Hey chicas,
Happy Spring to those who celebrate, and happy it’s-still-fifty-degrees to those already wearing jorts.
In this week’s letter, I tell a rather sad tale—with an optimistic, dare I say even happy, ending.
When I first came to Paris, I aspired to be a little more Jane Birkin and a little less Emily-in-Paris. While packing, I imagined myself picking up French slang or perhaps even a cigarette addiction (just kidding, Mom!). But as they say, you can’t tell God your plans… and so, I’ve compromised somewhere in the middle: Kim Kardashian cosplay.
My mom’s side of the family is French. No, it’s not my first language. No, we didn’t speak it at home. No, I don’t introduce myself as French, nor do I have the French flag in my bio (#shade). But since living in Paris, my French has improved exponentially—I can confidently speak, navigate, and hold my own with the language.
Still, when I think of fluency—the kind people flex on LinkedIn or resumes—I define it as the ability to converse about complex or difficult topics with ease. This is all to say, I will never call myself fluent. But if that’s your definition of fluency, I should be pretty close.
A ripe month and eleven days into my Parisian adventure, I received a strange text from one of my roommates, Bianca. My other roommate, Remi, and I were away for the weekend; however, Bianca wondered if we had gone into her room and messed it up. ‘You’re crazy!’ we told her. Full gaslight in hindsight—our bad, Bianca.
That following Sunday, Remi returned from her weekend getaway and found her room in disarray as well. After a quick glance around and a run to my room, the reality set in: someone had broken in.
We’d been robbed.
Suitcases were strewn across the beds, cosmetics had been spilled everywhere, and clothes were all over the floor. As someone with a strict no street clothes on the bed rule, this was nothing short of horrific.
My roommates, bless their hearts, immediately FaceTimed me to confirm that my valuables, too, had all been stolen.
Where was I, you might ask? Oslo. That poor city did not deserve the angsty review I gave her.
While my roommates called the police, I called my parents, feeling utterly stranded and helpless in the Nordic sea—great for the plot, terrible for my sanity. In the meantime, a full hazmat and forensics team descended upon the apartment, only to take a single, inconclusive fingerprint from a miscellaneous glass. These criminals were good.
Good taste, that is. Despite the absolute MESS left in the robber’s wake, they took only very very specific items, even leaving behind my lipgloss and wallet. King knows what a pain it is to get a new credit card.
After kissing the tarmac at Charles de Gaulle Airport, I found myself at the police station giving my victim statement. As if Remy the Rat, himself, was under my hat, my French was Chef’s kiss that day. I described the layout of the apartment, the lace design of my stolen cuff bracelet, and how they weirdly left the lip oil—in my head, I definitely had the effortless French je ne sais quoi down.
That is, until the officer asked if anyone suspicious had been in or around my apartment in the weeks prior.
And suddenly, it clicked.
Exactly a week before the break-in, I had been asleep around 2 p.m.—we listen and we don’t judge—when a man entered my apartment. And then my bedroom. He claimed to be maintenance from our rental company. I yelped, shot out of bed, and forcefully asked him to leave, which he did—swiftly and, dare I say, respectfully.
Even though I had not asked for maintenance, I wrongfully assumed one of my roommates did, as we had previously had issues with a shower. In addition, this strange man had his own key.
Shockingly, after I had been robbed, I realized this man in my apartment exactly a week prior was no coincidence #SherlockHolmes #EmmaRoberts’sNancyDrew. After conveying this information to the officer, we then contacted the agency, who confirmed there was no scheduled maintenance supposed to be done that day.
Sweet.
Not only did the thief steal all my belongings, but they also had a key to my apartment—charming, to say the least.
Despite all this unsettling news, no one was home at the time of the robbery, and my roommates and I are all safe.
On a serious note, we are very, truly, #blessed. The stuff that was stolen is just stuff. It’s been easy to keep perspective, especially in light of the devastation happening elsewhere—entire homes reduced to ashes in California wildfires, wars raging across the world. Ultimately, all material things are replaceable and locks are changeable.
Yes, I cried a little for some of the more sentimental items I lost—I’m human and #JustAGirl, after all—but ultimately, I know I am so lucky considering what happened and how.
Kim K, for instance, didn’t get the luxury of walking away unscathed. She was blindfolded and tied up in her five-star hotel room. It’s one thing to take that ice-skating-rink-sized diamond, but I can’t even fathom the emotional trauma she endured.
So, was this a learning lesson? Absolutely. Am I now at peace with it? Absolutely not. I’m still pissed about my borderline-ugly childhood charm bracelet!
But in the end, that’s not even what truly matters.
What does matter is that I’m safe, feeling more prepared for the unexpected, and, as a bonus, now fluent in robbery and criminal lingo in French. Plus, this robbed-in-Paris-unscathed #ForThePlot moment will definitely be in my biopic.
I hope you all reveled in my misfortune and enjoyed this week’s letter of Abreast on Abroad. Look out for my next piece: Travel Diary Dump.
Bisous,
Sadie
Sadie Kargman ’26 (sadiekargman@college.harvard.edu) is currently starring as your favorite Shitstain in Paris.