mon œil

of my city.  So much blood.  Puddles of it on the pavement… and I walked over it thousands of times without even thinking.  I walked past, stood by and even admired a memorial to possibly the most horrendous weapon of murder my country ever saw.  I set foot on the sidewalks where battles were fought, won and lost; where justice overcame or, sadly more often, was defeated.

So much blood in my streets, in the past of my city.
And of nearly every city, especially (but not exclusively) outside the U.S.A.
Everywhere else is so old in comparison… war, battles, and bloodshed are practically unavoidable with such a long history.

But still, it happened.  And I knew it in theory, but I never thought about it.  I dunno.  I just.  When I saw that shot of a victorious French officer stepping in a puddle of Revolutionary blood… it just kind of sent a shock through me.  Like, I may have set foot in that exact spot.  I don’t know.

I finally saw Les Misérables.  It’s made me think, a lot, on many levels.  This is one of them.

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(February 24th, 2012)

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Kind of similar to how I’ve seen the Mona Lisa quite a few times, I’ve seen and been up the Eiffel Tower many more.  It’s fun, it is, but it’s one of those things you don’t really do when you live in Paris, you know, just like if you live in NYC you don’t really go to the top of the Empire State Building much or to the Hard Rock Café.  But we always took friends and family there, if they were in town, and one year they even had an ice skating rink set up during the winter.

ROUTINES

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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.

I finally made it to Les Deux Magots.  Eating lunch here.  It’s kinda pricey, but oh well, I’m paying for the culture.

Oh, to be a Parisian girl again… even disregarding the fact that I do already know people here… even if I didn’t… Oh my cow I love this city so much.  Of course, it has its faults, but as my dear friend Luke said, so does every place.

When I leave after only having been here this short a time… I don’t know how I’ll handle it.

.

Song of the post.

On several occasions during my trip to France I would just settle in a Parisian café and write in my notebook and read T.S. Eliot.  Especially read T.S. Eliot.  In my opinion, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock is the only piece of literature that ever needed to be written.  I would probably consider myself exceptionally lucky and happy if I could just spend my life sitting in a Parisian café, drinking some good coffee and reading that poem.  I spent hours at it during my trip, and it never tired me.

Song of the post.

(June 23rd, 2012 )