17 years in Paris.
Nearly half my life and I don't know why.
I am writing because I am abiding by the once-a-week publishing commitment I made to myself at least four months ago. This week I struggle to find the words, next week I’m taking a much deserved break (not from writing, just from my current situation) — bear with me.
When the sun finally reveals itself in Paris, the trees do not bud slowly
they EXPLODE.
And the people do not trickle
they FLOOD.
Imagine digging a small hole
and landing on an ant colony
or lifting a log
and finding a hundred millipedes
their plated bodies, their microscopic legs
vibrating, pulsing, scurrying in wayward circles
This is Paris in Springtime.
Police sirens, ambulance sirens, construction, cars, bikes, beggars, solicitors, pigeons cooing and flapping their wings, men unzipping their trousers, beer bottles clanking, wine bottles glugging, dogs barking, men smacking their lips, women stomping in their heels.
In the Springtime this blanket of ambiant noise
is penetrated with tremors of nasal American English
(usually around the Île de la Cité)
Like a red dot floating in a black sea,
it’s a sound that is shrill enough to pinpoint.
Or maybe it’s like dipping a hand into a bucket of amorphous objects
and recognising something familiar:
that was me 20 years ago,
that’s me still.
Every June or July, (often) multiple (American) acquaintances contact me to announce,
“I’m visiting Paris,”
and for some reason, they feel compelled to see me,
a person they never communicate with
on any other occasion.
I’m pretty shit at maintaining acquaintances
at least, I’m pretty shit at humoring them.
But I live in a city that is a global icon,
full of tired caricatures, traditions, archetypes,
and stereotypes.
But humanity can never get enough.
And as I grow older, my life in Paris is increasingly a kind of avoidant waltz:
how can I escape the winter?
how can I escape the tourists?
how can I escape being alone in August?
And every year seems like a shorter and shorter dash
between it all.
I don’t have major summer plans this year besides strategically avoiding the Paris Summer Olympics. I’ve decided to save my more ambitious travel plans for the winter because, as I said to my friends (much to their amusement),
“L’hiver à Paris est une catastrophe”
(winter in Paris is a catastrophe).
And yet
Paris is stuck in me like a thorn in my side
whose essence has now made its way into my blood
the sleepy streets of Paris spin by like a zoetrope
as I sit slightly buzzed in the back of a taxi
It’s the same loop of images over and over
and in the center
there’s me at age 20, me at age 30, me at age 40
I know if I fall, Paris will catch me
I cannot stand this city.
And yet
by either love, laziness, loneliness, or submission
there is no other place I’d rather be.
