A colleague moved to a new apartment this week and relayed to me that although her new place is comfy and spacious, she was unable to sleep during the first night.

That brought to mind my first night here at my place in Paris, about three years ago, when, exhausted from a day’s work, from transferring my things, and then buying bottled water and some groceries to have meals for the first two days (without a fridge or a microwave oven then), and finally getting in the building nearing midnight, it was not easy to fall asleep.

The place was bare then. The wooden floor looked sad and unscrubbed. I only had a foldable, wooden chair I borrowed from the office, a big box which I used as a temporary table, and an airbed that another colleague kindly lent me.

I recalled that I was too tired to fully inflate the airbed that I settled for a half-inflated bed. As I laid down, I could hear the distant mix of soft evening sounds, of hushed conversations, an unidentified melody, faint noise of cars, and footsteps on the wooden floor, while I was feeling cold, lonely and somewhat scared in a posh district in the city of lights.

What comforted me was the thought that in this building, where rooms look like tiny squares from afar, there are people, some alone, some with families, some with friends, some probably visiting for a few days or weeks making each each unit their home, their haven from the outside world.

I told myself, ‘Yeah, I’m also going to make this place my home.” ❤