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"Finding an apartment is a lot like falling in love," the real-estate agent told us. She was a stylish grandmother in severe designer sunglasses. Dyed blond hair, black stockings, a little scarf tied just so around the throat: for three months, she drove us around Paris in her sports car, Hugh up front and me folded like a lawn chair into the back seat.
At the end of every ride, I'd have to teach myself to walk all over again, but that was just a minor physical complaint. My real problem was that I already loved an apartment. The one we had was perfect, and searching for another left me feeling faithless and sneaky, as if I were committing adultery. After a ...