Bonjour, Paris!

You are, once again, an hour closer to wine o’clock than where I am. I’m done listening to Benjamin Biolay’s two albums on repeat. Naked and walking around the house, I have moved on to “Claire de Lune” – it makes me feel less crazy about going back to you within a week or two. And, sure, I love to be back in England! When I feel like going for a run it rains, and when I think I should stay in and write it’s sunny outside. Being here keeps me on tiptoe. It gives me enough sense of frustration to feel alive. Let’s not even mention chores and deadlines.

In Paris, everything is a dream. Even when it rains it’s a dream, and it’s been raining a lot recently. Mai, Mai… mais, oui, I have been to la ville de mon rêve twice within less than two weeks. Why and how?

First of all, it was like a dream. I have always loved Paris more than any other place I’ve been. In fact, I loved Paris even before I set foot there, for the first time, many years ago. The annual visits after that just confirmed how I felt. But earlier this month, it was the first time I visited without my beloved tails. Freedom, freedom – albeit a one-night freedom. It was not planned. It was an impulsive question that I threw open to an American friend I was hosting at home and got a square yes. So off we went by train almost the next day, me flaunting my newly granted British passport – Schengen Visa qui?

It was a bright evening in the city of light, I expected nothing from this trip but to be le bon guide to my Paris-virgin friend, showing off my pas-mal French to every living thing we bumped into. All right, that’s not all true. I sneakily did the trip for myself too, as responsibilities piled up and any escape would be duly appreciated.

The metro was as charming as ever. The light rain really set in as the Eiffel Tower began to light up. We were soaked, inevitably. We were still keen on taking photos of each other, naturally.

Back in Montparnasse two hours before midnight. Sitting outside, it was vin-maison appropriate with escargots on the side. After the laughter and the mischieves my single friend eventually went off to his own party, I continued flirting with the waiter. I left my two empty quart-carafes, not before asking for a recommendation for a good place to have breakfast.

The drizzle persisted, I followed through with a dreamy (read: delicate) walk back to my bed for the night. How I missed a walk in the rain! In the middle of the night, dreaming of a perfect French kiss, or just how painful youth was – either way, I felt now more confident in dreaming.

Drenched, a warm shower, then I don’t remember how I fell asleep. I must have actually fallen as I woke up feeling broken – not in spirit! In any case, feel free to interrogate the wine. I managed to get up early, however.

Off on an indifferent hunt for a good breakfast – “they all serve croissant and espresso”, a charmant-yet-skeptical young man from the restaurant recommended last night. I watched and teased more people – I suddenly felt more confident in my actions too! Has it got something to do with being over 30 (only just, by the way), or did it just suddenly fall from the Parisian sky? I physically strutted along Montparnasse all the way to St Germain des Prés that day, in my all-black outfit, and again all the way to St Michel to eat frog’s legs and visit Shakespeare and Co – a book, at least, for each visit – before catching my train at Gare du Nord.

So why go back in a hurry? As I said, it was like a dream. Secondly, I don’t do one-night anything. So as soon as I got back to England, my head kept scratching itself trying to find magic to take me back to Paris, to my unfinished dream, to my unrealistic freedom. It was actually more like: what to sell to fund the next trip? And as I thought my head was under control, the heart suddenly took over. A discussion about living in Paris on my own for a month or two, however reckless it sounded, had to be started. Last reason but not least, I think it had something to do with my playlist. I didn’t change it since my last trip and ten days later I found myself back in Paris, this time for three nights. With a good cause of questioning my impulsive dream of living a writer’s life, I ended up facing reality… and I loved it!

All along I thought dreams were more beautiful. But dreams are always polluted by our own thoughts and idealism of how things should be. Reality is pure, it is raw beauty and I loved what I experienced with my “single” body and soul this time – the heat, the rain, the huge starters, the Bloody Mary I had to mix myself (in a fancy café), the long walk everywhere (always in heels), the blisters (nothing expensive blister pads couldn’t fix), the standing on le metro (I love being watched), the offline shopping (I normally hate it, I swear), the exhibitions, the solitary walks (especially way past children’s bedtime), the hangouts with friends (old and new), the waking up alone (I’m normally a sucker for a morning cuddle), the euros running low, the thought of work deadlines awaiting me (sorry, I have to mention it), the wine every night (we simply do not do that in Britain), the heartbreak from breaking up with seeing things as simply a dream – I was in touch with it all. J’adore tout et plus que ça!

Mais, oui, Paris is a dream. Even the reality is a dream, a dangerous one that will pull you closer each time you’re feeling in between. So next time you’re going to Paris, prepare a playlist for your trip, or listen to any music you like while you’re there. Get back home. Try to sleep well. And if you ever wake up feeling post-Paris blue, for goodness’ sake, change your playlist! It seems to work for me, otherwise why am I looking at flats for sale in Paris right now?

je t’embrasse!
d.o., le 28 mai 2016

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