This ever-enchanting place.
A lot goes down in a year. And a lot goes up. And we move, grow, change, become, release, feel, befriend, love, and conquer. This past year - hell, this past 5 months - I have conquered so much just by living here in Paris. This city is perfection and I urge anyone considering a European city for exchange or just for a change of scenery to come and experience living here. The reason why can be summed up just in the day I had last Saturday.
It started with a Saturday sleep in - a French staple: finally the weekend is here and the world retreats from obligation and ventures out slowly and happily into the sun soaked streets and boulevards to slap themselves awake with un café et croissant at a rickety table nearby home, this invisible sound proof curtain between their table and the bustling loud street and the warmth billowing from the energy of the people. Parents pass the baguettes to their children who begin munching before the euro has been handed over to the baker at the market and there is an odd familiarity and sense of belonging that you get from the shouts of salesmen and women handing out slices of cheese through the crowds.
On Boulevard Barbes, despite the name this street has for itself, I wander in search of company and good food through the huddled African community who trade and barter and sell and yell throughout the morning. An old homeless woman sits cross-legged in a phone booth playing a recorder to her audience of the pigeons and feet of passers by. I cross past the metro station and head down through Boulevard Magenta, the promise of a delicious egg breakfast and my favourite café along the canal become more prevalent and I turn the last corner to see my fellow Parisians waiting outside in the sun bundled in warm winter coats and chunky scarves paired with sunglasses to ease the gaze of its rays.
My friend, my surrogate Australian Monica beams at me from inside and after a little wait we sit to enjoy our last Holybelly meal together. It is as good as always and Nico and Sarah chat to us just as they always do, despite the busyness of the turnover inside. I recognise further weekend regulars - the tall man with piercing grey eyes and a fringe that the gods themselves envy, the quiet moon-shaped face of the girl who always sits beside the pinball machine, flicking through pages of her latest book buy. The feeling of this place is that it is a haven for all, for whatever reason, we're drawn to it at the same time,
After food coma number one, a wander along the canal is followed by a sunset walk towards the river at the heart of the city. We pass through Le Marais once again, Monica farewelling our favourite rues and stop off points and came across Ile St Louis where we stopped for Berthillon ice cream - the most famous ice cream of Paris ! We wandered through the little island as the dusk became night and found ourselves sitting on a bridge watching a man play the most beautiful guitar and singing something wonderful that perfected the mood of the night. The city was behaving itself, in fact, it was showing off in the perfect way. On our way to meet up with friends for dinner, we stopped into a little atelier of music boxes and small toys where we stayed for at least half an hour sharing our love of the french music and melodies that had shaped our childhoods and previous years. It was wonderful to have a completely-unforced conversation with a stranger in a foreign language - to share a love for something and see the way in which other people love the world they are in. I am irrevocably in love with all this city gives to me each and every day.
I said goodbye to Monica the next morning. She has been my day-time activity person. My little good fortune cookie. I will miss her, hell, there is a big hole in my life here in Paris already. I feel like when I go back home to Australia maybe I will feel less empty, but I will never forget that Paris was ours, and we conquered it together. And to think it all started with going halves in a coffeeshop in Amsterdam.
It started with a Saturday sleep in - a French staple: finally the weekend is here and the world retreats from obligation and ventures out slowly and happily into the sun soaked streets and boulevards to slap themselves awake with un café et croissant at a rickety table nearby home, this invisible sound proof curtain between their table and the bustling loud street and the warmth billowing from the energy of the people. Parents pass the baguettes to their children who begin munching before the euro has been handed over to the baker at the market and there is an odd familiarity and sense of belonging that you get from the shouts of salesmen and women handing out slices of cheese through the crowds.
On Boulevard Barbes, despite the name this street has for itself, I wander in search of company and good food through the huddled African community who trade and barter and sell and yell throughout the morning. An old homeless woman sits cross-legged in a phone booth playing a recorder to her audience of the pigeons and feet of passers by. I cross past the metro station and head down through Boulevard Magenta, the promise of a delicious egg breakfast and my favourite café along the canal become more prevalent and I turn the last corner to see my fellow Parisians waiting outside in the sun bundled in warm winter coats and chunky scarves paired with sunglasses to ease the gaze of its rays.
My friend, my surrogate Australian Monica beams at me from inside and after a little wait we sit to enjoy our last Holybelly meal together. It is as good as always and Nico and Sarah chat to us just as they always do, despite the busyness of the turnover inside. I recognise further weekend regulars - the tall man with piercing grey eyes and a fringe that the gods themselves envy, the quiet moon-shaped face of the girl who always sits beside the pinball machine, flicking through pages of her latest book buy. The feeling of this place is that it is a haven for all, for whatever reason, we're drawn to it at the same time,
After food coma number one, a wander along the canal is followed by a sunset walk towards the river at the heart of the city. We pass through Le Marais once again, Monica farewelling our favourite rues and stop off points and came across Ile St Louis where we stopped for Berthillon ice cream - the most famous ice cream of Paris ! We wandered through the little island as the dusk became night and found ourselves sitting on a bridge watching a man play the most beautiful guitar and singing something wonderful that perfected the mood of the night. The city was behaving itself, in fact, it was showing off in the perfect way. On our way to meet up with friends for dinner, we stopped into a little atelier of music boxes and small toys where we stayed for at least half an hour sharing our love of the french music and melodies that had shaped our childhoods and previous years. It was wonderful to have a completely-unforced conversation with a stranger in a foreign language - to share a love for something and see the way in which other people love the world they are in. I am irrevocably in love with all this city gives to me each and every day.
I said goodbye to Monica the next morning. She has been my day-time activity person. My little good fortune cookie. I will miss her, hell, there is a big hole in my life here in Paris already. I feel like when I go back home to Australia maybe I will feel less empty, but I will never forget that Paris was ours, and we conquered it together. And to think it all started with going halves in a coffeeshop in Amsterdam.
