5 Easy Tips to Get a French Girl Apartment

5 Easy Tips to Get a French Girl Apartment

Here at Jezebel, we’re always interested in what French girls, as a monolith, are up to—whether they’re sharing cute outfit pictures on Instagram or inspiring us with their perfect bangs. But why stop there? French girls also have great apartments, too. All of them! Let’s learn from their interior style.


Hang a poster of the Eiffel Tower over each of your windows, blocking out sunlight and fresh air but creating the illusion of looking out the window to see the Eiffel Tower, which is in France.


While walking around your apartment, repeat to yourself: “Emmanuel Macron is my president, Emmanuel Macron is my president, Emmanuel Macron is my president.” Do not respond to texts from friends or family while doing this. Stop paying your taxes and renounce the United States.


Never leave your apartment. By following the above steps, you are well on your way to creating a French-girl apartment. But your surrounding neighborhood and employer have likely taken no such effort. Time to really seal up those doors and windows.


Using the last of your money, order linen sheets and find yourself a cute vintage chair by breaking into the apartment of your next door neighbor, who you happened to notice (during what you have started calling your “night walks” through the interior of your building) had a cute vintage chair in her entryway.


Develop a steely reserve against the anguished pleas of loved ones. So your mother took off work to try to get you to come outside after the 19th straight week of French-girl apartment isolation? On s’en fout! (You were using Google Translate to teach yourself French until your internet and phone were cut off for non-payment.) Your boyfriend is with her. You are too smart for them and changed your locks before this whole thing started. She sits, emotionally exhausted and physically struggling after hours in this standoff. The eviction notices your landlord has been pushing under your door make crinkle sounds when you step on them. The paper is white, but you expected it to be red. You look through the peephole at your boyfriend’s ashen face. He hasn’t said anything in hours. Through tears, your mother asks: “Why are you doing this?” Eyes coming in and out of focus as you imagine yourself meeting her gaze through the door, you say: “Maman, please go.”

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