La Poubelle

Of the many things I’ll miss about our apartment, the first thing that come to mind is the garbage room. Because there is a pile of stuff by the door that my ridiculously well off neighbors get rid of. Hangers, velvet drapes, framed art, dressers, beds, vases, couches, rugs, five foot by five foot mirrors….the list is endless.

I take the recycling and garbage out whenever I can be bothered to brush my hair and put on make-up just to make a one floor elevator run. It’s annoying but Parisians do not leave their house, even to go take the garbage out, unless they are presentable. I was never one of those people who went to the grocery store in my pajamas (which isn’t uncommon in California as ridiculous as that sounds) but I definitely was a tank top and flip flops girl. Not anymore.

Today I found another pot for plants (I wasted so much time and money buying them when we first got here and schlepping them home on the metro, there is a new one in la poubelle almost every day). Next to the pot was a wrought-iron magazine rack I had left about two years ago. My mom had given it to me when she was moving, and it followed me around my different apartments in Sacramento, and then all the way across the ocean, where I abandoned it and it was adopted by someone else. I thought about taking it back, I actually have a black wrought-iron table now that we got at a vide-grenier and I had always kind of regretted getting rid of it because they would look nice together. In order to not go crazy from all of David’s child hood memorabilia, I get rid of my stuff. After a few hours I went back down and took it back. I can always get rid of it if it won’t fit in whatever apartment we get.


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