I have often heard that as people, we find comfort in routine. I have always rather thought myself an exception to the rule, however; in scrutinizing my routines, I would find them tedious and undesirable although, in most cases, necessary nevertheless. So I would continue on with them. But any deviation from the norm was and is, of course, always heartily welcome. I did and do still relish the exciting events that break up what I would call monotony; whether a social get-together, an opportunity to attend a concert, a trip somewhere or whatever it may be. But in being here again, in Paris, for barely over a week yet, I have also found how extraordinarily this rule does describe me.
At least once every day since I’ve been here, I have gone to retrace the steps that used to be my daily ones. I walk the streets I used to walk, sit in the parks where I used to sit, drink in the cafés I used to drink in, and pick up pastries from what used to be my local bakery. I shop for clothes and shoes in places I used to shop. I walk by my old schools and apartments. The only piece that doesn’t fit into this puzzle of my past is that my current residence is in a completely different part of the city. This breaks up the routine in such a way that it becomes something completely different instead of being just as it was; what used to be the journey has turned into the destination.
And I miss it all over again, as if I’d just left. I miss the city life and the routine that used to be ordinary; I miss being able to take for granted the quality of the food, the food that I can never get where I live now and that is consequently worth its weight in gold to me. I just… I just miss Paris, and to some degree I miss feeling like it was home to me.
I miss my routine.
And I’ve made a new one in an attempt to simulate it.
In my first week staying here, I lived in a neighborhood I didn’t know very well before, and I basically had as much freedom as if I’d been living on my own. I was living on what is potentially the coolest street in all of Paris. In only one week, I had grown to love it and had already created habits in regards to it. I bought ice cream from the same ice cream stand every time, and walked the same streets on my way to the metro every day; I even made friends with one of the ice cream workers, and got to briefly meet, through my hosts, a few of the small restaurant owners. All this between a Monday evening to the following Sunday afternoon. I grew to really love this little neighborhood I got to be a part of for such a brief amount of time.
I think I get attached too easily. I’m missing it there too, now.
Song of the post.