About Unwritten

I’m here now.
In Paris.
Not for a holiday but actually living here.

Even writing that feels strange. Surreal, in the quiet way that only sinks in when you’re doing very normal things, like unpacking or waiting for a lift that may or may not fit two people. I’m here with my husband, Julian, and our pet rabbit, Xia. Yes, all three of us. A full household, relocated.

Months ago, my relocation team reached out after reading my description of what I was hoping for. I spent some time carefully choosing an apartment from photos, trying to imagine a life inside rectangles on a screen. Eventually, I picked one in the 16th arrondissement. My friends told me it’s a bourgeois estate, the kind of neighbourhood you’re advised to “enjoy while it lasts.” I only have this apartment for two months, so I’m taking that advice seriously.

It’s close to the Arc de Triomphe, which I still can’t pronounce properly in French, no matter how many times I hear it said around me. The building was built in the 1920s. To get in, you pass through at least two electronic security points via a courtyard before reaching the main entrance. Honestly, perfect for my Singaporean timidness. Layers of safety feel familiar. The lift is tiny. It could barely fit two people. Three would be a crime. We were greeted by an agent from Move In Paris when we arrived, clearly unimpressed that we showed up two hours late thanks to a cargo baggage delay.

When we finally stepped into the apartment, the first thing that greeted us was the creaky wooden floor. Sixty-two square metres. Surprisingly spacious for two humans and one little rat (affectionate term). The space felt old and lived-in. From the living room window, we can see about one-third of the Eiffel Tower. Just enough. At night, when it lights up, it’s actually quite spectacular compared to the 7,000 metric tons of puddling iron you see in the day.

It’s day five now. The fridge is nicely stocked with fresh groceries. I’m sitting on the floor typing this, having just finished a bowl of salad. The apartment already feels lived-in, even if some things are still unsettled. Every panel button on my induction stove is filled with the letter E. I have no idea what that means yet, and according to my agent, there’s no ETA on how long it will take to be fixed. Julian is already on day three of work, and I’m finally meeting my team tomorrow.

We still haven’t gotten our French phone numbers, and some parcels have gone missing. It’s a bumpy start, but we’re hopeful things will eventually get better. Overthinking on good thoughts only. The universe will balance out the energy. Stay true.