the sky…

There is something uniquely spectacular about the Parisian sky. It can hold my gaze for hours with its dynamic ever-changing composition. This sky is magnificently temperamental, and when not caught under it’s sudden rain, I am in utter admiration of its kaleidoscopic palette. I wonder if the locals share my awe for the space above. Do they walk around gazing skywards, stopping to smile at the passing clouds revealing indescribable hues of blues and pinks? Do they notice the perfect light as the sun sets to welcome the night? (I believe that is the time for an aperitif in this culture). No, the French are too composed for such behavior, it is their sky after all and they expect it to be extraordinary. Perhaps after so many years of searching for slivers of sky amidst imposing skyscrapers I find even greater pleasure in the light of day.

voices from afar

Each morning I wake with a smile, eager to explore and engage in this new and privileged life. I feel very much at home, even more so as I can now navigate my way through the tangle of streets, aware of the treasures which lie behind the surrounding corners, in the form of bistros and boutiques, bookstores and boulangeries.

Several friends have joined me in this adventure, appearing for merely a moment, yet providing a lasting comfort that comes only with those we call our long-time confidants. It is my people I miss the most, a select few I have collected through the years, whose faces will always elicit in me the most genuine of smiles. In all of my many travels, and especially now having found a new home in a distant land, I understand well that a city speaks to ones soul through the voices of ones life. The most relevant one being our own. (And of course that of our mother). Forever will my esteemed voices be heard from afar. My current and most favored voice is deep and melodic with the most charming Italian accent.

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.

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