France Day 7: Paris

Above, top to bottom: smoking a cigar on the Champs-Elysees in Paris, France on March 30th, 2009; Brett in his bed at the squat we slept in; Pierre showing me his photo studio, one of the permanent squatters of the building(name has been changed, they are living illegally); Ahhh, Paris. Ahhh, the Seine. Oui! France! Carpe Diem, world! Live vicariously through me!
"Are you sure this is the place?"
"Damned if I know"
"You have this girl's number?"
"I already texted."
We were waiting outside a small bookshop near Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris for our host, a friend of a friend, to let us into her flat. When the door finally opened, a short, round-faced girl with tired eyes blew a thin stream of cigarette smoke out the crack of the door and pushed it open.
"Mike?"
"Yeah."
"Claire."
I was not expecting to squat illegally in an abandoned flat turned art commune. But I did. Tim, Brett and I were a bit surprised when we walked into what looked like the utility closet of the building, a red door with some tape and a name over it. Although they have permission from the courts to stay till August, I felt I should not advertise their presence over the internet.
Inside, we were greeted with a multitude of superfluous art materials, canvas and building materials. There were at least 12 bicycles, only two of which worked. The room was completely black, but I was aware of a huge cart holding some mammoth wooden frames, nearly 15 feet long and eight feet tall. There were scraps of insulation strewn about the floor, things I mistook for rats at first. Perhaps it was wishful thinking.
"We're on the second floor," said Claire.
For the first time, I notice the bits of colored cloth tied in Claire's partial dreadlocks. We follow her up a creaky staircase and into even darker rooms. She leads us to a makeshift room that looks more like a landlord's afterthought than an artist's accommodations. Claire fumbles for the light, as if she cannot remember where it is in the room.
When she does find it, I wished it was off again. The four-foot tall teddy bear staring at me is in the midst of a pile of clothes, used plastic bags and wrappers, coathangers, half a coffee table, wires, and a bed covered from ceiling to floor by red drapes. There is no floor space.
"Shit, I have to clean," said Claire.
We drop our bags and head to kitchen to meet the rest of the residents.