It’s been three days since I left Paris, and I haven’t had a chance to sit down and breathe and recognise how I actually feel – not that I care, but every person I bump into in blighty for the last three days can’t seem to ask me questions other than ‘how was Paris?’ and ‘are you happy to be back?’ I would say ‘Paris was great as usual’ and ‘I’m happy to be back’, but is it true? Is it that simple?
It’s been three days since I smoked anything – electronic or organic, but what I’m currently experiencing are probably more like Paris-withdrawal symptoms. I’ve been in touch with the house and the family straight away, unlike after last autumn in Paris, where I was acting like a hiding lost puppy at home, but this time I have been having trouble sleeping. I would wake up several times at night, having gone to bed around midnight – considerably early compared to my nightly schedule in Paris – and get up very early in the morning, around five. I would go downstairs to the kitchen, with a single plan of making tea, which would just fail as soon as I let my eyes wander and I would suddenly clean things that don’t need cleaning, rearranging things like it is already a new season again, and so on and on and on.
It’s been three days since Le Festin Nu, since Katie; I have been busy with one translation deadline after another, mild social events like sports day et cetera, and busy driving around for my duties already. In fact, driving is probably my chance to relax since I got back in the English countryside – ‘tis true! Well, if you compare it to walking up and down almost the whole length of Rue Lamarck in Montmartre to get to the metro station and back home, driving is a blissful breeze – trust me on this! With the roof down, comes rain or shine; foulard on, down the winding road and beautiful view on either sides, I would listen to either The Velvet Underground & Nico, Paul McCartney’s RAM or Minnie Riperton’s Perfect Angel/Adventures in Paradise – noticed any difference?
It’s been three days since my regular gin and tonic, or rhum gingembre shots for that matter; I’ve now been dining and wining regularly instead – it’s madness! Seriously? Seriously! I barely had time to eat in Paris. I had, as usual, shed a few kilos during my short stay there, although I think I might have gained it all back plus a bit more during these three days, but could you blame me for stealing Bonne Maman crème caramel from the fridge while a severe deadline is harassing me on my Macbook Air screen tonight? I told you once that I smoke because if I don’t, I eat rice pudding – well, I eat all sorts of puddings (English word for desserts, d’accord ?) De toute façon, it’s been three days since my new favourite breakfast chaussons aux pommes, preferably from Maison Landemaine !
It’s been three days since any cinema in Odéon – for those old films, including those non-subtitled French ones… It’s been three days since those French Uber rides – mostly to those last-minute Parisian dates… It’s been three days since the French heat and the messieurs following me on the streets – mostly begging for a coffee and phone number… I’ve been inside you and you’ve been inside me, through the days and through the nights that I was so in touch with reality; through my loneliness and through the lights that I couldn’t find the time to write it down, and now I’m three days without you, Paris, I feel a lot like crying, for no reason,
but I can’t.
Good-bye is such a dark place,
but there are a lot of things that need sorting out,
with grace,
before I can get back to my feelings for you, before I can take another glance of you, before I can be in touch with my memory of you and pour it out in words,
with a lot of spaces!
Let me now steal more pudding and indulge in capitalism (read: doing translations to buy shoes) all night long, all my-forgotten-melancholy long….
Á bientôt !
Et je t’embrasse !
d.o., le 24 juin 2017
Imagined Paris 