When I used to call Paris home in 2015, after an initial phase of the highest possible expectations, life quickly cooled down into a less than exciting routine. Granted those were difficult times, a great sense of uncertainty and for someone coming from Vienna also a good deal of culture shock. Paris is chaotic to pick one word out of a list that I cannot be bothered to enumerate now. But aside from whatever outside reasons you might have to not partake in what a city has to offer, first and foremost it's your image of yourself that determines how much you appreciate living in it and what you can gain. You can own anything, including the right to live in a sought after place like this, and have no idea what to do with it. Paris is for me a model organism to study my personal development by, because it is undoubtedly an interesting and beautiful place but with real disadvantages. Like when you chose a person to live with, chosing a city to live in requires you to know what you want, you strengths and weaknesses. Otherwise you are at risk of at best, missing the potential of this coexistance or at worst, might get overwhelmed by it. It's biggest advantage may be the projections people from literally everywhere in the world come here with, playing back their own personal romantic flicks. People of culture, wealthy people, accomplished people or those who want to put skin in the game and make a name for themselves. People with projections go to specific places and you can of course chose to go there yourself or simply brush them off as kitsch or superficial. When living in Paris, you don't necessarily go to Saint Germain or the Marais that often, to the 19th century cemeteries, the old brasseries or literary cafes, the museums, theaters, book shops, delis, art galeries. You have something else to do, work, commute, meet some friends at some specific time. You will notice the inconveniences as they arise: time spent in public transports, beggars, homeless, drugged people. The prices, the quality of the average housing unit, failing public service systems. But this focus on the mondaine, the bad and dysfunctional is a habit, a choice that can marre any place. So since we left to live in calmer, cleaner, cheaper places we undoubtedly had calmer lives. But over long periods of time, you grow bored without knowing why. In these 7 years since, both A and I went through disillusions of all kinds, lost direction and years that seem like mere days in our recollection. I in particular underwent a significant change. I used to be happy at home, reading books, learning only that I ended up disappointed by the lack of accomplishment and apparent solitude. I cast book knowledge away and opened up to people, growing ever more curious and fascinated by how others figure out life, wanting to participate in some common moments shared among friends or lovers. I have lived with my own custom made and very elitist passions, without any higher conception of myself whatssoever and then again with a passion for well lived moments and I learned that a life without passion is nothing. Saying yes to some things and no to others is a temporary solution to build up the foundations of your personality and protect you but ultimately, you will make mistakes chosing what you want and what you don't want because you have no idea what you need nor what exists out there in the world. And so far appreciating moments, as many as possible, seems the best approach because here you do not force yourself against the uncontrollable nature of life, trying to block the onslought of an incoming wave, instead you swing with it, swimming or surfing on it like plankton and using it's kinetic energy to actually move towards new experiences. Paris is an example of this. Since moving away, we have visited it many times. Trying new work, meeting new people, traveling to far away places. Alone. With the partner. With new friends. The friends see the city as a dream, your travels to the antipodes connect you to the here and there, alone you discover moments that you want to share, together you discover moments that enrich yourself. When we showed Saint Germain, a restaurant, the university, a bookshop, a medieval museum, the 2 magots to my chinese friends, the sense of wonder and their shiny eyes were real. When we, letting them enjoy their honeymoon, set out to see the eiffel tower at night, rain pouring down on us, we squeezed under one umbrella to end up in a pizzeria run by an outgoing sicilian guy, the city lights glittering dark yellow and orange around us, swirling around us until we too would have believed that Hemingway could have driven up to us in an old vehicle to show us his favorite dive. like in that Woody Allen movie, that was real. This time we stayed at a charming hotel not far from Odeon, everything brightly lit like for Christmas, fashionable tourists everywhere - thank god for Emily in Paris! - but also Parisians. Shiny shoes, dark blue coats, trimmed beards, accessories. All real just as anything else. In the hotel, we couldn't sleep because of a squeaky bed in the neighbors room kept us informed about their every move for 20 minutes. At the end it sounded like a mouse running out of breath. Somebody is living the dream of Paris, city of love, and we smiled. When I come to Paris now, I come to meet people, dead or alive and be inspired. At the morning breakfast, 3 out of 5 tables were Emilies. Italian Emilies, swedish Emilies, american Emilies. The others old but distinguished ladies, gossiping in German about some guys infidelity. I paid my dues at the reception in such a polite manner that the receptionist was surprised and added a couple of phrases to her usual: merci, au revoir. When buying chocolate that had been matured like cheese from the Sicilian brand Sabadi, next to the Odeon theater and the editing house Flammarion, i noticed that the salesperson didn't pronounce Palermo the French way notwithstanding her perfect French and, struggling