It's a romantic conceit, of course, a vision as imaginary as it is unobtainable. Living in a Parisian garret occasionally crosses my mind, devoting my hours to creating something lasting from words, and perhaps gaining a French lover or two along the way.
The aim is to find any place a couple of levels above the street, because I'm not sure about the supply of garrets. One big room would be best, with floor to ceiling windows, preferably with a view of something louche - the rear of a boudoir or the window of a rich man's pied-à-terre so I could write about the women coming and going.
My bed would be big and low. It would live in the style of a loft, half-way between the main floor and the ceiling. A short flight of stairs - a ladder, really - would give it the feeling of being the top bed of a set of bunks. The fun of watching women climbing up would be worth the small awkwardness.
The pace of the day would be strictly French. (Hopefully) morning sex upon waking. Coffee and croissant for le petit déjeuner, then writing. A little yoga around noon, followed by lunch with a friend. Wine, to loosen my Protestant mind. A little more writing.
With good planning, a lover would arrive around a cinq heures, to indulge that most sophisticated Parisian scene; the cinq à sept aka love in the afternoon. We'd share dinner, perhaps eating out, perhaps cooking for ourselves, all the while watching for goings-on across the street. Material for writing is what I'm here for, it's not a vacation. On weekends we might head out, to a wine bar or for some absinthe.
My heart grows fonder at the thought.
Miss Paris from here. [link]
Edited for greater pomposity.
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