The Weeklies: February 2 - 8 (or, Into the Blue)

There are appropriate metaphors, but they are trite. I could open this post by writing that I've gone "out of the black and into the blue" or "into another version of myself", I could borrow the phrase "crossing over." These would all be true.

It happened sometime when I plugged away at the book. Through my writing, I've made conclusions about the person I want to be. The more I write -- weekends, evenings, while catching up on trash tv -- the better I feel. The more I write the less I think. The less I think the more I live without the strict, tightly wound person I know holding me back. I feel amazing.

When I realized those things, I realized that it is the perfect time to travel alone.

Last Monday, February 3 I flew to Paris and met a series of sunny and somewhat-warm days. I stayed at the Hotel Therese, on a quiet street next to the Palais Royal. I revisited a few of the places I knew from the first time I went to Paris, back when I was a frightened little 20-something. There are still things I am afraid of, sure, but now, they feel dwarfed.

I saw friends. Henri and I went back to the bar where we first met, Le Troll Cafe. (If you remember, Henri and I met eight years ago when I was in Paris on a solo trip, whenever Alistair and I go to Paris, we visit with he and his wife). The last time we were at Le Troll Cafe it was Easter Sunday, the front room was empty then. Last week was more crowded than it was eight years ago, and Henri sighed, "Our table is taken." We found a spot near the bar and settled in. I ordered a Chimay. There was a soccer game playing, pairs of people giggling beside us, coming and going outside to smoke, leaving their drinks and bags with us. We were the only people staying in one spot, watching time move around us, digging our heels deeply into our memories.

We couldn't remember the exact spot we had dinner in so many years ago, so we found an Italian restaurant. The kitchen was still open, it must have been past ten o'clock. We ordered a bottle of Sangiovese and I had a pizza. We left and walked forever along the Canal Saint Martin at midnight talking of life and concluded that: we are getting old, life is a series of decisions. I took a cab to my hotel and the driver was blasting "Suffragette City," which we sang along to together (reminder: this was after I had half a bottle of wine). The next day, at a dinner with Felix, I was introduced to his French filmmaker friend, whose film I had just mentioned five minutes before by coincidence. I had bulot mayonnaise for the first time. For a second, I was in a funny version of life. 

I walked everywhere. One day I walked from Cafe Kitsune in the at the Palais Royal to the Musee de la vie Romantique, a museum with memorabilia from my personal hero, author Georges Sands. I strolled at Centre Pompidou. Having finished and loved, Passion Simple by Annie Ernaux at the airport, I picked up another book of hers at Shakespeare & Company. I crossed many bridges, I drank a few terrace coffees. I went on the glass bridge hanging over the center of the Galleries Lafayette and the security guard, smiled at me warmly and said "goodbye" when I left. I bought nearly everything I wanted at Buly, finally. 

On my last day I had several hours before my flight. It was the most beautiful of the days. I had breakfast at Angelina then I walked through Tuileries. I put my earbuds in and enjoyed the sun. I couldn't believe how different things were. Eight years ago I did this trip alone, and I had fun, but I was uncomfortable and sad and lonely. Now, there is some confidence in me. I can't say where it comes from, but it roils and pounds. I feel alive.

At two o'clock I reluctantly gathered my things. Still listening to Isabelle Pierre I crossed through the center of Tuileries, up a set of stairs in the gravel, my pace quickening, turning left and crossing Rue Rivoli. If one were to look closely, they would detect the slightest tear on my cheek.