I'm sort of conflicted about this one. Ambivalent, you might say.
On one hand, I really enjoyed it. I loved the art style, the personal journal aspect, and the idea of someone living in Paris for six weeks is lovely.
However, on the other hand, I couldn't help feeling that she--Lucy, I suppose, as it was her personal story--was sort of an ungrateful brat. She was given the chance to live in Paris for six weeks and she complained a great deal about all sorts of things--she had trouble sleeping, the service in cafes was bad, she was homesick, the art didn't meet her exacting specifications, she's horny, oh god her life is staring at her, she's "old" (she turns 22), she gets her period and wants to die.
I mean, I kind of understand her complaints as a very human sort of nattering, but still, she comes off as spoiled and entitled and entirely too blase about the whole experience.
And yet, I enjoyed the book nonetheless.
Maybe I'm a brat, too?