My first day in Paris. My first visit. Taking the metro out to Crimee, in the very north of town, was fine, and seeing my friend there waiting for me was even better. So then we go and look for the apartment. It’s in a gated complex of houses, though the gates are open during the day and there is a gang of guys hanging out within the district. So we are making sure to keep the creepy guys… inside the gates..? Calling the dude, I suddenly remember his last mail. “Oh, by the way, how old are you? I’m 45, haha, but I feel much younger..” Well, this is supposed to be for comparison purposes anyway. We follow him up the stairs. The door opens and you walk into a shelf, because the corridor leading to the two rooms on either side is so tiny. He shows us the free room. It’s smelly. It’s gross. It looks like it hasn’t been used (or tidied) since the 70’s. Then he shows us the grimy kitchen and the grimier (is that a word) bathroom, and finally his room where he does his recordings. He’s a musician/composer. Note: he will be at home all the time. Finally, he faces me and says: “Well, let’s be honest. How old are you? 21? Well, I think you might be a little too young, although I am open to everything..” Without further ado, we acquiesce, and he gives us further tips for the apartment hunt I am about to really start. It turns into an ok encounter. Except for the 1 second that I imagined myself living there.