you gave me my name
but I must give myself
you gave me my name
you gave me my name
but I must give myself
They praised me for being strong
and I was pleased
that I had fooled them all
Blogging can be a strange thing. It’s demanding of others to read what I write, to take time out of their day to interact with my words and the way I see the world. It’s a selfish things, in so much as writing is a selfish act, to ask for this kind of attention on my thoughts. So I often feel as if my content must make up for such selfishness, an apology for taking up this space. But then I get stuck in my head, caught up in this question of what is interesting and what is worthy of being shared. And then the words that come out feel stilted and hollow, devoid of any resonance, the result of my self-consciousness stripping away their natural power. I get caught up in the artifice of blogging, thinking that if I can just find the BEST café with the BEST wifi and the PERFECT amount of noise that soothes but does not distract, I will be able, at last, to create something worthy. And when nothing comes, I walk away from the task so easily, the discipline of sitting down and completing something suddenly so difficult.
So I stay away from this place, where many things were born, afraid of the discomfort. For every year I’ve been blogging, there has been a stretch of time, usually lasting about a month, when the blog has sat silently waiting for me to come back. Aware of this pattern, however, I wasn’t as concerned about this dry spell as in the past. Like most things, I knew it wouldn’t last forever. Instead, I settled in to see just where I’d come out at the end of this tunnel, having learned in the past that I usually emerge from these periods of drought with a better idea of how I want to proceed. I worked on other writing projects and tried to surrender control, following my instincts and exploring different genres. And to my delight, the words seemed to just spring up simply out of taking the time to let them flow on their own and coming back to those same words, tweaking and rearranging, finding better ways to say what I mean. I’ve been stirring up things within me that I’d previously been oblivious to, touching many nerves that released something else in turn. I am coming to terms with the fact that even as I pursue the art of finding the words, I am still someone who fears saying how I truly feel, saying what I need to say. And this little hiatus has reacquainted me with the beauty of what I do: getting to sit with myself, through the good and the bad, and witnessing the changes that come. If I’m lucky, I capture it in words and put it down on paper. But the moments pass quickly, so we must work in each moment.
To me, blogging is about finding the stories within all the ordinary mess of our days, exposing the beauty and ugliness that exists in everything and everyone. The most marvelous things is to sit down with pen and paper, phone off, and to move your hand across it, not worrying about what comes out. I am finally learning to trust this process in everything else that I write. So why not here? Why spend more time worrying about what to blog about than actually writing? I will no longer worry about how interesting this blog is, curating my writing the way we are apt to do on social media. Like the Moleskines and notebooks I’ve carried around with me for years, this will be the place of unfettered creation, where I write because I can and not because I have to. Where the littlest pieces of life – the simplest joys and the silliest of agonies – can be honored.
It’s a crescendo, a rumble, a woosh of the wind coming down the tunneled track. Crush of bodies, tang of sweat and soap, wet wool coats and perfume, squeezing into a space no bigger than the average American closet. It snakes through the underbelly of Paris, wheels shrieking against steel, a high-pitched cry of a child never soothed. From my earliest memories of Paris as a child, the metro represented the thrill of urban unpredictability and excitement, a roller coaster of sights and smells that terrified and delighted me all at once as I gripped my mother’s and aunt’s hands tightly, eyes fixed on the edge of the platform as if I might find myself suddenly propelled over it if I let it out of my sight. Currents of people and music and noise, train after train, wave after wave.
Now a regular commuter and in possession of my own metro pass, navigating through this pulsating network of tunnels and trains has become routine. The things that made my pulse quicken as a little girl have faded into habit and even annoyances. Every now and again, however, something unusual occurs during those periods of the day spent underground that shakes you out of autopilot and grabs your attention. With so many people sharing space and breathing the same air day in and day out, boundaries between private and public life become blurred. Whether it’s as gruesome as projectile vomit or a sweet moment shared with a stranger, they remind me not to lose the wonder I felt as a child at the first tastes of the big world. Here are three little stories from the Parisian underground to wake up your senses as they did mine.
