Mine, Yours, Ours

Sharing Paris, views, and the moon. Plus, Balenciaga and Sizzler.

Jan 12, 2024

A realistic love runs out of room
I try to talk big but my mouth don't move
'Cause I don't own the sun I don't own the moon
They only come out when they want to
— Cold War Kids

We don’t own the sun. We don’t own the moon.

Yet sometimes, it kinda seems as if they’re providing warmth or hovering above just for us. Like Paris. She exists in a dreamy portal for each of us alone, whether we have an address here or are only checking in for a night or six…

This week, I received the most lovely message from a past Airbnb guest who booked my apartment with her husband in 2019. I didn’t know it then, or maybe she mentioned it; I’ve had many guests over the years, but it’d be their first trip abroad together. We didn’t meet in person, which is often the case when I sublet because travel dates don’t always align, but warm reviews were exchanged afterward and we each moved on with our lives. To my surprise and delight, she’s been following me—not in a creepy way, but in the new-weird-world-way on social media—which I learned this week when she reached out on Instagram about my upcoming move. In her message, she remarked that my apartment “felt a little like home” and “will always have a special place” in her memories. Then, she sent a photo of a so-dubbed “doodle” she drew of the view from my windows. My view. Their view. Your view. Our view.

Snapshot “doodle” of Paris by, and published with permission from, AirBnB guest Molly Denninghoff.

At first, it felt a bit strange to see this illustration. To anyone else, it’s a quintessential Parisian window with views of the Haussmanian buildings across the way and pots of red geraniums. But to me, they’re my geraniums. The ones I picked out at Truffaut, lugged up the 6th flights, and planted, messily, on my kitchen table with my own two hands. And that sheer white curtain willowing in the breeze? I bought that at BHV, hung it, and subsequently washed and ironed it a few times. For six days one September, however, it all belonged to Molly and her husband. Their trip to Paris and, now thanks to this lovely drawing, their memories of it. How beautiful.

I’ve been an Airbnb host since the early days and always did it as a way to, yes, make some extra money, but also to share a sense of home with people from around the world when they may be far from their own. A sense of what and where I know and love. My fridge magnets. My coffee mugs. My flower pots. My sheets and pillows, as icky as sharing these may be to some.

Most of these things are mine because I paid for them. I “own” or collected them. But for a blink, they were someone else’s reality; characters in someone else’s story. For a weekend, the coffee mug with the gold handle may have warmed someone else’s palm. The IKEA desk I put together may have held someone else’s budding memoir.

The views, however, are different. Like the sun and the moon, I can’t claim them any more than my neighbor can even if his angle may vary ever-so-slightly one door down. No doubt many of Paris’s views have a charming effect on all who are lucky enough to bear witness to them. The one from 6RPB—“6th floor, en face”—may be extra special to me, or my former guests, or Mira, the new owner, or the guests she’s yet to invite over, in which case they are no more mine than they are hers, yours, or theirs.

The view from Chez Moi on a summer evening.

When I was a kid, as we’d drive home from my grandparent’s house in Queens to Long Island, I’d look out the window and see the moon. There it was in Forest Hills, as we backed out of our parallel parking spot. And there it was in Oceanside, as we pulled into our suburban driveway.

“Mom,” I’d ask. “Why is the moon following us?”

I didn’t understand how it could, more or less, remain in the same position the whole trip. I don’t recall if she attempted to explain the solar system and the physics of time to me at such a young age, but I love this idea of people, places, and things following us wherever we go. Remaining ours, borrowed or not, for as long as our memory will hold them. As I pack up this home, I take comfort in knowing some of the items I’m selling or giving away may soon take on whole new lives once again and whole new meanings to different people. Hung higher. Placed lower. Filled with wine corks instead of shells. Moved behind the desk instead of in front. As for the pieces I keep? Wherever they end up, I look forward to them reminding me of their initial placement here on rue Paul Bert in the 11th. The view, however, I may just have to close my eyes to see.

I know you’ll miss “my Paris” as I’ve been sharing it with you. I will, too. But she’ll be all of ours, anywhere, for as long as we remember her to be. And how wonderfully marvelous is that? Much love, mes amies. xx — Sara

Clickable

Manifesting this kind of miracle for 2024. | The NY Times
Next trip, try defining your destination with a playlist. | CNT
Wait, should I become a crossing guard? | Slate
“Welcome friends into your mess.” The joy of a lived-in home. | Gloria
A former flame resurfaces during cancer treatment. | The NY Times
No one wins in the NYC Nanny Wars. | The Cut
Checked out from war news? Call it “empathetic distress.” | The NY Times
“It’s as if Israel itself became part of the Jewish Diaspora,” says a French rabbi. | Politico
Smells like a conspiracy to me: Lots of words on “Gaylor” Swift. | The NY Times

Watchable

@balenciaga Spring 24

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I may be leaving Paris where this was beautifully filmed, but I am walking fiercely into the unknown like the models of this Balenciaga promo.

Currently Overthinking…

…restaurant choices for a final farewell…date for final farewell (eve of, or eve-of-the-eve?)…

Souvenir: Sizzler

This may be a bit niche, but while I’ve been overthinking where and when to eat before my move at the end of the month, I got to thinking about where I ate as a kid and I remembered… SIZZLER. This chain of family steakhouses first opened in 1958, but stuck around in my town long enough for me to remember it. (Let’s say, until at least the late ’80s. Though, apparently the restaurant group only went under in 2020, but it definitely disappeared from suburban Long Island long before that.) Despite its claim to fame (and on-the-nose name), I didn’t go for the steaks. I went for the salad bar. I hadn’t seen anything like it at the time! There was no Whole Foods yet. Certainly no Cosi or Sweetgreen. I loved getting to DIY, which likely included a little bit of this and that and a whole lot of Thousand Island dressing. Anyone else get down with the Sizz?