an ode to love

 

On rare occasion I am left to my own devices in ‘the city of lights’. Not nearly as much fun to run wild amidst these serene, cobbled streets as in the cacophonous, never-ending avenues of ‘the city that never sleeps’. Or perhaps I have lost that desire to run, and I was never in fact so wild. On such nights when my love is far away, in the company of a glass (or two) of wine and a good camembert, I reflect on the single life I left behind. The endless girls’ nights which left me feeling somewhat pensive but mostly empowered, the numerous dates that left me longing for another girls’ night, and the many unique experiences that never left me. It is these many years of living alone, struggling to find purpose in a single existence without allowing work to dominate (the challenge of most single women in NYC), understanding that there comes a time for everything, that I moved so gracefully from single into double. Simply, I was ready. And in patience and faith, love, in the form of this dear creature with whom I now share my life, had come to ‘rescue’ me, as he playfully calls our chance encounter. Perhaps we rescued each other, just in time to confirm that true love still does exist. (Even I being a hopeful romantic was beginning to have doubts). And now, I can sit in a place I call home, in the quiet of my own breath and feel completely at peace. Happy to be alone for a brief moment, just long enough to appreciate the sensation of love and long for it’s return.

how to dream in French

The days are growing longer. On rare occasion a hint of spring passes through the still frigid air. I remain warm within my expansive thoughts. I am in the midst of redefining myself in the context of a French life. Did I think it would be this difficult to leave behind the comforts and familiarities of a city which had become my home for over a decade? To bid farewell to my old self who knew so much and so many and made such an intimidating city feel so intimate? I recall so well the first few years of NYC, the growing pains involved in assembling the many pieces that create a life. And here in Paris, the puzzle appears much more difficult to piece together. Mostly due to the fact that the instructions are illegible. I remain perplexed as to how exactly things and people function here. The extreme formality and sense of order do not always appeal to me. Even the vagabonds seem well-mannered. Perhaps I am accustomed to a greater diversity that cannot be defined. A place where possibilities are endless and nothing is impossible. Once upon a time I was taught to dream. And now? As I attempt to redefine myself, an American girl raised with European sensibilities, I feel more American than I ever did in the USA, and even more so a dreamer. Simply, I must now learn to dream in French.

skyscrapers on the Seine

The ultramodern architecture of La Défense looms large, reminiscent of a mini-Manhattan. It encompasses over 100 buildings, home to one-third of France’s 20 largest corporations. The Grande Arche, the most impressive of these structures, is a monumental cube composed of Cararra marble, housing government and business offices. There exists a unique and intense energy in this high-rise business district, isolated in the west of the city. It does not feel at all like the Paris of postcards, refreshing on those days when I desire an escape.

Every store imaginable exists within this inclusive universe of silver walls and layered malls. Majestic renowned sculptures by Calder and Miró, among others, add an element of color and culture.

These wintry afternoons, a holiday market fills the walkways as familiar Christmas carols fill the air. My lunch visits to La Défense remind me of the many years I spent gainfully employed amidst the skyscrapers of New York City. I miss working. More accurately, I miss the team dynamic of working towards a common goal and the satisfaction that follows. These days my greatest goal is to learn a language, not to mention a culture. I have decided (finally) to attend courses, to share this grand and often intimidating task with those in a similar predicament. I may even enjoy the experience, and learn French!



Sunday stillness

I have quickly come to cherish Sundays in Paris. For one simple reason, love. Sundays in NYC, following the sacred ritual of brunching with friends, were most often spent solo amidst the masses, shopping in Soho or sitting in Central Park reading or dreaming. I think too, of the countless Sundays during my travels. Regardless of the continent I inhabited, endless hours were spent in observation (often considered sight-seeing) as the world became suddenly still. Sundays, as I well recall in my childhood, are a day to spend with family (or friends who in the case of my previous life in NYC had become family). Now here in Paris, I feel the warmth of family. It is only he and I, but that is enough to provide the feeling of home.

Today, in our sacred Sunday tradition we woke up to the late morning sun, radiating light from an inviting sky. Most often clear and bright in it’s winter chill. A savory brunch in the Marais, which has become quite a trend in Paris. A late edition of the ‘International Herald Tribune’, much more manageable a read than my esteemed ‘Sunday NY Times’ (though indeed I do miss the Travel and Styles sections to name a few). Upon walking to the Seine to admire the serenity and the awe-inspiring views, we stopped for a moment of reflection at Church Saint Gervais. As though invited through divine intervention, we entered the setting of a performance combining poetry, painting and music. Within this scene illuminated only by candles, I could understand words not phrases, emotions not meanings. Yet, in all it’s abstract obscurity, the experience was deeply enchanting. The flutist sounding the melodies of birds as images of clouds and sea projected above the altar. It is upon such an impromptu path that life most naturally reveals itself.

living history

I have always enjoyed the company of older people. When I was a little girl I would sit for hours with heavy lids, listening to the conversations and trying to follow the gestures exchanged between my parents and their unique assortment of bohemian intellectual confidants. I was much more eager to sit at the adult table than with the kids who somehow I found too simple-minded in their approach to life. It was the elders who had truly lived, as they spoke with great enthusiasm about the pleasures and travails of life which seemed so fascinating to my young mind. Much more interesting than a history book are the reflections of someone who has lived the story.

In Paris, a city of such remarkable history, I have found an elderly companion with whom to share it. Her origins are Polish and her experiences are plenty. Recently we attended the Grand Palais for the Renoir exhibit. It seems fitting to peruse the work of this venerated Impressionist with a woman of class and culture. Though he is not a favorite of mine, as the work does not move me like that of Cézanne or Degas, it was a genuinely historic experience. Our next rendezvous will include an aged whisky and tales of life in 1970’s Paris. Though I must admit as I become older and (I like to believe) wiser, and this new chapter continues to be written, I appreciate more and more the innocent and open mind of a child.

Sunday stroll…

Sundays in the Marais are enchanting. While the rest of Paris sleeps, the Marais is filled with the flow of life. Following an impromptu path led only by the sun, we float like a pair of doves amidst the harmonious mélange of voyagers and inhabitants. No sounds of engines are heard as the streets are entitled only to pedestrians. Time ceases to exist. We find our way into a world of secret gardens and not-so-secret cafés. Our most favored treasure is the Village Saint Paul. This clandestine paradise is accessible only via arched passageways, to those who are lucky enough to find it. Within these walls lies a self-contained world of antique shops and one particular café which has captured our hearts, or more fittingly, our appetites. Seldom does a Sunday pass without a taste of the homemade quiche or creative confections.

Days like these help me to remember why I am in Paris: love. A ‘raison d’être’ in itself. I temporarily forget that the other key elements composing a life are so far away: family, friends, work, etc. Is it possible to create a life combining all of that which brings one a sense of fulfillment? Or are we meant to perpetually lack in order to feed the mind and body with desire? Perhaps, for the sake of feeling alive. Regardless of the whims and desires that reside in my mind, I feel deeply content.

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