PARIS: I (algo diferente)

Why do we hide

If we want to be seen so badly?

What is so scary

We must still wear the mask?

Why do we arrive

Expecting to be met with anything

But the apathy with which we left?

Something about being here makes me want to be alone. I have not found myself writing often and, though I feel less observant and incredibly introspective, I have made note of the way this place has changed me already—fast. I have been in Paris for a month now. I told my friend I did not know enough about the city yet to write about it, and she said, “So write about how little you know.” While that seems entirely reasonable and is what I am doing now, it is my biggest fear—uncertainty, not knowing, not being good at something.

When I first came into contact with France and its people, like any newcomer, I was fascinated. Immediately, as I walked somewhere in the ninth arrondissement, I was able to conclude that, unlike any big city I have lived in, Paris was the best to be alone in. I walked around with my thoughts for hours. I went to the Louvre because it was the easiest landmark I could get to within twenty minutes. I found the city incredibly quiet—it almost bothered me at first. It was August, and it was hot. I liked the way the streets were not symmetrical and that there were small hills that kept the walk entertaining. I discovered that since I don’t speak French, all I was listening to was myself and my inner dialogue—everything around me was just buzz.

When I first got to the Louvre, I was slightly underwhelmed. I could see the tip of the Eiffel Tower from the gardens. I was not excited. The place itself, unlike others, did not instill any emotion in me. I am yet to understand why. My conclusion, as of now, is that I tend to minimize monumental moments that are often too overwhelming for my young and tired brain to understand. So I stared at the museum, got an iced coffee—my last iced coffee, though I did not know it yet—and went back to my hotel. I had made dinner reservations at an Italian restaurant I had found previously, for which my friend, the only person I knew in Paris, canceled on me a couple of hours earlier. I changed and took myself to dinner. The waiter sat me down by a window, and I felt seen and at the same time invisible. Was anyone other than me questioning my choice to have dinner by myself?

I had dined alone before, but never in a new city where I did not know how to order and felt bad using my second language. I was always so prideful in it, until now. It was a great dinner. I ordered gnocchi au pesto and the first chardonnay on the list because it’s all I could read, and I put my headphones in and listened to Spanish jazz for the duration of it. I said the only thing I knew how to say on the way out: “Merci, au revoir.” I went to sleep that night—happy.

I have always been okay alone. I enjoy my company more than anyone else's, except for the occasional lover where my body cries at any kind of separation. Here, in Paris, though, it has been hard to even look people in the eye. More so, I just find it so easy to go unnoticed. I am not flamboyant or intimidating physically, and so no one will question me if I decide to stare at the floor or deep into space. I have made quite a few friends, whose company I enjoy, and yet I do not crave to be surrounded by people or out drinking and talking like I find myself wanting in other places. I find myself craving literature and art, and even that is quite hard to do at the moment.

I went to the South of France my first week in the country. It was beautiful, it was peaceful, the rocks were all different sizes, the water was perfectly warm, it was breezy enough, and the people were roaming around with a freedom I have never met. My friend and I had two beautiful days. We wined and dined and grieved men who’ll never love as strongly or passionately as we do.

My mom asked me how I liked it, and I said, “It’s nice here.” It felt nice—it was only nice. I have escaped to a couple of other places, always hoping that I will come back and find myself more excited about Paris. I have felt zero hunger nor desperation to see it all. I wonder if Paris knows me too well already, or too little. Afraid of not being known here, I searched for shelter in the arms of the familiar, the warmth, two hours away. Even safe and in love, I have never felt more at risk.

I cannot tell yet if Paris has decided I will stay here or that I will not. The calmness and numbness that I feel sitting at cafés for hours on end, walking down the Seine, staring at Notre Dame, walking around Le Marais, taking the RER and the metro, reading at The American Library, staring at the Impressionists at Musée d’Orsay, is one reminiscent of home. It is the lack of rush or worry, or maybe the lack of desire and hope. I am not sure just yet. I ask myself every day if this is what Hemingway and anyone who ever moved here felt. I find myself thinking that maybe in another life I have been here before and that my excitement has been exhausted and/or wasted.

I find that the only moment Paris and I find ourselves in agreement and hungry for life is at night, after two or three glasses of wine. It is then that we simultaneously wrap our arms around each other and laugh at our familiar hostility. I see Paris for what it is, and it reads me back the secrets I think I keep well, only for me to forget in the morning. At night, crossing the many bridges of the city, I feel comfortable and much more excited. I can stroll around with no mind, get lost, and find my way.

Maybe I will do that more.