A few of you asked in the comments "which arrondisment is the apartment?" The 13th! Not the most glamorous or famous arrondisment, but it's ideal for my purposes.
The lively street I'm one block away from is Butte aux Cailles (click for more details). It's going to take a while to learn how to pronounce that correctly. That description pretty much sold me before I even saw the place, but add in the very livable space and that was all it took.
Here's a a map of Paris with the neighborhood indicated by the "flags":
View Larger Map
And what I meant by "bed/sofa" was a particular kind of Ikea contraption (don't worry, it comes with a mattress)...that I used to own! So, I know it's comfortable.
The bad news is that the floor is hard and space is limited, but I will be able to accommodate up to two (very friendly) guests at a time, though one is preferred. I'll work out something to make the floor bearable. I definitely want visitors!
Last, I'm planning to start a new family/work friendly blog. I want to have a place to write where I'm comfortable having everyone read--I know work folks and mom and dad (etc.) are excited about my trip and want to follow along.
So, you know, I've come up with a new (lame) name for the blog but I'm open to suggestions. All of the readers here will be invited to the new blog but I'm going to ask you to respect some separation between the two spaces. No calling me "Jamy" or referring to "Grateful Dating" in the comments. I will link from here to there, but not from there to here--so if you can help me keep that straight, that would be great. Any other ideas about how to pull this off, naming suggestions, or other thoughts would be very much appreciated!
Grateful for: the plan coming together.
Showing posts with label neighborhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label neighborhood. Show all posts
Friday, May 02, 2008
Friday, February 08, 2008
40 ounces
On my way home last night, I stopped by the liquor store to pick up a 40.
It was the first time in my life I’ve purchased malt liquor, not to mention forty ounces (in one bottle) of any kind of alcohol.
Ok, why did I do it? Well, TR, my “boss” (he’s not the boss of me!) is having a muy importante birthday on Saturday. (Care to guess how old he’ll be?) Work-friend Nina decided that a “40” would be the perfect humorous gift. Knowing TR, she is absolutely right. However, in Nina’s neighborhood, a place of many white folks (not including Nina, however) and few liquor stores, she wasn’t sure where to get one. So, she asked me.
See, I live in the ‘hood. It’s rapidly gentrifying but still mostly unreconstructed hood. Well, it’s semi-reconstructed: I have a coffee shop, high-class florist and yoga studio all less than a block away from my place. None of those establishments existed when I moved in five years ago. In fact, the liquor store nearest to me closed recently.
Still, many, many liquor stores inhabit the main drag. I stopped at the one that is on my most direct walk home. Inside, people were hanging out and talking and one of those people, a marginally homeless, probably alcoholic, man, recognized me. I did not recognize him. He said, “It’s you—I met you that night.”
I smiled.
He said, “You have that little van!” He held out his hand and I shook it. Then he kissed my hand. “I remember you because you’re fine.”
I did remember him then—he’s the guy that offered to knock me up. How could I forget?
He remarked on my earphones (I still had one in) and asked what I was listening to, “Music? What?”
I said, “Yes, music, sometimes.” But usually it’s podcasts!
He said, “Like what? What do you like? What are you hearing now?”
“Well, actually, I like old radio shows.” Now playing: Lux Radio Theater! Beau Brummel! Seriously.
That admission, which seemed not to be clearly understood inspired a long ramble about liking old music and how if there was a problem there had to be a solution. Umm, okaaay.
He let me go ahead of him in line as he proceeded to empty his pockets and sort all his change on the counter.
I didn’t see any 40oz bottles on display so I asked the clerk if they carried them. The clerk rattled off a list of about a dozen different brands. Since I didn’t have a preference, I chose the one with the most outlandish name: King Cobra. The only name I recognized was Colt 45, but I decided to go out on a limb.
As I was waiting for the clerk to get the bottle my homeless buddy asked me to help him out. I slipped him a buck. After I got the liquor and paid for it ($1.90—damn, that’s cheap) he offered to walk me home. I demurred and got out of there as fast as possible.
The rest of the post is not as interesting, be warned.
