Summary
The thought would invariably arrive between the fourth- and fifth- floor landings. Probably at step 77 or 78 -- yes, I counted -- of the 88 steps between the ground floor and my apartment. At this point in every ascent, I'd think, "My kingdom for an elevator."
Sweat rolling into my eyes, my heart pounding, I'd get that pang of regret: "If you were staying at a hotel, it would have an elevator -- or ascenseur, or lift, or whatever -- and you'd be home right now."See the full content of this document
Extract
3 Rms, Paris Vu
But I just had to stay in a vacation apartment during my three weeks in Paris, an apartment in a centuries-old building. Historic old; no-elevator old. Which meant three weeks of asthma-attack- producing ascents, as well as limits on what I could tote up the stairs at any one time -- one bag with two liter bottles max. Or multiple trips to carry up the grocery bags, one by one.
I wouldn't have grocery bags if I stayed at a hotel.But once I flopped into a chair in my sixth-floor walkup in the Marais, the grumbling disappeared as I looked around this great big one-bedroom apartment that cost a mere ...See the full content of this document
Sponsored links
