PARIS WITH MY DAUGHTER
[2005]

I knew we’d done the right thing when we boarded the Paris Shuttle at Charles de Gaulle airport at 7.15 am on a cold Paris morning in late December, 2005. My daughter had just finished her Masters of International Relations and we wanted to celebrate by doing something international. What place more perfect than Paris?
 
Our fellow passengers on the Shuttle were four Americans, sighing about their ‘long flight’ from New York. We’d flown from Sydney.  Their next collective complaint was having to wait until 2 pm to check into their hotel.   Rebecca and I exchanged happy glances.
 
The email from our landlord was tucked firmly in my bag. As well as the address, it gave the code to the building, the ‘hiding place’ for the key – and instructions on getting it into the lock (no small feat for an 18th century building with its own personality).
 
By 8.15am we were happily unpacking, delighted that the internet photos were only a pale echo of this first floor Paris apartment in the Marais. It was small , warm, with a telephone and a computer for our use. All this we expected. We had not bargained for the bottle of champagne, the full jar of freshly ground coffee, the bread and the strawberry jam, which looked a lot more interesting with its French label. And it had the air of the aristocrat about it. The curtains covering the full-length windows overlooking a busy street were heavy, brocaded and cream. The lights were modern Tiffany reproductions. Art photos decorated the walls.  And we were yet to meet our landlord.

​When we were first looking for the apartment, we wanted one with two proper beds. Many we inspected in cyberspace had one good bed and a roll out sofa, others had twin beds that looked lumpy.  But we were staying for fifteen nights, pretending to be Parisians, so comfort was essential. ‘Our’ apartment had a sofa that unfolded smoothly to make a firm and comfortable double bed, plus a small mezzanine floor, reached by a narrow staircase, with a queen size bed and two bedside lamps. A small but sturdy lacework screen stopped the person ‘upstairs’ from rolling out. And there was a dishwasher, washing machine and dryer.

Interested in the apartment and ready to book, I checked the terms of engagement. In 2005, the apartment was 100 euros a night and it asked that I send a deposit cheque for a thousand Australian dollars to secure it. This, the landlord spelled out, would not be banked, rather he would meet us at the apartment and we would pay for our entire stay in cash and the cheque would be returned.  And it all worked.
 
We rang our landlord as instructed and a couple of hours later, he arrived. Observing the street, I wondered where he would park. He arrived on a BMW bike which he parked at the front door.
 
Brisk, welcoming and helpful, Thierry gave us a quick tour of the appliances, assured us he would be there straight away if anything went wrong, handed us a list of nearby shops, cafes and museums and roared off into the middle distance.
 
A day later, we decided that instead of having the heater on full at night, we would ask for another blanket. We emailed Thierry one evening, the blanket was delivered, neatly wrapped in cellophane, by the time we came home the next day. It happened to be New Year’s Eve. I emailed to thank him.  ‘A pleasure, Jane,’ he wrote. ‘Let’s take fun!’
 
And we did!
 
Website for the apartment: www.parisbestlodge.com
 
© Jane Sandilands 2005