Since I was old enough to have interest in the novelty of travel, Paris had repulsed me. Paris drips in pink glitter in the North American imagination, lodged in the front lobe of everyone’s mind since they learned the significance of “culture.” A city that attracts a sickening amount of tourists per year cannot have anything of value, no matter how good its patisseries might be.
Yet there I found myself at age twenty, jet lagged but in total awe as my plane descended in the cotton candy haze that surrounds Paris, the Eiffel Tower protruding through the mist like a religious idol. Armed with only Ernest Hemingway’s teachings in A Moveable Feast, I had no idea of the literary phenomenon that awaited me. As anyone who has spent more than five minutes talking to me or reading my blog will know, I live and breathe by Hemingway’s Paris quotes. I regret nothing about the literary obsession the man’s book propelled me into, as I spent my time in Paris creating my own portrait of a writer as a young woman.
Trying to write in a city that created all my literary idols was not as easy as I thought it would be. I am intoxicated with my friends, trying not to fall down a cobblestone street in Le Quartier Latin when we stumble past James Joyce’s old apartment. The next morning I come back to the same area and stand quietly beside an old American man, reading the memorial at Hemingway’s former apartment at 74 Cardinal Lemoine, where he once lived in poverty with his first wife, Hadley, and their son. At sunset I stroll along the banks of the Seine and try to feel less like Owen Wilson à la Midnights in Paris and more like Henry Miller. By day I walk the entirety of Rue St Denis, my eyes trying not to linger on the aging sex workers in the alleyways as I revel in the grit that made Miller who he was. My phone breaks and I don’t fix it for a month, instead reading Anais Nin’s diaries across the city, watching the train pull out to Louveciennes from Saint Lazare.
There’s an odd feeling of trying to step into the shoes of writers past, as I recline on the terrace of Les Deux Magots, hoping the cafe’s patrons see my notebook and inference that I too am a writer. Essences of literature’s greatest haunt me here, which is confirmed when I look up and note that I am sitting in Square de Jean Paul Sartre et Simone de Beauvoir. Yet I linger in cafes writing mostly in my journal, thoughts of my novel at the back of my mind. My dreams of being a 1920s jazz age writer fall short as I seem to resemble more of a 21st century blogger with each passing paragraph. To be fair I did start writing a book over the summer, which was put on hold when I decided to follow my fake Parisian lover across Europe, but has since been resumed. Still, I do not consider my time in the City of Light to be an artistic failure. It is a triumph, and I have realized my potential as an internet age creative non-fiction writer (that is NOT the same as a blogger).
What is it about this dirty city that is so appealing to me? What lies within its uniform architecture that throws words so easily onto the page? I’ll never stop complaining that it smells like pee, put me into debt with the already-frightening French banks, and is filled with some of the most unaccommodating people you will ever meet.
But when the sun sets on Haussmann’s meticulously mapped quarters and I am writing from afar in Parc de Saint Cloud, or sipping wine from the bottle in Montmartre, I feel that there is nowhere in the world that I’d rather belong. It is the only city where I’ll ever feel comfortable sitting alone in a bar on a Friday night eating a crème brulée and sipping a glass of sangria. I can’t imagine another place where I could still feel dignity after having to return all the new clothes I’d already worn to allow me to buy more cheese, Muji pens, and wine.
I spend my last night in Paris alone, like I have been for the past week. Even though all my friends have already returned to their home countries I do not feel lonely as the streetlights wrap me up on each corner. For my final French meal I buy a banana nutella crepe with my remaining two cent coins and the vendor is uncharacteristically pleasant, putting me in a better mood as I stroll down to the Seine. I walk and prepare myself to feel nostalgic for how Paris was in the early days when I was very poor and very happy. I wait for the feeling to sink in that it is my last time strolling the river’s banks, never again to feel this young and this free under a pastel sunset. Yet nothing comes.
It’s 10pm on the first Monday night of August and I’m pulling up to a house whose cracks I could trace in my mind like braille. I know the creaks its old floorboards make at night and the food I’ll find in its cupboards and the feel of its towels after a shower. Everyone warned me that when I arrived back home Paris would feel like a distant dream. Anaïs Nin writes that “The New Yorker dreams of Paris while the Parisian wonders about New York. And we go through life without definitely realizing any place. They all remain unreal for us.” Here I am weaving between dreams in the familiarity of my own bed, and still nothing was more real than Paris was. The friends I loved, the art I’d written, and the streets that taught me how to wander were as dreamlike as the croissant weight I had gained.
This is by no means a final goodbye, as you will find me strolling with a baguette in hand on Parisian streets by next autumn. I fall asleep my first night with my curtains open as I watch the reflection of the lights flickering on the lake and wonder what Paris’ veins must look like at that moment. I am 8000 miles away but I whisper to myself, “There is never any ending to Paris and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other. We always returned to it no matter who we were or how it was changed or with what difficulties, or ease, it could be reached. Paris was always worth it and you received return for whatever you brought to it” (E.Hem). I take a deep breath, for once hoping to smell that familiar scent of Parisian stale urine, but I am somewhat forlornly greeted by fresh linen.
Surely I am being dramatic and these concluding events did not actually happen. But nevertheless, Hemingway is right again. Of course there is never any ending to Paris. It follows you wherever you go.