On November 17th, 2016, I landed in Paris. It was dark and chilly as I commuted from CDG to an Airbnb a mere three blocks from where I'd once lived. The route itself was jarring in its familiarity. I affectionately recognized the corner brasserie, and neo-bistro, and all the other shops and bars (save for a few that were obviously new). I WhatsApp-ed Lorelei, "I don't know how you do this regularly. I want to relive every moment of life here, on repeat times a million, plus more memories." And then, after settling into my Airbnb, I texted Ben, "the apartment has high ceilings and antique furniture and my host is an older impatient woman who offered me fruit upon arrival, so I basically feel like France welcomed me back with open arms." I wasn't kidding. It felt painfully good to be back, again.
The following morning, I woke up relatively early. I Facebooked Deanna to make plans: petit-déj at a café across from a metro stop on his line (so she wouldn't get lost), we'd figure out the next steps from there, Rémi would meet up with us after class. Some context: my sister is (quite ironically!) dating a French guy she met over the summer in New York; she has visited him (and Paris) twice since.
We wandered through the Latin Quarter across the Seine and into the Marais, stopping into clothing stores we couldn't afford, a free exhibition at the Swedish Institute, and a worth-every-penny visit to the recently-renovated Musée Picaso. Then we lunched with Rémi at our beloved Nanashi before dragging him into Merci—at which he was the only consumer. They (being too cute) caught the bus home at Bastille while I returned to the 17th to freshen up and venture outside the city to join Mia at a Salif Keita concert.
Those first few days had been too easy, too normal... it was hard to believe I'd ever voluntarily left! And then, before moving onto Amsterdam, I brunched with Lou at Rose Café. In her thoughtful way, she reminded me of my critiques: the cultural superiority, the unyielding otherness, the callous social capital bred from famous haute-couture fashion houses and the like. Paris, too, has an ego.
A week later I saw Lou once more, whilst staying with ma famille française. I also crossed paths with AUP professors, and Melissa, and Julia, and Rithy. It was perfect, and this time around, I found myself more overcome by gratitude than tragic nostalgia. I savored every moment. And, dare I admit it, felt ready to fly back to Los Angeles—even with its infuriating civic passivity, empty "nice days", and select inhabitants trying so goddamn hard to be perceived as cool, laid back, and creative while others flash riches they may or may not have. As my sister reminded me today (from Paris, I might add!): But don't you know that only fools are satisfied?