The One with the Projectile Vomit
Let’s start from the bottom and work our way up. It’s a bright early morning, cold and clear, and the rush to work is off to a grind. Tailored suits and leather shoes, sleepy eyes and breakfasts on the go, headphones and screens to block out the rest of the world, as if living in their own orbit. In this way, we walk swiftly in one mass, together yet always apart. Up and down the steps of the metro, our legs take us over the crests and valleys of concrete hills, from one platform to the next. We descend into the ground just to pop up through the ground at our destination, tunneling our way through the earth like moles, blinded by the light that awaits outside. Our hub is Chatelet/Les Halles, a palace of intersecting corridors and processions of weaving bodies right in the center of the city where despite the lack of sunlight, time can be measured by the urgency in footsteps.
I am with a friend. After navigating through this giant fortress of activity, we make it to one of the major exits, Porte du Louvre, a 12-foot wall of stairs up to ascend to reach the street. Side by side, we trudge up the steps, concentrating on our footing and staking a claim to what little amount of space is ours among the pack. As we come up on the street, I see a woman up ahead plop herself down on the edge of the sidewalk, a large suitcase beside her. The morning commotion on the street mirrors that in the metro, bodies in motion whose individual faces have been erased in our little bubbles. A few more steps forward and we are passing this woman when a stream of liquid escapes from her mouth and projects through the air, landing at least two feet away from her. For an instant, this little pocket of the world stands still, stunned out of the clouds, shocked by the sheer force hidden in the depths of this woman’s stomach, and the mere centimeters between ourselves and the spray that could have changed the course of our days. Nonetheless, the circling orbits of so many lives played out in one space have finally collided, forced to acknowledge one another’s presence if only for a short moment.
The One with the 90€-Conversation
It happened while I was changing lines, heading home just as the late afternoon storm of too many limbs and stoic stares and insults was gathering. A tap on my shoulder and I turn to find a middle-aged man asking me if I could do him a favor. I don’t answer but the look of suspicious skepticism must have been pronounced for he says that I shouldn’t be scared, he won’t bite. People are flooding past us and I think about walking away, how easy it would be to be swept away with the crowd. He says it will only take five minutes and I can’t help myself from telling him that’s kind of a long time, enough for me to switch lines and catch the next metro going home.
But I’m trying to be more patient and in reality, I have nowhere to be, so I stay. He launches into a long story involving running out of gas, not having enough money on him to pay for more, not having the right papers on him for his bank to help him (footnote: this is kind of probable in France, land of bureaucratic hassles), and spending the whole day asking strangers for help only to be ignored or told no. He’s from a small town in the middle of France and he just wants to get home tonight. I can sympathize with both of these sentiments, having often bemoaned the lack of kindness Parisians have for one another.
“How much do you need?” I ask, reaching for my wallet. I happen to have 40€ on me and it’s been a good month so I know I can spare it. But he tells me he needs 90€ to make it all the way back home, that if I give him my mailing address he’ll write me a check to reimburse me and put it in the mail tomorrow. He also promises a bottle of my favorite perfume as his sister apparently works in a beauty shop.
At this point, we are outside on the street again, having gone outside the station while he explained his story and I’m not sure what to do. I want to be kind and trusting but you just never know and 90€ is a lot. I start to change my mind and voice my doubts, saying i am happy to give him what i have on me. He then becomes distraught, almost angry, saying he thought I understood his situation and that he’ll never be able to get home with 40€.
I should have walked away. But something provoked me to stay, maybe the part of me that hates disappointing others, and so I give him my address before walking to an ATM to withdraw the remaining difference. After handing him the money and wishing him the best of luck, I can already sense the feeling in my gut telling me that maybe I’ve just been emotionally manipulated into giving a perfect stranger 90€ for God knows what. There’s something guilty about his expression as he walks away but I try not to think about it too much, reminding myself that a good deed isn’t about being repaid anyway.
