Those amongst you that know me would probably say I do not suffer from that sort of self-consciousness that keeps most sane people from spewing whatever crosses their minds. Except that sometimes I do.
I’ve lived in Paris now for just over a year and as tempted as I have been to talk about nothing but, I have refrained. You’re welcome.
But I do get asked quite often what I think of Paris. So here are my thoughts on living in Paris. You can stop reading now if that isn’t your thing. Jerk.
I read this morning on Threads that a woman thought Paris was okay, but didn’t get what all the fuss was about. You might assume I would be annoyed or even angry about her words, but really I was relieved. The less people that fall for Paris the more of her there is for me.
Yes, Paris is a woman.
A woman who does not suffer fools because she knows her value. She doesn’t need a knight in shimmering foil because she is perfectly capable of rescuing herself, thank you very much. She knows what she likes and makes no apologies for it. She expects only the best of you or she’ll dismiss you without a second thought. She’s a woman who loves passionately those she chooses to love.
And make no mistake, Paris either chooses you or she doesn’t. If she does not choose you it’s nothing personal; one must be judicious with one’s magic after all.
As for me, well, she whispered into my ear one afternoon on a walk through one of her many jardens along the Seine, you are home and as the breeze picked up, the leaves danced themselves around me embracing my very soul.
In the year that we’ve been here I hate that it feels like we’ve been away longer than we’ve been home. That is not a problem I have ever encountered in my lifetime. A tumbleweed likes to tumble after all. But being here I find myself wanting to just… stay.
Good dog. 😛
I suspect it has not been lost on you that I haven’t mentioned anything about the actual places in Paris. The museums, the Tower, the little green booths of books along the Seine. All the things people come to Paris to see. Those are all wonderful, magical things in their own right, but they are not who she is.
The dance parties around town, the long afternoon lunches along the Seine or in any of the countless jardens, the passionate conversations about life and religion and politics, the idea that a date is not a date when you are married – it’s just called living. Those are some of who and what she is.
I have walked my dog at 2 in the afternoon and 2 in the morning. This city never sleeps, she just slumbers and when she notices that you’re still up she’ll let you see what so much of the world misses. The sound of the Seine as it must have been 2000 years ago, without industy noise. The music and laughter from late night soiree on a balcony. Lovers scurrying home drunk on wine and love. A homeless man inadvertantly awakened by a fluffy dog and happy to get to pet it.
And what she is this morning differs from what she was yesterday or the day before or tomorrow. A moveable feast indeed.
