whisked right in. No sooner were we inside than I realized my mistake in ever, even for a moment thinking that New Yorkers actually had anything on these Parisians. The clothes. The hair. The attitudes. Every guy looked like he should be fronting an alt punk rock band; every girl looked like she’d rolled out of bed elegantly wasted. I couldn’t understand much of what they were saying, but I just knew it must have had something to do with art and existential philosophy. I resolved to commit it all to memory and copy every ensemble my 5’4” frame could get away with upon my return to the States.
Pretty soon, Christophe was directing me towards the door and to another club.
“It’s called B.C.,” he said. “That ees Black Calvados. You can dance, but ees small, so also very hard to get een.”
But I had heard this line before and approached B.C. with confidence that my escort was persona tres grata just about everywhere. Sure enough, we were soon dancing up a storm with on the club’s tiny dance floor. (Okay, I was dancing and Chris was standing there wondering what I was on.)
The next night was no different. I met up with Chris at Mathi’s bar, a study in gold and red-velvet bordello chic. This time, his wickedly funny boss, a New York expat named Helmer, joined us (ostensibly so he could mock my New York accent and regale me with tales of his many wild exploits at H & H bagels). After some time, the group of us repaired down the street to Neo, where we danced to remixes of 80’s classics and where I met a nice, young couple who insisted on buying me drinks all night (At 15-euros a vodka-Red-Bull and the exchange rate being where it is, how could I refuse?). It was here that I ended the night in a most authentic Parisian fashions when my new friends suggested that instead of leaving with my group, I stay with them.
Sacre bleu...could it be?! A proposition for a ménage a trois?
Only in Paris, kids. Only in Paris. ■
Watch a CBS video about Leah's apartment-swap stay abroad
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In the past year alone, Leah has swapped her New York City studio for a Paris flat, spent a few months exploring Australia, and took four weeks to go on a road trip through Eastern and Central Europe.
Leah Furman