The best part of Abby’s place was how it gave us the Paris we traveled all this way to see. Nested in one of those courtyards that “picturesque” doesn’t quite capture—“sublime” comes closer—the apartment has two wide windows through which to gaze contentedly. Every night we slept to the faint music of Paris street cafés and every morning we woke to laughter from the courtyard, a happy alarm that wakes us only to bring us into another dream: a better dream, the waking dream of living in Paris.
The walls and floors are adorned with perfect touches to the artist aesthetic: a pot of poignant flowers, a vibrantly colored painting, a brass trumpet perched beneath a wooden stool. They’re almost like little surprises, little gifts you find scattered around the rooms.
Everything we needed was there, the kitchen charming and well-supplied, the bed a cozy “second floor” reached by stairs, even a warm welcome booklet with bountiful food recommendations. It’s the sort of apartment that you look forward to returning to after a day of strolling, exploring and romanticizing.