After a months-long online obsession with a home furnishings store, I was thrilled to discover that the European boutique had a branch in Paris. It was decided that a visit was requisite, no matter what lengths we had to go to, to get there.
I checked a map (one of my other obsessions), and proceeded to convince Bree that it wasn’t that far. Totally walkable. In retrospect, it can probably be said that while my map reading skills are good, the “distance –gauging” isn’t, how shall we say, quite up to snuff.
An hour after we departed for our short jaunt, Bree and I were trudging, sweaty, tired, map in hand, down a boulevard. Long gone was the patter of multiple languages. No cameras snapping pictures of the sights. This was where the Parisians actually live and work.
In an alleyway that looked like a city planner’s afterthought we found my mecca for domestic decorating: Emery et Cie. The store was as lovely as I’d imagined it. Rows of glazed tiles in a rainbow of colors line the walls; intricate wrought iron chandeliers light the path between whimsical furniture. Imagine a settee with a back and arms shaped like branches, or iron cabinet pulls coiled like snails. Rows of paint jars provide for endless color combinations, while hand-printed wallpaper and hand knotted one-of-a-kind rugs complete the look of each showroom. And while they’re not giving their goods away (in fact, we determined it would probably be cheaper for us to relocate and live at the store than to get all the items I wanted), we emerged victorious with shopping bag in hand.
Hot, cranky, but holding our prized possessions, we took the Metro back to the hotel.
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