Moving can be a terrifying thing. But when you are young enough, and have yet to accumulate an obscene amount of knickknacks, furnishings, and miscellaneous kitchen appliances, moving can be exciting. My friend has a little country house just a stone’s throw outside of Paris, and, like so many people with country houses, he only goes there 3 days out of every year. So, in spite of the babbling brook, lovely vines creeping up the façade, and exemplary local boucherie, he is selling his pretty house in the countryside.

We made a trip there to salvage whatever useful cooking and bedding items we could from the semi-abandoned overgrown ruin. We returned to Paris, packed into a tiny Smart car brimming with old pillows, crystal champagne flutes, kitchen knives, candlesticks, nutcrackers, and a Persian rug. The French tend to be fonder of acquiring ancient objects at auction—whereas Americans are more inclined toward accumulating shiny new Bentleys … to each his own form of pimp.

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