Travel
a local, rather than the pampered
guest of a palace hotel. There would
be no concierge to help me find a
market, nor would there be maid
service to bring fresh towels. No,
I would have to figure out the
washing machine instructions in
French, and where to buy limes,
(which surprisingly isn’t as simple
as it sounds) all on my lonesome.
Absent would be the driver; instead,
I’d navigate the metro, or walk.
I’d stayed in Parisian apartments on
two previous occasions, but those
were shorter trips—two to five
nights. This was the first time
I could completely unpack my bags.
Clothes were hung; shoes found their
temporary home; and toiletries were
laid out in the bathroom cabinet. For
someone who’s on the road most of
the time, this was a strange feeling;
one in which I relished.
Not only could I fill my closet, but
also a refrigerator and pantry. One
of the benefits of an apartment,
after all, is the ability to cook and
chill wine sans ice bucket. Oddly
enough, I’d missed trips to the
grocery store in the sort of way that
big-city transplants miss driving.
What seems like a mundane chore
and necessary evil to some is most
often appreciated only after absent
from one’s life. Not that buying milk
felt as liberating as a spur-of-themoment train to Amsterdam, but
knowing that I would be in a place
long enough to finish the quart of
milk was.
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