It’s as I’m recounting the details of this odd encounter to a friend later that night that I realize just how many holes there are in his story, all the questions I should have asked but didn’t think of. Suddenly I feel very vulnerable, imagining intruders at my window thanks to the address, and sheepish for being so naive. And why did this man pick me out of the crowd? For a couple of days, I find myself on edge in the metro, watching my back and trying to appear as unapproachable as possible.
But in a few days, the feeling passes and the whole experience is filed under the many lessons I’ve learned while living here. Only my curiosity remains about what a well-dressed, middle-aged man’s intentions could possibly be in singling out a young woman in the metro for 90€.
The One with the Giggles
On the first day that spring finally conquers the winter grey, a friend and I decide to meet at le Sacré Coeur in Montmartre to enjoy the sunshine after months of seeking refuge in cafés. It appears that we are not the only ones who have decided to take advantage of the weather as Line 2 is particularly crowded for the early afternoon. Every car is packed, passengers standing with bags pressed tightly against them and faces practically against the necks of those around them. Normally such rides seem interminable but the promise of a warm spring day awaiting just above has appeased the Parisian spirit and these irritations are forgotten.
Somewhere amidst the crowd the side of my car, a young woman in a baseball cap is talking loudly on the phone, apparently recounting the events of a night out. She begins to laugh, and not the cute little “tehehe” kind. This is a loud, rollicking laugh, the kind that sucks the air out of the lungs to make a strangling sound at the end of a riff, one that sometimes leads to snorting. It rings out through the car above the clamour, filling the empty spaces above heads and between legs. It sends a ripple through the crowd, soft at first, until shoulders shake, hands cover mouths, and faces bury into the backs of friends. A peal finally escapes from someone’s lips and breaks the seal, everyone laughing and not knowing why and laughing even harder at the absurdity of it all. Through eight different stops and new sets of passengers, the chorus swells and when I finally reach my stop, I don’t want to leave. But I’d like to imagine the laughter spreading down the length of that train as it continued along the serpentine tracks that day, greeting each wave of people with the pure unbridled joy of being alive in this city so hardened by life.
a.k.a on facing situations of letting your guard down and taking people on human being to human being
There’s a place I go in the mornings, to wind down after the first hours of work and gain momentum for the rest, letting the mind churn out excess thoughts and reset. It’s commonly known as a swimming pool but in Paris, this name is too benign, conjuring up images of your friendly, local YMCA pool where the water is a place where community thrives as much as where exercise takes place. In Paris, this scene takes on a more aggressive atmosphere, as strenuously competitive and cramped as other aspects of life here.
I am generally greeted with a long line waiting for the doors to open. There is no profile for the Parisian swimmer; from the moment the doors open, it’s a mad dash for the changing rooms, businessmen and grandmothers alike stripping down with astonishing speed, and charging into the showers. Be it a lunchbreak on a weekday, early morning on the weekends, or late at night, lanes fill, water flies, and the ants fall into line, one behind the other, in an endless circuit of dizzying movement for this myope. Like playground days long gone of timing your leap into the spinning jumprope’s vortex, entrance into this cog requires careful timing and an assertive push off the wall.
One, two, three, four, breathe. Head bowed, I follow the fizzy wake of the swimmer ahead, making the necessary adjustments in pace. The water offers respite from the incessant noise of the world outside, all sound dissolving into the vacuum, pools of refracted light shimmering at the bottom. Despite my predisposition to excessively worry about other people’s judgments, I try to ignore the looming presence behind me and the pressure of not lagging behind, focusing on my own shadow gliding along the bottom of the pool. We’re all in this together. Traffic becomes heavy at the end of each lane as swimmers readjust googles and caps, catching their breath and putting some distance between themselves and those ahead before getting back on the race track. Through my half-blinded state, I assess the landscape, counting the blurred arms flying and heads bobbing on the surface. At peak hours, which seems to be always, there can be as many as 16 limbs coming towards you. It seems one can never escape the density of life in the city, always compacted tightly together.
