room with a view

I live in the heart of Paris. There is much to observe from this privileged position. This perch is my window upon a new world, my observatory. There exists just enough stimulation below to keep my curious mind occupied with imagined stories of the many passing lives. Most often I notice tourists with detailed maps of the Marais, engaged in a historic walk or a gallery crawl, completely unaware that they are being observed through eagle eyes. Very often a business man will ride by on his bicycle, or briskly walk the length of the street, eager to arrive home to the squeals of small children and an eagerly anticipatory wife. Occasionally one of the bypassers will glance skywards and find me, looking quite anxious that I may be able not only to see them but in fact read their minds. Can I? No, they are superficially mine only for a moment, the length of the street within my view. Our interaction, if any, is brief. Most of all I search for one particular smiling face.

It is close to 7pm and I can hear the melodies of an ambitious pianist floating through the late summer air. This is my soundtrack, mixed with varied conversations of which I understand very little, an occasional motor bike passing by and the constant beat of a heel belonging to an elegant French woman enroute to a rendezvous. The music intensifies and a door slams in the distance, accompanied by distant laughter. Is this not the setting of a film? The very film of my Parisian life. Hence I am no longer the observer but the star, waiting to enter stage left. The music softens. He has arrived. The performance begins.

eyes wide open

Week one. Every morning I wake in a dream state. Yet this is my life. Paris is my reality. Surrounded by sights and sounds, all engaging and mysterious. My eyes are open wide in observation of this new place, it’s spaces and people. Equally, my mouth is shut, afraid to utter a word to reveal my foreigner status. For the moment I feel like a silent observer, able to see but unable to be seen. Hence I have reverted to the mentality of a small child who looks at the world eagerly yet does not choose to participate. Yet. I take my time to become acquainted with the neighborhood. I often find myself lost amidst the tangled streets of the Marais, searching for a point of reference. None is found. I consult a map and find my way, stopping at a cafe to indulge in the Parisian culture, to continue my observations, to immerse myself further in the dream.

…to Paris

I arrived to Paris exactly five months since the dinner at which destiny was served me. It was a day long anticipated, seemingly much longer than the time that led to it. Since that day my love had returned twice more, the former visit driven by relentless passion, the latter a cordial family/birthday celebration. In the midst of these visits I had flown to Paris to indulge momentarily in my new life. It was then that we spent our first holiday together in Corsica, a clear indication of our mutual affinity for travel and beauty. But it is here in Paris where the story begins.

from NYC…

Each day prior to my departure is deeply savored, filled with faces and sights that have for so many years composed my life. NYC provided the grounds for me to become. It is the ideal city in which to discover yourself, if you can in fact find enough discipline and awareness not to become someone else. It is difficult to imagine that the streets and the scenes are soon going to change, the Empire State Building which I had woken up to for so long will soon turn into the Eiffel Tower.

the dream

Love is by no means rational. Nor should it be. Hence my decision to move to Paris. I didn’t think much whether it made sense, given that I didn’t speak French nor did I have any career prospects or know more than 3 people. But what I did have was much greater an achievement than learning a foreign language, much more stimulating than a strange and exciting new culture and indeed more fulfilling than endless girls nights of carousing. I had found my great love, and lucky me, his home was Paris. Had I followed my heart given that his home were in a more remote part of the world, say Knin in Croatia? (He would then be a 6 foot 6 basketball player no doubt). Perhaps then I would have convinced him to move to NYC to play for the NBA, who knows. But that is not my story, nor is it meant to be. My dream has always been Paris. And yes, for the sake of sounding terribly corny, if you believe in your dreams they do come true.

to fall in love

Life never felt the same. I had been so accustomed to being alone with my thoughts, the greatest constant being the eternal inconstancy of my creative mind. I now had someone with whom to share these many musings, in the form of long fluid emails, frequent poetic texts and unexpected melodic phone calls. I took my time, as is easy to do being continents apart. One of my most revered forms of communication is the written word (these days the long form is e-mail, the short being a text). There is much to learn in the formality of one’s writing, in the words used and the mood they create. I had to give him a break, English not being his native tongue. I was deeply moved by his literary competence, not to mention the emotional intelligence of his writing. Every day I looked forward to his words, and expressed more of my own. Thus, the anticipation grew.

He returned in six weeks for ten days. On day three, we fell in love. There is much to say and many words to describe the events that led to falling in love, but this I will keep for myself, as each of us should have the pleasure to discover this feeling in our own unique story. Very simply, you know. And forever you savour this sensation.


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