three days in paris
dear kind friends,
I am writing to you from aboard a plane from Paris to Barcelona. I wrote last while leaving Amsterdam, my heart in a place of unattached equilibrium and easy pleasantness. but Paris is different. I leave Paris yearning. Paris, like New York, seems to be the kind of city that never satiates, no matter how much you drink of her. three days, three years, or three decades - how long is enough? is the feeling any different?
like New York, Paris is a city crowded with stories, plot-lines, expectations of what Paris should be, what Paris is, what Paris will do for you. American women come to Paris to search for their souls. (but why would it be hiding in Paris?) Chinese women come to Paris to search for Luis Vuitton bags. one thing is certain: one does not come to Paris to be safe. because there is no romance without mystery, no flirtation without uncertainty. both New York and Paris are like alluring lovers who make grand promises you know they will not keep. and we forgive them.
Paris is a perfect example of how even the most mysterious and ineffable things can be flattened by the small human imagination. on the backside of the Louvre, a Chinese bride poses for photos in her white wedding gown, her two assistants crouching beneath her. that day, the sky was both bright sun and rain. how luxurious, to fly to Paris for just a photograph. it is all too easy to experience the city as a series of postcards. Louvre. Eiffel Tower. Montmartre. the Seine. what else? for Americans, it’s Shakespeare and Company: the English bookstore full of hidden nooks, which housed artists and writers in exchange for their commitment to read a book, and work two hours a day. how romantic, one sighs; how bohemian.
but I came to Paris feeling neither American nor Chinese. a bohemian in all my behavior but not as an identity. I brought with me the disillusionment of New York City, skepticism and unshakability, a poetic taste for the esoteric. on my first day in Paris, I got lost. I walked in the rain along the Seine to Shakespeare and Company, where it was so crowded you couldn’t extend an arm without touching an English speaker, broadcasting the language with all of its flat obtuseness. I sat in a corner and read for an hour, still and silent. I left through a throng of Chinese tourists, and felt the anxiety of having no voice, no language to which I could belong. the silence was fine.
on the subways, the faces of Parisians were impassive, unmoved. they dress better here in Paris, except in tango, where it is cool to underdress. after the first horrible night at a milonga, I went to a secret practica at the top floor of someone’s house, where people gathered around the kitchen island with wine, cheese, and bread. behind one door, there was a baby sleeping. after every tanda, the group collectively hushed itself. the sky darkened in shades of blue over the tops of white apartment buildings and endless doors - (french doors, which are really windows). my tango heart found an embrace like the stormy waves of the Aegean sea. I leave Paris with its memory.
that night, I met a French man who owned an apartment in Barcelona. Paris is like a bitch, he said. She pisses you off, but she is so beautiful you cannot leave her. Barcelona is a lover who always welcomes you in her arms. I go to Barcelona when I want smiles, he said.
over three days, I discovered that Paris is a city best savored in stillness. if you come to Paris too hungry, it shows you only what it shows the other tourists. the reality you think you want, which all too easily disappoints. meanwhile, the real Paris - if there is such a thing - seems to deliberately obfuscate itself. it is in stillness on terraces, drinking wine, doing nothing, where we may be granted glimpses. Paris mid-dance, mid-embrace. if only for a moment.
in Paris, I learned to relish long hours of my own solitude, and feel satiated. I sat in a cafe terrace, allowing myself a glass of rosé and an elaborate French meal, while next to me, an American couple discussed their tasting course dinner, and whether the wine tasting course was worth the 125 euro cost. it’s our honeymoon, they reasoned. let’s not overthink the price.
on my last day in Paris, I hunted all day for a perfume to love, and, at the very last minute, decided not to buy. I wasn’t sure if I loved it enough. but the elegant Polish boy who attended to me nodded in understanding and gave me a sample, wrapped in luxurious black paper, handing it to me like a gift. for you, he said.
that evening, I accidentally dropped his gift on the grassy slopes of Parc Buttes Chaumont, next to a pizzeria crowded with thirty-something French hipster parents who brought their kids along to enjoy a friday evening. it was like Williamsburg meets Park Slope, but French, which means more effortless.
last night it rained. on the cab ride home at 2 am, the Bengali cab driver unapologetically flirted with me like a Frenchman. let me pick you up in Barcelona, he said, and drive you back to Paris. this morning, I retraced my steps to the park and found the perfume sample still on the grass, where I had left it. I leave Paris now cherishing its fragrance. however brief, however fleeting.
.
.
.