Though unspoken, a certain code of conduct reigns over the splashing madness of the swimming pool and as the lanes fill up, a miniature model of the population emerges, a collection of bodies of varying proportions and personalities. The most fit, serious swimmers set the pace, their movements strong and sure, unwavering in their confident circuit up and down the pool. They are the leaders, wired to push forward and attract others to follow. These followers include those who are able to keep up with the general rhythm but are also attune to the needs of the group as a whole, willing to adjust their own behaviors to benefit the overall group. I most certainly fall into this category, preferring to adapt than to force my way through the tangle of limbs. We make the accommodations necessary for creating a peaceful environment conducive to everyone’s needs. Meanwhile, the leisurely and slower swimmers go at their own pace, and though at least one lane is usually reserved for them, limited space and high demand lead to a mingling of skill levels. There’s also always that one person doing water gymnastics, somersaulting all the way down the length of the pool at the speed of a porpoise, carefree and oblivious to any interruption they may be causing. But we adapt, the swifter swimmers respectfully passing only when feasible and the rest of us courteously hugging the lane’s shoulder and pausing at the end to let them go before us. Under the auspices of these rules, fluid movement is maintained and this micro-system functions nicely.
Perhaps inevitably, however, this harmony quickly breaks down. Whether from lack of oxygen or sheer arrogance, a group of impatient individuals systematically disregards everyone else’s right to an enjoyable experience. These are the swimmers who breathe down your neck as they pass down the narrow median with oncoming traffic directly ahead, volleying for a prime position in the line-up. Such “road rage” forces everyone else to yield, shield their faces, break their breathing pattern and roll on their side in order to avoid catching an elbow to the face, groin, or stomach. As these dissenters muscle their way through, all cohesion disintegrates and resentment begins to build. Once courteous swimmers become as tyrannically insenistive as these rude rule-breakers, succumbing to the temptation to resist this callousness with equally bad behavior. A few elbow jabs and tidal waves sending me scrapping against the ropes and I feel all the meditative qualities I love most about my swim leaving me as my irritation rises. What began as a mentally-stimulating, invigorating work out becomes a race to see how long I can stay in the game before my patience maxes out.
With few exceptions, these people who feel entitled to disregard everyone else’s space and feelings have been men. From the bulkiest, balding tanks to the sleek young businessmen with ripped swimmer’s bodies, the message has been clear: “my time in the swimming pool is more important than yours and if you don’t move over, I don’t care if I hurt you in the process.” They go back and forth in this way, violently churning up the water and pushing people aside as they go. At best, their behavior is disruptive and disrespectful, but it is also unsafe. Worst of all, it goes unchecked, with lifeguards and other swimmers turning a blind eye until a confrontation occurs. They stand smugly at the end of each lane as if daring anyone to say something. I have even witnessed a few shouting matches between offended swimmers and these aggressors, the most dramatic involving a man trying to block a woman from swimming in the middle of the lane with a paddle board, refusing to let her pass on either side and resulting in blows from said object. Interestingly, this woman was one of the few who herself was swimming aggressively. How convenient that a man swimming in a way that endangers others around him is left unchecked or approached with great deference but a woman behaving with similar aggression merits to be attacked with a paddle board.
These confrontations have left me with the feeling that though so much progress has been made for women in our society, a large proportion of men continue to move through this world with rampant indifference towards the consequences of their behavior. It is disheartening to see so many generations of entitlement within the confines of 12 feet of water play out and wonder if it will ever be different. Our world is in crisis in so many ways and yet we are still incapable of thinking of others and functioning with a modicum of respect for one another. No, instead it appears we are fated to continue pummeling one another, pushing the weak aside and forgetting that we are all humans deserving of love and respect. Even in a chlorinated basin of water.
Image courtesy of Jay Mantri @ http://jaymantri.com/
Lock the doors, cellphone turned on and at the ready at all times, perfection a steely gaze while walking through the city and avoid all human contact. We’ve been raised to believe in our vulnerability and the vicious, cruel intentions of anything and anyone outside of our circle. Minds poisoned with television dramas and police thrillers, reeling with all the ways we could possibly be hurt. So we bury ourselves away in protective layers – perpetual distraction with the swipe of a finger, closed to the world passing by.
