Paris: Read, Write, Walk

I have tried many times to sit and write about Paris and I just don’t think it’s in the cards. Here’s the sum up. 

I went to Paris for two months. It was two of the greatest months I’d ever experienced. Not that it was a joyride; I look back at my journal and see miserable loneliness for vast stretches. But coming in, I had a clear intention and I delivered.

Right before I left, my friend, bless his very soul, held a little surprise going away party for me. He brought up Kareem Rahma, the host of Subway Takes. He said Kareem quit his marketing job in his mid-30s and pursued his “self-created Masters in comedy.” Meaning, he took Improv 101, 201, 301, etc., all the sketch classes, studied the greats. 

And immediately, it clicked. That’s exactly what I would do.

I solidified my intention into three verbs: read, write, walk. Only in hindsight do I see how much of a play it is on Eat Pray Love, and the gist is entirely the same. 

In Paris, I read about ten books. For me, that’s a ton. I also finished three. So the total would be around 13. I read tons of essays and short stories, from John McPhee, E.B. White, Joan Didion, George Orwell. I walked an average of 15k steps per day, often more than 20k. I took hardly any pictures. I wrote voraciously. And I met a person who was one of my favorite people I have ever met. 

I also saved a ton of money and spent hardly anything; most of it on rent. And the rent was worth it. I stayed in my own little Parisian palace, a super cute and authentic place right on the edge of the 20th and 11th arrondissements. It had a black iron balcony that’d been untouched for over 100 years. It wrapped around the building and whenever I got bored, I’d sit and look out at the square: the homeless woman who came and boiled stew every day, which smelt delicious; the men in African prayer robes; the girls hustling to their jobs. It was magnificent. 

I was walking distance from Parc Buttes de Chaumont. Not since Portland did I have such a magical place. I found my tree: it had a perfectly curved base for sitting, with a flat surface where I could rest my coffee thermos. I had a view over the city. From there, I’d bring coffee, my book and my notebook, and was encased in my own private heaven. 

I met some people but not a ton. The expats were very friendly and I even had some French people reach out and show me around. I took a day trip here and there but I didn’t travel much.

I learned about Rodin, Picasso, and a little of Monet. I went to photo exhibitions and I didn’t touch the Louvre. I had a library pass and went often, mostly to write. 

I had plans almost every night and actually, the nights when I didn’t were I’d say my favorite: I’d cook a meal, usually meat from the butcher next door, vegetables from the market, and bread. This was the essential combo, almost every night. Then, I’d take a shower, open up the shutters, and watch a French movie. 

French movies, my friends, were the crown jewel of Parisian existence. I knew the words “New Wave” but didn’t really know what it meant. I watched my first movie, The Taste of Others, which wasn’t even from the New Wave directors; it was about four or five people whose lives intersect. It wasn’t really about anything, and that’s why I loved it. 

I dove deep. I fell so in love with Agnes Varda. So deeply in love with her. Not even for her subjects, but the feeling she imparts upon you, the freedom with which she works, the playfulness of her and her movies. I watched Jules and Jim, one of my favorites. And then I cherrypicked some others, like Godard. 

Those nights, as I look back, were easily my favorites. 

But most of all, it wasn’t Paris that I loved—it was myself. Cheesy, I know, but I knew, I loved that version of myself. Without phones and media, my attention span expanded like a balloon. I could just sit and watch a movie, locked in and uninterrupted. I could teach lessons and not think of my phone. And most of all, I maintained this quiet equilibrium all day, which is what happens when you aren’t doused with sports, news, and gossip. 

I also spent afternoons learning French.

Paris was my playground. The city, I felt, was built for literary solitude. You could read on any bench and no one would bother you. You were surrounded by books. Books books books everywhere. Bookstores on every block. People reading alone, all alone, at bars, cafes, park benches, subways. Paperbacks galore. It wasn’t only normal to sit and read by yourself, but it felt encouraged. And I felt all the better. 

Yes I struggled. Yes I felt like I wanted to meet a French girl. I wanted to have more chit chats with people. I felt that sense of closed-off-ness that people describe when they talk about Paris. 

The people were kinder than I expected, they just weren’t gregarious. And that was good enough for me. 

And when it was time to go, I mourned. I mourned deeply. I mourned for the new friends I made, but most of all, I mourned because I knew I’d never recreate this experience. This was what it was for that two month stretch. It’s beautiful in that regard: Nothing will ever replace it, even if it were leagues better. I could come back to Paris many times in the future but it’d never be the same me, nor the same city. 

I knew it, too. I was consciously aware of it in my apartment. I remember sitting and just taking in the details. The silver French Press. The light from above the oven. The action and hustle of the square below. I knew it. I didn’t waste a second. 

And now, I have a notebook full of thoughts. I have this desire to be published, to grow this blog into something that could support me financially. And yet, try as I might to write about it, I just can’t. And I really wonder, maybe this experience wasn’t meant to be shared. It was only for me.