The tiny Paris

Living in Paris was one of the strangest experiences of my life. I received the news with a couple of weeks' notice, an insufficient amount of time to find an apartment in that city. It was only luck and fortune that led me to meet Justine, a heterosexual girl working in a sports clothing store who had a spare room.

The house was on the outskirts; the total rent was 2400 euros per month. It had three rooms: mine, Justine's, and Àlex's, a homosexual guy working in a funeral service, possibly one of the worst jobs in the world. "He who doesn't work, doesn't eat. But he who works, doesn't live," he repeated every morning before leaving.

On paper, the place was 35 square meters, but no one had ever dared to measure it. When we did, we realized it actually measured 33. Àlex called the landlord, who came the next day and took a new measurement; this time, it was 31 square meters. They all started arguing in French, and the truth is I didn't understand them well, so I started measuring on my own, and I got 29 square meters. "Damn it! Stop measuring, or we'll end up without a kitchen," Justine said, but we didn't listen and ended up without a kitchen.

The police came, some lawyers, three firefighters, and a lady from the real estate agency. Everyone measured and measured until we realized we were cramped in less than 5 square meters. There was no space for anyone else, and people started leaving until only Àlex, Justine, and I were left. We slept together in one bed, and the next day each of us took a different path.

"Paris became too small for us," Àlex said during breakfast while Justine continued snoring.