The first time I ever toyed with the idea of hitchhiking was as a lanky preteen joking around with my best friends on the side of a quiet road in rural North Carolina. There was something thrilling at the thought of a perfect stranger stopping at the sign of a thumb, not to mention the deliciously satisfying element of the forbidden. Amid giggles and friendly shoving, we stuck our thumbs out and waited. But at the sound of a car rounding the bend in the road, we’d lose our nerve and pull our thumbs away at the last minute, erupting into fits of laughter and high-pitched squeals as drivers cast confused and disapproving looks upon our little group. Egging one another on, our thumbs stayed up longer, the winner to walk away with the glory of being the bravest. I can no longer remember who won the dare but I do remember our failed experiment ending when our church pastor at the time recognized us and pulled over to see what on earth was going on. First lesson of hitchhiking: don’t do it in your small hometown.
Then my friend Bri and I began planning our trip to Ireland. She brought up the idea after reading an informative article written by seasoned traveler and solo hitchhiker Ana Bakran, who addresses many of the myths and concerns of hitchhiking as a woman today. Her confidence and sage advice made us excited to try it for ourselves as we drew up an itinerary for our 10-day trip around Ireland. Not only was it sure to be an adventure but we’d be saving lots of money on bus tickets, a bonus for travelers on a budget.
So after a weekend in Dublin, we headed out beyond the western city limits in the direction of Galway. Although Ireland generally looks favorably upon hitchhiking, it is illegal to hitchhike on the highway. Therefore, we made sure to place ourselves as far out of town as possible right before the highway junction. Shivering with excitement and nervousness despite the sunny blue sky, we stationed ourselves near an intersection, feeling a bit self-conscious as drivers swiftly rushed past. Thumbs out, a handmade sign made of cardboard with our destination in bold letters, and high spirits were all we needed. The initial timidity quickly fell away as we committed to the task and drivers began signaling with their hands, indicating they were turning in the other direction or simply offering up a little wave. Whether they stopped or not, suddenly these strangers all seemed less removed and fear of the unknown began to retract.
We stood there for about 30 minutes, doing our best to look cheery and confident, before an older gentleman in a worn driver’s cap and white whiskers getting off at the bus stop nearby came over and kindly informed us that we’d have much better luck if we moved further down the road a bit. Tip number two: listen to unsolicited advice from locals. In nearly every location, strangers walking by or driving would pull over and offer us this type of advice and it always served us well. After standing in our new spot for a little while longer, another man with whom we’d spoken earlier as he put up campaign signs drove up beside us and offered to take us even further so that we’d really only be getting traffic headed out West. A 10-minute drive up the road and a 15-minute wait later and we soon had hitched ourselves a direct ride to Galway!
Our luck in finding rides from friendly, respectful drivers continued as we wound our way down the Atlantic coast. In Galway, a shared meal with a young man staying at our hostel led to an invitation to join him down South to the Cliffs of Moher. In his rented car, we rode through the rolling countryside of the Burren on narrow back roads, ancient pilings of stone walls winding beside us. Routes that would be impossible for bulky buses to weave through, this unexpected opportunity to experience Ireland’s backwaters left us breathless and hungry for more, so restorative was all the lush green after months of Paris’ stiff grey. It was all we could do to restrain ourselves from shouting “Stop!” every five minutes in order to pull over to take pictures and breathe in the crisp fresh air. One mustn’t abuse one’s host’s generosity, after all.
