I’ve wanted to live in Paris since before it was in fashion. OK, maybe dreaming about Paris has always been in fashion, and maybe my grandma was once doing her laundry in Leon while listening to Charles Trenet on the radio and imagining herself dancing down Champs-Élysées on her way to eating a baguette under the Eiffel tower. And maybe her grandmother did the same. So… it’s not exactly a new thing. (But isn’t annoying how all those damn hipster food bloggers move to Paris to instagram their precious crêpes and then all get book deals?) Anyway, what I meant to say was that I’ve been dreaming about living in Paris since I was ten and for the first time saw a picture of the Eiffel tower.
Every time I’d visit Paris I’d dream about living there, about what kind of job I would have (professional beret model), where I’d be running (after annoying hipster food bloggers, chasing them down the streets throwing rock hard baguettes at them), what I’d be eating (a lot), and how it would feel riding my bike over the Paris cobblestones (bumpy). I wanted to move to Paris and I was prepared to do it at almost any cost, even if that would mean living in a claustrophobic studio apartment in Gare du Nord.
But on my last trip something was different. This time I didn’t dream about living there. It was strange, because I still loved Paris. But for the first time I realized that the Paris of my dreams has to come with a big pile of cash. I’m no longer prepared to live in a cramped studio apartment and be fine with it, because it’s, you know, Paris. I need more space. Where would Lasse and Tobbe play? To which room would I send Andreas after a fight? My dreams and my life has outgrown that cramped studio apartment — even if it would come with postcard view over the Eiffel Tower.
Paris, I still love you, but unless you can offer me three rooms and a balcony (and a book deal for my crêpe photography), I don’t think I’m interested. But don’t worry, I’ll always come to visit.