There are so many details of daily life that are different in Paris, little components that delight me. I cook in what looks like a Betty Crocker Easy-Bake Oven that was popular when I was little. The washing machine is a taller, skinnier version of the ones I’ve always used. The apartments are set up in a series of small rooms, like the Kirkland House Library. French women don’t get fat, French appliances don’t get fat, and French real estate doesn’t get fat, either.
The waiters in cafés don’t shoot you pointedly dirty looks if you park yourself in their sections for hours at a time. I’ve lost hours this way getting to know new friends.
I read somewhere that one end of my favorite neighborhood street is a “hotbed of Islamic fundamentalism.” I take that with a grain of salt; all I know is that my favorite butcher is there, everyone who works there is friendly, and their mouth-watering rotisserie chicken (apparently halal = delicious?) is two euros less than the same version right next-door to me. I tend to frequent the hotbed.
Habibi, I’m happy.