Your studio’s kitchen sink is in your shower and the toilet is on the landing–and you share it with three other people.
You complain about public transport strikes while secretly enjoying an excuse to be late for work.
If you have a dog, it’s likely dining out with you tonight.
You are fifteen minutes late to every appointment.
Le Fooding is the only restaurant guide you trust.
You wouldn’t dream of arriving at a party before 8pm.
You can dodge sidewalk dog poo without even looking down.
Your late night party options got a whole lot more interesting when the Vélib rolled into town.
You pity your friends who live beyond the périphérique.
You think that the Eiffel tower is an eyesore.
The words “Dernier métro!” cried out at a party sets off a flustered internal debate: go home now, or make it an all-nighter?
There is nothing better to do on a Saturday afternoon (or a Thursday evening or a Sunday morning or…) than flâner.
Les bouchons are the bane of your holiday weekend.
You are obsessed with Brooklyn, but still eat hamburgers with a knife and fork.
You read your neighbor’s copy of 20 Minutes over their shoulder on the morning metro ride.
You find smiling strangers and helpful salespeople threatening.
You’d like to leave Paris, but you know that all the jobs are here.
You can bike from one end of Paris to the other without using a grand boulevard.
You are immediately suspicious when someone offers to do something nice for you.
You are always in a hurry, despite the fact that you are always late.
A hot topic of any party conversation is “C’est hallucinant comme Paris est cher!”
You’ll wait three hours in line to see the latest exhibit at the Grand Palais.
You say “ouais” on an inhale.
You know what line Botzaris is on, even if you’ve never been there.
You know that you aren’t born Parisian, you become Parisian.
You complain about how awful Parisians are.