I had rented an apartment in Paris's 11th Arrondissement for a week with the intention of pretending to be a local. No museums to visit. No tours to take. No restaurants to check off a list. On my second-to-last night in town, I joined a French friend at one of those places that screams Paris: small, crowded, menu written on a piece of paper, wine stains left on the table, laughter heard from down the block. I was a part of the laughter and I loved every giggle, despite the fact that I didn't understand 75 percent of what anyone was even so happy about. I just was.
A few hours later, while sitting in front of my laptop a bit tipsy, I updated my Facebook status to read:
"You guys, I'm moving to Paris. It's been decided. Who wants to rent my apartment? This is not just le vin talking. Well, maybe a little. But really, Je veux habiter ici. Bon soir!"