After I cooked myself some dinner, I got down to a long neglected chore: laundry. I had at least three full loads to do. Yeesh. When you have your own washer and dryer, it’s supposed to be easier. But, I swear, when I had to go out to a laundromat (why does MS want me to capitalize that word?), the whole thing was much more efficient. I took two or three loads and in two or three hours I had a bunch of clean, folded clothing. Now, if I let it build up, it takes a whole night or several nights, many days to fold and I never get all of it put away. (I also hang a lot to dry, which is super tedious. I put everything except lingerie in the dryer in the old days.)
I know that I’m supposed to wash the clothes immediately when I have enough for a full load, but that would mean I’m doing laundry at least two nights a week (maybe). Ugh. I don’t mind the laundry, much, but it’s just not convenient. How do you all deal with the laundry dilemma? Let it pile up or efficiently handle it load by load?
I guess that wasn’t so bad. And, hey, even if my clothing is wrinkled and strewn about the house, at least it’s clean.
Grateful for: my neighborhood characters.
It was the first time in my life I’ve purchased malt liquor, not to mention forty ounces (in one bottle) of any kind of alcohol.
Ok, why did I do it? Well, TR, my “boss” (he’s not the boss of me!) is having a muy importante birthday on Saturday. (Care to guess how old he’ll be?) Work-friend Nina decided that a “40” would be the perfect humorous gift. Knowing TR, she is absolutely right. However, in Nina’s neighborhood, a place of many white folks (not including Nina, however) and few liquor stores, she wasn’t sure where to get one. So, she asked me.
See, I live in the ‘hood. It’s rapidly gentrifying but still mostly unreconstructed hood. Well, it’s semi-reconstructed: I have a coffee shop, high-class florist and yoga studio all less than a block away from my place. None of those establishments existed when I moved in five years ago. In fact, the liquor store nearest to me closed recently.
Still, many, many liquor stores inhabit the main drag. I stopped at the one that is on my most direct walk home. Inside, people were hanging out and talking and one of those people, a marginally homeless, probably alcoholic, man, recognized me. I did not recognize him. He said, “It’s you—I met you that night.”
I smiled.
He said, “You have that little van!” He held out his hand and I shook it. Then he kissed my hand. “I remember you because you’re fine.”
I did remember him then—he’s the guy that offered to knock me up. How could I forget?
He remarked on my earphones (I still had one in) and asked what I was listening to, “Music? What?”
I said, “Yes, music, sometimes.” But usually it’s podcasts!
He said, “Like what? What do you like? What are you hearing now?”
“Well, actually, I like old radio shows.” Now playing: Lux Radio Theater! Beau Brummel! Seriously.
That admission, which seemed not to be clearly understood inspired a long ramble about liking old music and how if there was a problem there had to be a solution. Umm, okaaay.
He let me go ahead of him in line as he proceeded to empty his pockets and sort all his change on the counter.
I didn’t see any 40oz bottles on display so I asked the clerk if they carried them. The clerk rattled off a list of about a dozen different brands. Since I didn’t have a preference, I chose the one with the most outlandish name: King Cobra. The only name I recognized was Colt 45, but I decided to go out on a limb.
As I was waiting for the clerk to get the bottle my homeless buddy asked me to help him out. I slipped him a buck. After I got the liquor and paid for it ($1.90—damn, that’s cheap) he offered to walk me home. I demurred and got out of there as fast as possible.
The rest of the post is not as interesting, be warned.
After I cooked myself some dinner, I got down to a long neglected chore: laundry. I had at least three full loads to do. Yeesh. When you have your own washer and dryer, it’s supposed to be easier. But, I swear, when I had to go out to a laundromat (why does MS want me to capitalize that word?), the whole thing was much more efficient. I took two or three loads and in two or three hours I had a bunch of clean, folded clothing. Now, if I let it build up, it takes a whole night or several nights, many days to fold and I never get all of it put away. (I also hang a lot to dry, which is super tedious. I put everything except lingerie in the dryer in the old days.)
I know that I’m supposed to wash the clothes immediately when I have enough for a full load, but that would mean I’m doing laundry at least two nights a week (maybe). Ugh. I don’t mind the laundry, much, but it’s just not convenient. How do you all deal with the laundry dilemma? Let it pile up or efficiently handle it load by load?
I guess that wasn’t so bad. And, hey, even if my clothing is wrinkled and strewn about the house, at least it’s clean.
Grateful for: my neighborhood characters.
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