Another snippet from the Paris Diaries, many years ago. This time, one of many days when things weren’t so perfect.
I want to scream and drink like Janis Joplin.
I’m more and more convinced that I’m not Paris material. At least not 16th arrondissement material. I’m too loud, too scruffy, too lost and smile too much. I don’t like routine and my French grammar is embarrassing. I never wear warm enough clothes and half the things I say are inappropriate. I cry in public. I play my music too loud and always have a hangover on Sunday.
The French have mastered routine. The women have mastered class. Tradition is followed religiously, as well as some secret bible, filled with things the French do and don’t do. Unfortunately, I don’t own a copy.
I love Paris for its old women who inch along the streets in heels and Louis Vuitton hand bags. I love it for its beautiful pastries that sit behind glass covered counters like old friends. I love it for all the men that wear colourful scarves and perfectly tailored suits.
I love the kids that make me pull my hair out, raise my voice, and ask “Why? Why? Why?” Every time they start climbing all over me while refusing to listen.
I could look you in the eyes and tell you I love this city. I can’t count the amount of times I’ve looked around in complete awe. Things I wake up to every day still shock and amaze me. It doesn’t matter that I’m not a real Parisian. I’m not ready to pretend to be someone I’m not.
It has yet to completely win over my heart, but there are private moments, seconds, where it takes a little piece. It’s a piece of my life, so I might as well give it a little piece of my heart now baby.