with the card payment system finally mumbled: ecco qua! I got a chance to ask why she didn't like her job, why she tried something new running a chocolate store, ideas about the future in italian. At the Montparnasse cemetary no words were uttered but the collective subconscious of the few visitors who braced the windy cold was very audible. Simone de Beauvoir's and Sartre's grave has Spanish, Chinese, Korean, German, French messages of gratitude put all over, Serge Gainsbourg receives metro tickets in a jar that some private person must first have the idea to put their in honor of one of his most famous songs, the cynic Cioran lies anonymously, the gravestone lighter than his thoughts, next to a guy who loved oysters so much that their shells cover his last resting place. At Samuel Backett's grave, a young Chinese man waited for 30 minutes: the time we realized he had found what we were looking for on the unreadable map but nobody came so we moved on. I met twice a lady with fiery look and mane, both seemed like flames of a fiery jinn, the first time she looked at me intensely, the second she smiled and Maupassant was abandoned alone like the dog left in the well to die. This is a day in Paris if you want it. But it's not over. With out friends from Shanghai, we weren't able to go to the Closerie des Lilas and didn't think much about it, because Hemingway and a bunch of other writers used to hang out there and these places are generally for tourists. A, having completely embraced this mindset of living the thoughts she wants to live, booked a table for us anyway. It's a cozy place, surprisingly calm, jazz music, very good food and the wine decent without having to spam your group chat telling them about it. Over the course of the lunch, we didn't hear a single tourist. Instead, at the table next to us, two real estate executives, one old and unpleasant, the other young and unpleasant, talking about how management has to show force and rigor and people need the whip. The young was proving himself, while spasmically winking with both eyes, the old one was more relaxed in his portrayal of incompetent subordinates. Both had to, just had to show the waitress that messieurs weren't completely satisfied with the food and when they finally left we got to see another patron, man, alone, in his 30s, backpack and office clothes, chino trousers, short coat, sailor style. He ordered a half-bottle of red wine and enjoyed it with delight, leaving half of it and not touching the water for a single sip. Behind at the bar, people came to drink coffee. This was early in the afternoon and you don't see this often anymore, just in those bars attached to cigarette vendors, a nice old guy who had trouble getting on the bar stool, read a newspaper quickly and disappeared with the last turning of the page. A young man, hat, neat coat, suspenders and moustache, sipping coffee like you would hug a relative, like Proust, he was probably thinking of Leonie. Slow movements, fingers stretched like his spine, a delicate being. All left and we were left with some remaining guests enjoying coffee and dessert. At the table in the corner, I had already glimpsed 2 classy Parisian ladies, in their 60s maybe, very clearly enjoying their conversation. At some point, A told me to shut up, she was listening to their conversation which was about one of them wanting to write a book about Gustave Klimt. "It would be so great to know such people", A smiles, "I could give them my contacts". "Do you want to go over?" "No no". Women always say no, especially those brought up by parents for whom every encounter with another human being is an occasion to embarrass the other and feel bad. So I go over, "Bonjour mesdames, nous avons pas pu nous empecher d'entendre que vous voulez ecrire sur un de mes compatriots". Turns out she's half Austrian, has published a dozen biographies with Flammarion, the publishing house next to Sabadi, A does have useful info for her and she would love to see us both when we next come to Paris. Four writers meeting at the Closerie des Lilas and neither of them is Ernest Hemingway or Andre Breton. The biographer said it best: "Vive Paris!" Much has changed since those old days in Paris. If I would try to put a name on the main agent of this change it would be "detachment". I detached myself from my fears, from wanting to reach certain things at all costs, from wanting to avoid many others our of fear and from A who became an embodiment of them. A detached herself from much the same way, I think because of me and where this scene would not have happened in the past because I would have obsessed about the mistake in the above french sentence, and A would have forced me to go because she would have been embarassed, now it's second nature and I feel like this kind of encounter is what I have been preparing for all of my life. At the right time, at the right place, meeting the right people and having something to say to them. Paris is now one of the possible playing grounds were you would expect these things to happen more often and therefore, a place to be. A still wanted to visit some museums but I had enough and waited for her at a very fancy bar, favored among asian tourists and run by a french-chinese lady. I suppose she played the XHS game right, because this shop runs like clockwork next to the musee de la chasse and the clientele consists of fashion models and influencers. Luckily the ceiling is very high because the amount of chique these people carry needs to evaporate somewhere safely. So I relax, watch people, get some smiles. One girl was taking pictures outside, in front of the window and when she smiled when she saw me looking in I yelled in joyful surprise and had to hold A's hand who was sitting right next to me. The fact that 2 of the employees speak Russian or more likely Ukrainian, gives me an idea of what to do next. I have my work cut out for me, let me talk, let me get to know all these people! ![[Paris1_italian.txt]]