As you hitchhike, you learn pretty quickly what you’re comfortable with and about its exigencies. We quickly devised a system to ensure that we both felt comfortable in accepting lifts from the drivers who pulled over. By the end of the trip, I had accumulated a collection of photos of Irish license plates on my phone, as I always discretely snapped a quick picture of each driver’s plate as we loaded our bags into the car; just a precaution should a driver need incentive to drop us off when and where we asked. No such problems arose, however. It also became quickly apparent that there is no downtime when hitchhiking; most drivers want to chat and learn more about you and your travels, and it’s best to stay aware of your surroundings as well. Though this may have impeded us from catching up on any lost sleep from early mornings and noisy hostels, the conversations we shared in with our drivers were rich and informative, from the wine vendor who gave us tons of festival recommendations to the man from Belfast who gave us a tour of a seaside town. We arrived in each of our destinations well-informed of their history and best spots to see, eat , and drink, and other insider tips we never would have learned otherwise. Not to mention the long list of places and events to discover next time go to Ireland that our Irish hosts eagerly shared with us.
As with every trip, of course, there was a moment of discouragement, when we would have given anything to just be back in our warm beds at home. The infamous Irish weather that we’d somehow managed to evade all week descended upon us on the last leg of our trip from Cork back to Dublin, making for quite a soggy evening. Trying to take advantage of our short amount of time in such a cool, quirky city, we dawdled in the lanes of English Market, odors of fresh bread, cheese, and sausages wafting through the bright, enclosed space. While we sipped our cappuccinos in the hip little café of the Triskel Arts Centre, a converted cathedral that now serves as a concert and film screening venue and equipped with a record store, clouds gathered in the sky and unleashed their vengeance: a drenching cold rain that didn’t let up for hours. By the time we returned to our hostel to fetch our bags and head out of town, it was too late to correct our mistake. Though only 4:30pm, darkness had rolled in with the weather front and with it, our chances of catching a direct ride all the way back to Dublin were looking pretty bad.
Nonetheless, we wrapped our backpacks in garbage bags and reiterated our belief to one another that someone, just one person, would pull over and give us a lift. A ten-minute walk up the road towards the edge of town through sheets of rain and our faith began to quiver. The temperature had dropped by a couple degrees and our extremities were already beginning to numb when we stuck our thumbs out at a spot with plenty of Friday rush-hour traffic going in a northeastern direction, though in truth, the weather had made us complacent and we probably should have moved further out of town. The rain was falling so hard and windshield wipers moving so fast that all hopes of making crucial eye contact were lost. Still, we waited, trying to will a lift into existence and singing out our pleas in silly rhymes to lift our mood, huddling together and jumping up and down to stay warm, until the cold rain soaked through our layers and we had to admit defeat. No free ride to Dublin was worth catching pneumonia. A Guinness, a warm fire to dry off in front of, and some friendly chatter in a pub and we were on the bus to Dublin. My shoes will probably never be the same but it was one of those nights to look back on with a smile that distance affords.
Growing up in a small town where the closest thing to stranger driving by was my church pastor, I don’t think my 13-year-old self would ever have thought it possible for such generosity to exist. The world seemed so much larger and distant, separate from our little bubble. As I’ve entered adulthood as a woman living in a big city, that view of our global society has come into greater focus but my sense of vulnerability often remains. We are made to think, especially as women, that we must form thick walls around us at all times as we move through our daily lives. Perhaps this is why not one woman stopped to offer us a ride or give us directions. Times have changed, people say, they’re too dangerous for hitchhiking. But after Ireland, I disagree. Of course, there are bad people in this world. Of course, you have to be careful, follow your instinct, don’t take unnecessary risks. But I don’t see how this day and age is more dangerous than the previous decades when my own parents followed their hearts and instincts across miles and miles of foreign territory, with only their thumb to guide them. The only difference I see is a closing off of people, of our willingness to really see others and form real connections. Five strangers and 436.5 miles. Call it beginner’s luck … or maybe people are just a little kinder than we are led to believe.
For months now, I’ve organized my days around the premise that there isn’t much to do in Neuilly. Just on the western perimeter of the city between Paris-proper and the sleek skyscrapers of the business district, its wider, tree-lined avenues afford more room for the families that seem to cluster here. And while I’ve appreciated the calm nights with little street noise, it’s always felt a little bit stuffy, strollers and small children running along the sidewalks with grandparents not far behind. This, coupled with the extreme satisfaction I get from hearing the ding of my metro card while passing through the turnstile, have pushed me out into the city, constantly in search of a quiet corner of some library or café with an outlet, a packed lunch and a book for the trip to and from home in tow.
