Listen to Priscilla Ahn's Rain while you read this.
It's been raining in Paris. The skies are a solid sheet of gray and the temperature has dropped several degrees demanding jackets and pants and scarves. It's one of those days that requires you to stay indoors even though I at least, want to go outside and experience the chill and the slippery pavement and the water dripping from all of the stores' overhangs. Unfortunately, I have a paper to write. I've been succeeding at avoiding it for some time now, but I'm going to be forced to face it soon. As it is, I'm listening to Beethoven's playlist on YouTube and feeling the metro rumble below me. A few days ago, when I was lying on the table in the library, I didn't know that the metro ran directly underneath this side of the building and I was terrified when the table started to tremble. My friend had to reassure me several times that the dorm was NOT about to collapse and that there was not going to be another traumatizing earthquake this year. Or maybe that's how I just imagine that conversation. He probably just said, "relax" and let me go on lying in fear on the table.
I did go out today though. For the first time I went to a cafe alone, sat down and ordered and whiled away forty-five minutes in the Parisien style of simply eating, watching people, and writing. That makes me sound much more successful than I actually was. I got to the cafe and immediately went into Paranoid Mode. I have certain habits when I go into P.M. as I call it.* I start muttering to myself, trying to convince myself that everything is going to be ok even though I don't speak the language or know the customs or have any clue if they are even serving food, let alone what type of food they serve. If you were to watch me (which I'm fairly certain the other patrons of the bar were) you would see a girl sitting down at a little table outside, her lips moving at a staccato pace without any words actually being made, throwing glances between her table the bar and the one waitress who hasn't even finished setting the tables for lunchtime yet. I must have half gotten out of my chair two or three times before finally deciding to go up to the bar and ask for a menu. Then I took the menu back to my seat, made a random selection based on the fact that something had tuna (I had no idea what any of the menu said. It ended up being an omelette) then debated for another five minutes about whether I should wait for the waitress or just go order at the bar. I ended up doing the latter, and after that it was pretty smooth sailing, though I did get quite a few random looks from passers-by who probably thought I should have been in school
The cafe itself is quite cute. It's called Cafe Madame and it's at the intersection of Rue Madame and Rue du Vaugirard in the 6th arrondissement. I've walked by it almost everyday on my way to the Luxembourg Garden. The bartender and the waitress were very kind, especially considering I didn't speak any French and was completely lost in every sense of the word--except perhaps the literal one. It was a nice place to write. I'll definitely go back there. Though probably without the notebook. While it's lovely to sit outside and write I realize one of the best aspects of Paris is that it is perfectly normal to just for hours at a cafe watching people walk by. In the United States this would be considered a bit stalkerish, which is why I am so hesitant to do so. Yet, observing people is really what writers should be doing. If we don't watch people, take in everything that is happening around us, all that we have to work with is ourselves. While that can be fascinating, it can turn boring quite quickly. And to be so introspective, well, it can become a burden I've realized. It is overwhelming to think only of yourself, and it is a welcome relief to get lost in another person. I don't think I allow myself to do that often enough, to engage myself completely in another person. I don't even mean to have a conversation with a person (though I am terrible at listening. That is something I need to work on.) I'm talking about just allowing myself to imagine the way someone else is thinking. (Dear God, I just realized the last three sentences started with "I". What a failure on my part.) Writing in a sense is gaining experience voyeuristically, and simply knowing other people through observation is a way to enhance that.
That being said, I did watch some people for some amount of time. There are many more children in Paris than probably anywhere else in the world. I know that sounds silly, but it seems that everywhere I go there are small children running around, playing badminton with their parents, or rolling in the grass. I know it's probably because I frequent areas that just happen to have a lot of kids, like the Luxembourg Garden on the weekend, or the cafe that is right next to an elementary school. But really, children have never had such a visible presence in any other city I have been to. I think it is just another way in which Paris is accessible to people of all ages.
There was a crossing-guard at the intersection of my cafe (don't ask me how I have suddenly gained ownership of Cafe Madame. It is as Hemingway wrote, "You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me,") for the children. Keep in mind this was noon and children were on their way to school. It may have been a half-day only sort of school, but it is fascinating to think that education can occur during reasonable hours when our minds are actually functioning instead of lying curled up in our beds half-dreaming. Around this time the older students--at least I imagine it was the older students. They looked to be teenagers-- must have been out for lunch. Small crowds of students clustered around the sandwich vendors and the corner cafes, each with a few euros in hand looking for a quick meal (if such a thing even exists in France.) I wish that we could have been let out for lunch when I was in high school. It is such a relaxing thing to have in the middle of the day, a good meal to unwind your mind and your body. Especially a hot meal. Sylvia Beach once told Hemingway he should always eat his meals hot, and she really was right. Towards the end of my lunch I had becomes distracted with writing and my omelette had cooled down. The cheese separated from the tuna and hardened, and the omelette itself was cold and soggy instead of warm and crispy. It takes away from the entire experience. At home, there would have been no time during the school day to get a decent hot meal during lunch because the time it would have taken to prepare would have been all the time you'd have had to eat it. It seems that here though, teachers would excuse tardiness if it were on the basis of enjoying lunch. Perhaps, I am idealizing again. But it's pretty to think so.
I know I'm rambling throughout this post, but it's difficult to form coherent thoughts in this city. Sometimes it is impossible to form thoughts at all. I know I am thinking. I am walking down the streets, so comfortably now that I no longer have my stoic, angry face to ward off male flirts, smiling to myself and muttering anything that comes through my head, but I'm not remembering any of it. There will be moments when I think I'll have had a flash of brilliance, but it'll be gone in the next second replaced with another encounter of Paris. I regret these moments at times, wishing I could keep them all locked up in my head so I could write them down later, but then I think perhaps it is better to experience then to write or dream or reflect. It is the feeling that we get when something fantastic happens that stays with us, isn't it? Not the specific details, not the color of the street sign, not the name of the road, not the weather or the day or the time on the clock. We know what something meant because when we think of it we feel that drop in our stomach, or the tug on the side of our lips, or that undeniable urge to curl our toes as if pushing that feeling back inside of ourselves so we never have to think of it again. This is Paris. Paris is a constant parade of stomach-dropping, lip-tugging-toe-cringing glory. It's a bit like life itself in that way.
* I've decided to call it that as of now. It's not to be confused with PMS. DON'T CONFUSE IT.
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