Paris, je t'aime

My internet access this past week of traveling has been, as I expected, rather sporadic, so I've been writing in the journal I've brought with me. This blogpost will be pretty much transcribed from my journal entries, so apologies in advance if the writing is a bit prosaic--my time online is ticking away at two euro for thirty minutes. So here goes.

March 18, 2009

Today I have...picnicked in front of the Eifel tower. Walked from the Arch de Triumph to Notre Dame. Seen the Mona Lisa. Taken a nap in the gardens of the Louvre. Drank wine in the Latin Quarter. Walked along the Seine as the sun set. Got hit on in a charming fashion by old French men. Added a note of my own to those left in the nooks of Shakespeare & Company (and it really was the bookstore of my dreams), paraphrased from a story I skimmed in the Paris Review in Blackwells before I left Oxford: "a journey doesn't always begin the moment you step foot out the door. Sometimes it begins far away from home.' I will come back." Nothing very profound--I couldn't think of anything truly profound to add--not like the letter written to Anne Frank about how she lived on in the dreams of man, how her words, unlike so many that came before her, will never be forgotten. Not like the owner of Shakespeare & Company, who wrote that Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky were more real to him than his neighbors; that he was still searching for his own Natasha; about peace; about tragedy, about every day failures and triumphs.

I could have added "I am happy." That would have been true.

You know, Barbara was right--I didn't really appreciate Spain at the time--or I did intellectually, in the sense that I knew my mother was spending time and money to be with me, but sentimentally, not as much as later. I wish I would have enjoyed it more--that I wasn't so irritable and jetlagged, that I appreciated exactly where I was, which, only months later, seems like the remnants of a dream--the streets of of Madrid, flamenco shows and tapas bars, the squares at night, the parks, the techos, Grenada, the Alhambra--one of the wonders of the world. Avila and Segovia and Toledo. But at least later I will be able to say "my mother and I spent a week in a four star mansion in Sevilla; we watched flamenco and saw the Alhambra, and she moved me into Oxford." I really miss her. Jens' house is gorgeous--I would love to have a house like that some day-with balconies and terrace doors and a window seat; white and wood and brightly colored plates, fresh bread every morning, flowers on all the tables. But I really miss my mother. Even not talking to her for two days is hard. I am so closely tied to her.

Paris is beautiful. A city you should explore in depth. I wish I spoke French. How will I ever do justice writing about it now that I've seen it it? It both is and isn't what I imagined--maybe it isn't because what I imagine is a city that simply doesn't exist anymore. The one that does is more earthy, more vibrant.

I am sunburnt, my feet ache, and I overpacked. But I am in Europe, living my life. I am here. I am so thankful for that.

I want to see Paris when I'm in love, and I want to see it when I'm settled. I want to know this city in all its forms. I want to come back.


March 20, 2009

Today was Versailles, which was closed (disappointing! 2 days out of the year they probably close and today would have to be one of them!) so we walked around the gardens instead, which although lovely, didn't quite ease the disappointment. Nothing was in bloom--the wrong season--and all the statues were covered. Still, the oppulence of the palace itself was evident from the facade alone. What must it have been like to live there...

The Paris metro was on strike, so we walked for about twenty minutes in search of another station which dropped us off at Montparnasse--haunt of a good many of the writers I love. We saw the local cemetery, where I payed homage to Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvouir (leaving my metro stub, like so many people before me), saw the Catacombs, though I had a total panic attack once I emerged, and the Closeries de Lilas, the favorite cafe of Hemingway (he wrote most of the Sun Also Rises there), Fitzgerald, and Trotsky. It was beautiful--a garden terrace, lilacs everywhere, the interior wood paneled, masculine. We drank champagne and ate chocolate in the gardens of Luxembourg, had dinner overlooking the Seine at twilight--wine, baguettes, brie--and I got a text from Ben saying he would love to get together for more than an hour next time, once I return to Oxford.

Trying to find a train running back to Jens', we walked down the Champs-Elysee at night, and saw the Eifel tower all lit up. I can see why they say Paris is the city of light. I think its hte most beautiful place I've ever been.

March 22, 2009

Nice was...the French Riviera; strawberry tarts and gelato, wood oven pizza and three spoon ice cream sundaes. The bluest water, winding alleyways, sundresses and winter coats. The Matisse museum--his former villa, high above the city, all terracotta and white walls, a local park on a Sunday afternoon, with a carousel playing Disney songs in French. Naps on the sun-warmed rocks of the beach, a clean and sparse hostel, croissants and honey, pulsing marketplaces--a pale pink pashmina and a bright pink tote. Echoes of Athens and Sevilla, of the Mediterreanean. Of women in black slips, high heels, wide sunhats. Watching the planes land over the beach--a strange feeling of euphoria and sadness. I can't believe a week has gone by already. I'm so in love with France. Maybe that's what I'll do this summer, when I'm busy not finding a job. Intern a day at week at Sterling Lord in the city, cozy up to my GRE prep book, learn French, write regularly, read.

Walking down the waterfront, I realized how perfectly content I was. So far this spring break has consisted of wandering through gorgeous cities, eating, and napping in picturesque locations. Couldn't ask for anything more.