this paris life
a travel essay-letter on the first nine days of my new paris life.
written for my patron program - where you can support my writing, and receive Monday night letters about the world through my eyes.
dear D,
I’ve only been in Paris for nine days, but it feels as if two months have passed, and as though I could easily stay here for another six. but when spring comes I’ll leave - for a small seaside town in Japan, to meet the cherry blossoms and an old friend - and to discover another variation on infinite possible lives.
in these nine days, I found my Paris life with a quiet, effortless ease - like a gold coin that someone left in plain sight, on the floor, for me to pick up. part of that ease is in the contrast to new york - it’s an easy transition to a more gentle, feminine city. then, I relied on the comforting act of embodying myself in a new place. it felt like looking at a photo of a large crowd, and identifying my own face.
what is a new life composed of, then? it is formed from the rhythm of mundane habits, the spaces where they occur, and the moods - of familiarity and foreignness - that wrap around them, like a blanket. a new life is in the way in which I wake up in the mornings and plug in the kettle into a round, friendly white outlet, press the small silver porte button to open a grandiose, storm grey building door, step across the threshold into the narrow street where I live.
a new life is in ordering the same thing at the same cafe everyday - learning how to say, un petit café crème, s’il vous plaît - and going daily until the woman recognizes me and smiles, and I no longer need to say it. a new life is in discovering the tiny street that takes me there; walking it, again and again, until it feels worn; a slow and gradual loving.
a new life happens when the unfamiliar becomes known - not with the mind, but with the body. and with the heart.
when people ask me how Paris is, the first word I reach for to describe it is: easy. it feels easy - in a way which life in new york city never did. it feels easy to be able to walk everywhere, instead of being crowded and underground with angry people for an hour, two hours a day. it feels easy to wander home with a baguette, still warm, under my arm. to walk to meet friends on a day’s notice - instead of booking each other three weeks in advance, canceling and rescheduling, then battling 8 million people to get there. it feels easy to work all day at a cafe like a living room — to be so intently focused that I’ve forgotten what country I’m in; such that when I take off my headphones, I’m delighted and surprised, even, to hear French on their tongues.
perhaps the only source of friction I feel, now, is in my nascent French. simple things can feel stressful. in line at the grocery store to weight and label my produce, I look for “avocado” in the machine under FRUIT and LÉGUMES. I can’t find it. it is rush hour on a monday evening, and the line behind me is long. an old man comes up to me and says, emphatically but not unkindly, l’avocat est un fruit, est un fruit, madam— avocado is a fruit - then the woman behind him adds a long string of words. I look at them, feeling dumb, puzzled, and voiceless. it’s measured by unit, she says, and points at the sign. her accent is British, and it’s flawless.
those first few days, I had to talk myself into entering the boulangerie and standing in line. be brave enough to order a quiche in french from the ethnically non-French girls at the bakery, I’d say to myself. they are asian. your blood is from the same continent. and when in doubt, answer all questions with NO. do you want silverware? a receipt? a bag? do you have a loyalty card? unless they say it with a particular cheerfulness, in which the answer might be YES — (not certainly, but possibly) — just say no.
it is only this bridge of language that I am attempting to cross, and this bridge feels doable. crossable. so I will learn the language, and learn it well — for neither the sake of identity nor inclusion, but simply to feel comfortable in my own skin. true safety is in being fluid, bendable, and flexible — like an origami crane, folded and unfolded into infinite shapes.
my first week in paris was all sun, but this next week began and will end in drizzle and rain. and yet. even still.
on sunday, after meeting a friend for breakfast, I took a slow walk home by the canal, where, next to joggers and leisurely pedestrians, I felt an unfamiliar feeling arising in me. a lightness and exhilaration. the feeling of being alive and possible in a new world — the freedom of a small bird, chirping in my heart.
is this what happiness feels like? this simple, small, unencumbered joy? has it really been so long since I’ve felt this? at least, this particular variation of it, in this particular life? a lightness of being alone, of being with myself, of being in a new world?
I’m not sure. but whatever this is, I’m truly savoring it. this, and all other shades of emotions, like little birds that visit my heart. I have enough space for each one of them to visit me in Paris. for as long as they'd like.
xoxo,
Kening
<<inspiration log>>
an old poem I loved intensely, and took out again today to reread. each time I read it, it feels different. when I first read this poem, it felt brutal. but now it doesn't.
i am running into a new year
and the old years blow back
like a wind
that i catch in my hair
like strong fingers like
all my old promises and
it will be hard to let go
of what i said to myself
about myself
when i was sixteen and
twenty-six and thirty-six
even thirty-six but
i am running into a new year
and i beg what i love and
i leave to forgive me
I Am Running into a New Year by Lucille Clifton