Paris, unlike any other city in the world, can provoke such utterly powerful emotions that one cannot help but get caught up in the moment. One day in Paris can bring out the best in us, the worst, expanding our knowledge of all things we thought we knew before stepping on seemingly solid Parisian ground.
Imagine........Waking up in your flat on rue Lepic to sounds of German and American tourists, following the flag of their fearless leader as they climb the never-ending hills to heart of it all, the glorious Sacré Coeur. Your feet can’t keep up, each cobblestone becoming a blur among the passing boulangeries, the intoxicating smell of fresh croissant so early in the morning an invitation to stop. The view from the cathedral is stunning, a realistic portrayal of Parisian life, sleepy and gray and waiting to be discovered.
Pressed heavily onto the metro amongst those hurrying off to work, you soon find yourself with no real destination or purpose. Standing uncomfortably, you count each stop in anticipation. Sweat begins to drip down the small of your back beneath the winter coat you prematurely put on this morning in hopes to push the season. The buzzer sounds, a mad dash for the door, and the line begins to move. Each cold aversion of morning eye contact is deafening, the next stop doesn’t seem to come fast enough. You shove your way out, running up the stairs to reach daylight, the fresh air pouring over you. You’ve finally found your place again.
Lunchtime in St Germain encompasses everything you’ve ever wanted to see in a French film. With a table near the window, you to shamelessly people watch, taking in the fluid footsteps of the perfectly coiffed femmes on the street. Annoyed by the close proximity of your neighboring table, their incessant silence, and the alluring way they look at one another. The waiter arrives, rushed, unpleasant and irritated when he realizes you haven’t noticed the specials on the black board. Le Plat du Jour you say without thinking, avoiding an adolescent confrontation with him. Soon arrives a demi carafe of vin rouge, un-labled, without domaine, just as you are, sitting there feeling nostalgic for the sweet scent of ghostly cigarettes that no longer exist. As the check arrives you’re overcome by a wave of disappointment, sounding that the meal is over and soon you are pushed out onto rue des Cannettes as if you never came.
By afternoon, the leafs in the Tuilleries are damp, clinging to your boots as you button your coat against the chill. The slow procession leading up to the Louvre is a reminder of things greater than this solitary moment. Heading home, pacing yourself for the climb, each passing person a shadow, a swift stroke like Monet’s brush on canvas. You hear music above as your key turns in the door, creaking floorboards beneath your heavy heart, the muffled grunt of a neighbor downstairs, water running, a warm place to call home. The broken latch on the window, flung open, invites a gust of wind through the room, like grandmother’s cold hands on your face. The bells chime slowly, signaling the day is done.
