Parents in Paris 2013- Part Deux

Their time was winding down but despite a successful bookshelf installation, my parents’ work for my apartment make-over was hardly over. An undercurrent of home renovation flowed through the duration of their visit: in the days preceding their arrival as well as throughout that first week while they touristed around and I was at lab, I was scheduling appointments with a host of freecyclers and buyers from leboncoin to give away and sell a host of items from decorations to unused electronics to old jewelry and purses that would otherwise be collecting dust and clogging my apartment. This total apartment make-over began upon my return from the US when I arrived with a new suitcase purchased to cart home a completely new wardrobe I was gifted from a fashion-savvy, shop-a-holic, and very generous aunt who happens to be my size. Suddenly I needed to clear out my closet, and rapidly that expanded beyond the clothing section. The project grew rapidly in scale until the night before (or rather, morning of) my parents’ arrival in France I found myself up past 6am cleaning, re-organizing, setting up new furniture, and loading up give-away bags. 

Bastille Day was the catalyst for the latest home deco inspiration to which my parents fell victim. Only the night prior we’d had a great time enjoying the amazing view of the fireworks with my friends, but with my apartment lay-out one wouldn’t spend much time just appreciating such a killer view. I now had a mission. After scouring furniture sites and used seller ads, I found my match and we set a date for Monday evening.

We’d all agreed that a bar table would be a massive improvement for my apartment, but as we set out for the Jardin des Plantes around lunchtime on Monday, a cloud of trepidation hung overhead (which did nothing to shade us from the intense sun). We’d signed on to pick up and somehow transport a fairly large and fragile glass bar along with a set of three stools across an entire foreign city. (Quite the vacation, huh?)

The Jardin des Plantes is in full bloom

Oh, Paris, sometimes you are just so perfectly picturesque. (Spotted on our walk to the metro after the Jardin des Plantes and a brief tour of the Arènes de Lutèce, the ruins of a Roman amphitheater.)

Our day began with a spot of luck: we’d come across a large flat cardboard box and padding on our way out that morning, cutting out the need for a trip to the hardware store. Much to our shock, that fortuitous event set the tone for the whole bar table affair. The seller we met with that evening was honest and extremely helpful in taking apart and packing the table. The stools and one table leg fit snuggly into the two suitcases we’d dragged along for the occasion, the cardboard and padding were precisely enough to do the job, and the first taxi we spotted agreed to squeeze the whole mess in his car with me riding shot gun. We arrived at my apartment as my parents pulled out their phone to let me know that they’d made it to my apartment via metro, and the table was unloaded within another minute. One elevator trip later, we were sitting in my 27^th floor studio drinking beers before a celebratory dip in the pool. The evening could not have gone smoother, much to everyone’s surprise. We celebrated that evening over pizzas at a great Italian place near Convention where my mom got the oh-so-appropriate (for a visit to France) duck and foie gras pizza.

The purchase and delivery of my new (used) bar table was shockingly smooth and definitely changes the feel of the apartment.

Our final day together was devoted to what my dad called “visiting the relatives,” which involved a three-hour wait and then a deep descent underground to the catacombs, where over 6 million Frenchmen lie. (He has a point: with French ancestry, odds are at least one of them was related to the scoundrels that were sent off to Canada and became our ancestors.) As you can see, my dad was enthusiastic.

On their last day in Paris, my parents and I visited the catacombs.

We relaxed a bit that evening before heading back to our new favorite neighborhood restaurant, Tasco, where this time we all ordered the magret de canard and split a pitcher of sangria. Afterward, Peter treated us to drinks by the Champs-Elysées where his law office is located. Finally, we had one last set of beers at my own personal bar while packing.

The time went by fast, and my place is now all too empty, if way more stylish than it had been upon their arrival. Sometimes living alone can be surprisingly quiet even with a particularly chatty cat for a roommate. It was good to have such company.