Nothing lasts forever on a Sunday morning

Not the murmur of my pen, nor the bowl of apples smeared with tahini. Luigi returns from his night shift as a hotel receptionist. He pads quietly in the kitchen: cuts some cheese, tears off some bread, and then goes to bed.

My windows are have frosted over. It is too cold now in Paris to go wandering in the streets aimlessly. It'll be a run outside for the baguette or biscuits for tea, and then a scamper up five flights of stairs into my warm room.

My room is a little like a monastic cell. The walls are bare and clothed in sunlight. Marc came yesterday and fell in love with my room. “It's so healthy,” he said. And it's true, there is good energy in this place. I spend hours in here, writing, puttering around. Luigi sees me at my desk when he leaves for work at 7 at night, and again when he returns at 7 in the morning.

It is really cold, even inside the church where Rihito and I went to listen to Mozart's Requiem. I lend Rihito my purple scarf – he doesn't have a proper coat.

We wander around the eighth quarter looking for food to eat. It takes us a while because we have vetoed Chinese, Japanese, and expensive food. The streets of that area are full of hotels and boutiques. We turn the corner into the main street and boom, there is the Paris Opera House.
─ Looks a bit like a cake... think it's edible?
─ Mmm... maybe for dessert.
─ Yes, I suppose we should find main course first.
There is a lot of dessert in the eight quarter, more than we can eat. By the time we find our Italian restaurant we are really hungry.

This afternoon I'll have to fit eight of us in my room. Half of us will end up curled up on my queen-sized bed, and the other half will have to sit on chairs. Then we'll talk about this week's autocours: the hurricane. I suppose I should brave the cold to get us biscuits for tea.

A flat on top of Mount Picardie

It can be hard to find a flat in Paris, but I got lucky. It happened like this. One of my classmates, Luigi invited a group of us for pasta at his place. We went after school - it was a twenty minute walk - climbed five flights of stairs, and entered into his appartment.

Luigi, our classmate from Rome who cooks yummy pasta

In Paris, many students live in what used to be the servant quarters... the top floor in a building with a slanty ceiling. When we walked in, Luigi's flatmate (also Italian) was working on his laptop in the kitchen, and he wanted to talk to Luigi about something. So we sat on the blue couch - with a cover that kept coming off - and basked in the sun. You can see how much light there is in the kitchen:

Marc Boucai in my kitchen. Photo by Steve

Finally, they stopped talking, and Luigi got around to making us pasta. Luigi asked, "Do any of you happen to know anyone who is looking for a flat? Because my flatmate is leaving Paris and I need to find someone."

Hofan's bedroom

And so that is how I found this beautiful place in the Marais. Lots of light, close to school, reasonable rent, and a good Italian flatmate. I could happily spent all day in my room with its huge desk. Also, if I move my bed to the corridor, there's enough place to dance. Hooray!