The choices are overwhelming; I dream of the day when I’ve sat in every café but that is at least 10,000 coffees away. There’s always something new to explore and for a small town girl, the contrast between neighborhoods is delightful. One metro stop you’re surrounded by vestiges of France’s history and the next, you can feel like you’re in a different country, surrounded by other cultures’ cuisine and language, blended together and infused with its own energy. This piecing together is how cities are made, starting from a tiny center centuries ago and gradually incorporating the extremities, constantly redefining boundaries and the regions found within.
But due to my increasingly busy work schedule, the back-and-forth on the metro was beginning to tire me out. As efficient as public transport generally is over here, there is always the risk of the unpredictable happening – a bus strike or a sick passenger or an abandoned piece of luggage that shuts down the whole station for at least an hour, to name a few examples. Though the routine of waking up early and getting out in the city had become familiar and pleasant, I needed to conserve my energy a little more throughout the day.
In my eagerness to experience every inch of Paris, I had forgotten the key element that distinguishes life in the city: the central importance of your own neighborhood! This notion can seem so foreign for those of us accustomed to American suburbia, sprawling and erratic in its distribution of resources. A microorganism of life unto itself, the French neighborhood dictates the pace of daily life, each with its unique rhythm. Within a couple of blocks lies all that one needs to survive. Though you may be attached to some other area because of work or school, these do not define you as much as where you live, for even the fact that you come in from somewhere else becomes part of your daily identity. Everything outside is extraneous, superfluous.
So out of necessity as well as curiosity, I have spent the past two weeks learning more about where I live. The first task was to locate a laundromat, as this appliance-needy writer is ashamed to admit that in the past few months, lunch at Grandma’s had become synonymous with Laundry Day. For this transgression, I can only blame my American half for finding any logic in dragging a suitcase full of laundry halfway across a city and onto a suburban train line bound for a town north of Paris. Silly, silly American! The laundromat, albeit one of the few in my bougie area, is only two streets away from my apartment … and right down the street from an excellent bakery. So while waiting for my clothes to finish, I can treat myself to a coffee and pastry before settling in for an hour of writing.
Among the apartment buildings of different eras and styles are a couple of corner cafés, their dark wooden interiors warm against the winter blueness, mouth-watering delicacies displayed in glass cases. Scattered throughout the grid system of the neighborhood, they offer a window into its social workings, friends greeting one another from the terrace, businessmen out for drinks, children bent over homework spread out over tables with cups of hot chocolate nearby. I can sit and observe the array of life unfolding before me, planning my lessons and writing to my heart’s content, or simply duck in for a quick espresso if I’m early for a lesson; these tranquil refuges are never far away. And as I’ve sat in these neighborly establishments, I have begun to recognize faces from around town, characters out of a story I have yet to finish reading. There’s the man who always wears a colorful fishing cap and galoshes who appears to spend hours at the local library writing poetry whenever I see him there. There’s also the woman who is always walking at least three dogs, one of which is always a new one … I’m sure there’s a story there somewhere!
In any case, the time spent right here in my neighborhood has decreased my weariness and increased my appreciation for where I live. Though it may not be as vibrant and trendy as other regions of Paris, Neuilly has everything you need. From the small grocers who are open on Sunday evenings when you realize you have nothing to eat and all the supermarkets are closed to the community cinema featuring two movies at a time in plush little movie theaters for spontaneous afternoons, its gentle nature provides a steadiness that my life sometimes needs. As for those children racing around on scooters and old folk dressed with a tasteful class of another century, I have come to think of it as a privilege to be surround oneself with groups to which we do not necessarily belong. The delight in being able to have children run down a city street or for an elderly resident to continue to be able to do their groceries at grocer’s around the corner. That is the heart of Neuilly.
Neuilly in the fall.