After that I moved quite a lot, I even stayed at my grandparents', moved to my boyfriend's tiny studio flat and finally, at the age of 17, to Paris. We lived in the 7th arrondissement, near the Invalides (we were lucky, it was cheap and cosy) for five years.
The place seemed to be getting smaller and smaller. There were lots of friends, parties, ashtrays full of cigarettes, and there was stuff from the floor up to the ceiling. When we left for Cuba, we had to let go of our apartment. One of our friends actually cried - and he's a boy, and I don't believe I've ever seen him cry before or after the day we left.
In Cuba, I lived in a hotel. Now that's the exact opposite of home. Cold, ugly, with stupid yellowish curtains. We lived there for 9 months and even though I begged for a house, it was never granted.
I lived in a few places after that, still in Paris, near the Buttes Chaumont - a beautiful park with hills, and then in the 12th, a nice arrondissement where nothing great happens but with lots of cool cafés and people with young children.
Bordeaux was quite an experience, home-wise. We had this gianormous flat, 150 square meters, yep, it was huge. The kids could run their bikes in the hallways, we had a guest-room, it was fabulous.
Now I live in Paris, back to the 12th. I've been here for a year. I'm moving again, by the end of the month, to a new place. Just me and the kids. It never really felt like home here, and I cannot wait to go. It just doesn't feel right. Never did.
I hope my kids will feel at home in our new place. I hope they remember it like I remember my parents' house. It's pretty, not too small, but still, not big, in the same 'hood, and the minute I walked in, I thought "this is my home".
It's too expensive, I'll be broke, but I can't wait.
Because there's no place like home.
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