Episode II in the saga of "An Apartment in Paris"

There's no place like home, there's no place like home.

I guess that the ruby shoes are not working, Toto. It seems that the apartment in Neuilly did not exactly pan out. The dude, to avoid mentioning any names, decided that I could not possibly have the money to rent his apartment (which was the size of a tuna can). But he insisted on repeating, since I was the friend of a friend of his son's, he would show his great largesse and put his prized possession at risk, since no one else would rent an apartment to a penniless wench like me. Growl. This was annoying, but I deathly wanted an apartment. The breaking point was the fact that he did not even trust the receipt given to me by the bank that said that I transfered the money into his account. In the end, I said merci, but très no merci.

Which leaves me apartment-less, almost. With the situation as it is, I might be tossed into the road, my bags landing of me. If I do get tossed, by the way, I might set up a card-board box in the Jardin de Luxembourg, with "J'accuse" written in bright red crayon and angry stick people pointing at the tricolor. Living dangerously in Paris, oh if it were only as romantic as it sounds. Maybe I could write a book about it. I can see myself, rejecting the society that rejected me, sporting matted dreadlocks and all of the necessary piercings to make my fellow metro riders cringe. Actually, the temporary apartment is great, besides being slightly illegal and totally brimming with evidence of kleptomania and horder's disease. But it isn't dirty (besides the dog hair, yuck), and apart from one weekend a month, during which time I will have to search out a couch, it is all mine. It is in the 15eme, and getting to the Sorbonne is much easier. And I have a queen-sized bed. That counts for alot after a month of a lumpy futon.