Traveling brings you back to childhood. Everything new again, you’re forced into a cell of naivety—a cell of the unknown. A cell that’s safe due to its relative understanding of its own ignorance. It’s deceiving though because it’s not safe, of course. If anything it’s far more dangerous.
My friend, Anamar, studies philosophy at the Sorbonne. She says she likes it because everyone can relate to it. I meet up with her for coffee in the Latin Quarter. She looks older than I remember, swapping out contacts for those little round glasses that older women who drink fancy wines wear. Talking to her is nice.
She grew up here and you can tell from her accent, mainly the way she pauses when thinking of what to say. Americans say um, but she uses eh. The waiter tells her she speaks good French when she asks for a lighter…sorry a ‘fire.’ I get to practice my French and she’s known me forever. There’s no starting from scratch-establishing personas. It’s easy with people who knew you before you even knew yourself.
We walk to the D’Orsay where she meets a friend. I stick out my hand to shake hers, but she leans in for a kiss. We hit into each other awkwardly and laugh.
Anamar and her friend sit and start drawing a statue they see. It’s of a woman whose body is a mere block of marble. I’m not sure if it’s marble, it might be a different stone, but the stone is white and simple. The statue is unfinished, but there’s something perfect about the woman's expression-as though she knew from the start that she would never be finished; sentenced to a life of confinement. She looks disappointed, but content, similar to how everyone looks on the metro. They’re confined too. At least they only have to wait for a couple of minutes. She has it worse than all the other statues and metro-goers-waiting for eternity. Art in general is nice because people can relate to it. Even if they don’t understand quite how they relate to it.
Even Hemingway admitted, “I was learning very much from him [Cézanne] but I was not articulate enough to explain it to anyone.” I think that’s why people like art so much. It’s a secret between you and the art. That’s why everyone comes off as a pretentious prick when they attempt to describe why they like a particular painting. It’s not meant to be explained.
With that being said though, there’s a painting on the wall that I can’t stop looking at. It’s of a variety of women, all beautiful, dressed in colors. Bright colors. All colors. Not only am I not articulate enough to describe what I’m learning from this painting, I’m not aware enough to even realize what exactly I’m learning. I just know that this painting-the colors, the women-it seems like a goal. A world where I feel safe and excited. I would love to be like one of these women, dressed head to toe in color; decorated to live in color. To live in emotion, and more than that to embrace emotion. Not to be 'too cool' for it, or ward it off out of fear. I respect the women in that painting.
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| Le Mille E Una Notte |
I like the D’Orsay. It used to be a train station and the open nature of the station still carries through. You can breath in here. You have space to live. The clock in the museum reminds me of home-Grand Central Station. The size of this clock and the fact that you have to look up to it gives it an authority.
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| (Authoritative Clock) |
I head home. I’m tired and hungry and I remember that I have some apples and bread in my fridge. There’s a darkness to Paris at night. It’s the same gritty, yet romanticized darkness as in all the French noir films I’ve seen. The rain-on-cobblestones-reflecting-the-moonlight type of darkness. It’s dark, but not scary; more alluring than anything else.
Walking through the city, looking at the Seine, I feel calm. As though everything is waiting for me. All the art in all the museums, all the people I’ll soon meet, wine I’ll soon drink, meals I’ll soon eat. They’re waiting for me. Not the same way they wait for me in New York. In New York they’re running from me, waiting for me to catch up with them. Here it seems like they’ll be here for eternity. There’s no rush, I can just enjoy it all for what it is; for what it has to offer.
Woman on the Metro:
I head towards the metro, asking a stranger for directions on the way. It’s an older woman, walking slowly, but still with full confidence of her ability. Women get gentler with age. Either life has ripped them apart, leaving them with a bitter exterior-a defense mechanism of sorts-or women realize their power, becoming gentle and kind. Nothing is more powerful, knowledgeable than an older woman.
She responds to me in English, smiling at me, and pointing me in the right direction. I feel like a child again. In New York I know where I’m going, what I’m doing, and the language I’m speaking. I don’t need showing around. I’m an adult. Here I feel like a kid-everything is new. Maybe that’s why people enjoy traveling so much. Because through traveling you’re able to grow and develop in a way that you haven’t experienced since childhood.
On the metro I see a woman who looks exactly like Patricia from Breathless: short hair, striped shirt, long black skirt-quintessential, stereotypical Paris. I've always liked Patricia’s character in Breathless. She seems like most Americans who come to Paris. Throughout the film, Patricia is grasping to any form or remnant of an identity she used to know confirmedly. An identity, purpose, meaning that at one point seemed absolute. Overcome by ignorance; overcome by an indigenous ability to embrace this temporary stability, everything had been clear, finite, stable, safe. Her parents, agreeing to pay for her to go to the Sorbonne and live in Paris. But then she finds herself shaken up, displaced, forcefully separated from prior pre-conceived notions. She’s lost, grasping to anything, wondering endlessly about literature and art, falling in love. Trying to find anything to grasp to; not so much a new identity, but a true one-one devoid of temporary filler for temporary stability, one with truth to live by for eternity. She is looking for who she is, her own place. Too bad she ends up killing Belmondo.
Louis from Versailles:
French men seem genuine. Maybe I’m just naive. I met a man from Versailles the other night at a club called Le ZigZag. It’s kind of funny that the ‘zigzag’ is a universal concept. The way he danced with me wasn’t aggressive or with an intention, it was just fun. He was swinging me around. His hands were incredibly calloused. Not just one callouss either, but the entire palm was smothered in a red, almost chalky texture. I didn’t mind though. We were having fun.
I found out he was studying to become a violin maker. Everything seemed so simple in his eyes, so honest. He supports Gertrude Stein's claim that, “French people really do not believe that anything is important except daily living and the ground that gives it to them.”
He just wanted to dance and talk. His calloused hands didn’t phase him. Neither did the time of the night.
He laughed, “You probably think it’s silly, but I really just love violins.”
This simplicity in familiarity and routine is something that I haven't seen as encouraged in the United States. I feel a pressure to do more-be on to the next thing. Experience everything. But Louis found contempt in just living. Living, not as this complicated aim to a higher purpose, but as a means of mere enjoyment. Passing time and enjoying that time, as opposed to fighting for an ends that will never exist; an end that will keep rising; an end that can never be caught.
Louis’ house was quaint. It was big and made of wood. The most impressive thing about his house was the breakfast table. Filled with fruits, any you could imagine: apples, bananas, pears, oranges. Then there was honey, almond butter, jams. All types of jams. Jams I didn’t even know existed, like apple/apricot jam-so sweet, and broken up with chunks of fruit, adding texture. Then fresh baguettes-some half-eaten, others whole, waiting readily to be broken and re-shaped-oh! And cookies with chocolate icing were scattered throughout. At seeing this spread I had to eat. I wasn’t hungry, but this table was something I couldn’t turn down. I like Louis. He isn’t deceiving. He’s genuine and honest. There’s no hidden agenda.
Versailles is beautiful too. Even more spread out and calmer than Paris, I found myself breathing in the air with a new intention of taking in space.
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| Versailles |
In Manhattan there is never any space. Take a breath too deep and you’ll get a strong and undeniable whiff of someone’s urine or just general smog. I guess any city is like that. In Paris though there was an effort in the 1800s to make it more spread out, limiting the spread of disease. It's still all the same though. It’s not even the city’s fault, they’re just overcrowded.
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