After the conclusion of a somewhat frustrating appointment, I found myself strolling in an arrondissement of Paris that I was somewhat unfamiliar with; that is to say, it's chic. The type of place where buildings have cleaning staff who have an irritating habit of polishing door combination locks daily, removing any chance of deciphering the door code by the fingerprints. The part of town where buildings have a resident staircase, and a service-staff entrance. The type of place where unused spaces go unnoticed.
By chance, I stumbled across one such building, just as a resident had opened the door. Smiling, she held the door for me, and I sailed through into the courtyard, where after a few minutes of fence hopping and wall jumping, I was on the roof. And oh! What a roof. Replete with a view of the Eiffel Tower, and a magnificent forgotten space, I'd found my next squat: Three stories, spiral staircase and multiple balconies.
That night, I packed my bag. I allowed myself a luxury, a handwarmer - and more importantly, my warm sleeping bag.
Under the light of a full moon and clear sky, I settled in, lulled by the rumble of a distant metro.
One of the most challenging elements of a successful squat isn't the entry or the installation, but the exit. I had set an alarm somewhat optimistically: 930AM - in an attempt to avoid rooftopping infront of breakfasting Parisians. Surpisingly, nestled in my sleeping bag, I slept so soundly that I was awoken by my alarm and the patter of rain. I packed my gear, dusty, and slipped into the metro unnoticed.