Cher Paris,

It’s one thirty in the morning, this is the time when you can finally have a little rest after a long day, unless, of course, you have to party somewhere then this is the beginning of another long day.

Paris, this is a hard time for me to share anything with you as I feel so much less fabulous than only a few days ago. I have a fever and I have to shut all my apartment windows while writing this, keeping you out there in the summer cold. I am sorry your full-of-character breeze cannot cuddle me until the church bells ring later this morning. I can still hear your shout, footsteps stomping below my studio, crying for attention, persuading me to put my head out of the balcony and embrace your restless soul. I am currently needy; I don’t think we’ll make a good couple right now. I just know from experience.

I have been running, and I have been walking, a lot. Past your fabulous boutiques and lively cafés, your grand Seine and gracious Notre Dame, your charming metro stations, past your Jardin de Luxembourg and your unpopular yet gorgeous alleyways, your stumpy tourists and your countless homeless, your pushy admirers and your furious madmen. But I’ve been having one foot out of your door and recently I heard my old door slammed at me. These two doors were so close together, and now one foot is severely injured. Fortunately my suede Gucci’s are intact.

As if being away from my beloved children, whom I have been with almost every single hour (save for school hours) every single day since they were born was not difficult enough, I am now running out of money and it seems that I am also deprived of my possible support. “Parentless student” is no longer a joke, although it never actually was. But I make my own money as a freelance translator, so this temporary glitch shouldn’t last, although it does make me super nervous as starting a life in an empty home is not cheap. Fortunately I still have my Chanel’s – good investment, they are, especially for the hungry.

My dear Paris, I know people out there often judge you for walking more slowly than London, for taking the time to finish your decent lunch – complete with aperitif, desert and coffee, to have cigarette breaks and to kiss in the streets, to stare at life and query the meaning. I know how you feel now because, on top of my acute longing for the comfort of my children’s skin against mine, my financial worry and struggle in fully adapting to living alone, people are judging me, even to my face, right now, for taking the time to heal myself, to study not only your language but also life, to find my self again. I swear I could hug you right now and cry for your motherly love because my mother is dead, but I have a fever and I am smoking electric so I am keeping my windows shut still.

I have also switched off Gainsbourg and my #imaginedparis playlist and am now back to listening to my classical numbers – I know, what a betrayal! But my head is betraying me right now; it is doubting me and my dreams – it is not as strong as my passion, it gets easily manipulated and in turn it also manipulates my passion. I am now dragging my injured foot to enter your door along with my other foot, yet it is numb now it is hard work. But, Paris, we both know this is still better than jumping off the cliff, which I might have done if I didn’t pursue coming to you, so just let me have a rest and gain my strength back.

You might also remember our very first encounter years ago where I was left alone by my then-boyfriend over a fight in front of a MacDonald’s. It was a harsh winter in February and I only had five euros in my coat pocket, no passport, no metro tickets, no map, definitely no La Sorbonne student card or Monoprix fidelity card, and an empty stomach. I made my way back to the hotel after buying a burger and chips (French fries, the Americans call them, obviously never had proper moules frites) and a single metro ticket. It was my very first time meeting you and I only knew bonjour, merci and comment-allez vous.

Well, Paris, that exact MacDonald’s is now just around the corner from where I’m living. We created a strong bond straight away from that day on, and I shall not give up on us. We are destined to be together, my heart knows that and we have been waiting for such a long time to spend decent time living each other. I will wake up from the dreamless sleep, and when I opened my windows later, sois douce avec moi, s’il te plaît, and I shall overcome this phase eventually and we will live together happily, or miserably – I don’t care anymore – until mid-December, because I believe the moment you are left behind is the moment to dominate the world[1].

je t’embrasse!

d.o., le 11 septembre 2016

[1] Dina Oktaviani’s poem THE WORLD AND I, from Broken Heart Walking (2009), page 87.

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