the ghost who walks/she's on the prowl

It’s Halloween in Paris and I am completely indifferent to celebration. Not that I am against the whole masquerade, I just could not care less. I am perfectly happy sitting in my candyless apartment waiting for trick-or-treaters that are certain to never come.

Last year, I was excited to dress up and embody someone else for a single night. Today, I am fed up with masquerading. I shall pass the hours contemplating reading the Roland Barthes article tucked away in my bag, or possibly starting my response to Jean Rhys’ Good Morning, Midnight. I will leave my hypothetical costume hanging in the closet.

Halloween, along with Valentine’s Day and New Years Eve, is a recipe with disappointment. And this year, disappointed I shall not be. Indifference is not conducive to disappointment.

Rewind ten years and I am dressed as Frankenstein, eager for sunset and the subsequent menagerie of candies. Isn’t it funny how time changes everything? Happy Halloween.

a night train/midnight/bags gathered round my feet

Over the past few weeks, the weather patterns in Paris have been so haphazard that it has been nearly impossible to decipher just what season we are in. Last week I could not wear the lightest of cardigans without breaking a sweat the moment the unguarded sun touched my skin, yet two weeks ago there was nothing but tempestuous rain. I thought it was only in Atlanta that the expression, “don’t like the weather, wait twenty minutes” was applicable. I guess not.  

And then there was last night: the first night that held the tiniest hint of winter. It was the first night when breath was visible, completely molecular in the air. Outside of a bar at 2:00 AM, I took a breath, and then I exhaled, and with this exhale I saw the release of particles—oxygen, hydrogen—into the Parisian atmosphere. It was such a weird sensation. It was so unexpected. When did it become winter?

Winter, no. A particularly frigid fall night, yes. But still, there was something so serene about this image that even my friends seemed to acknowledge. It was as if we were taking part in this great natural shift; we were witnessing something that had always gone unnoticed. And yet this morning, waking up and drinking coffee with Julia, you could feel the change. You could feel the shift.

All day I have been sitting in my currently heatless apartment, scarf wrapped around my neck, listening to Bonobo and making my way through Jane Eyre, and honestly, I could not feel more cozy. I mean, after last night, the first night of visible condensation—how romantic when put scientifically—I feel like we are allowed to use the word “cozy”. Cozy: such a wintry word, so suited for my current state of being. It doesn’t really fit any other season.

So here is to the months ahead—to Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas and everything else that the first frigid night alludes to.

Oh, and postscript: Happy Birthday, Mimi. I love you. 

defeat? hell no

The French have a long history of succumbing to surrender. Starting with the surrender of Gaul to the Romans in 52 B.C, and followed by the surrender to the British at the Battle of Crécy during the Hundred Years War, it seems as though when things get rough, the French flee. Even Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor and commander of the Imperial French Army, surrendered and abdicated during the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. What ever happened to going down with the ship? When did it become acceptable to take the easy way out, to wave the white flag when we find ourselves treading water?

That look of defeat doesn't
flatter anyone!

For the past few weeks, it seems as though I have spent most of my time in search of a white flag, in search of a way out from all the struggle that France has imposed upon me. But when I take a step back, what struggles am I speaking of, and can they even be defined as such? What do I think this country is inflicting on my everyday life? Nothing, well at least nothing uniquely directed towards me. Everyone else in my situation is experiencing the same thing. Call it “mal du pays” if you want, but I think it is more a state of discomfort. I am out of the downtown New York bubble, and out of my comfort zone. How ludicrous would it be to surrender to discomfort? Entirely.

So my mission for here on out is to try my hardest to forget about my life in New York—not my friends, my life. My life is in France. My potential inspiration is in France. People have been mentioning my lack of writing recently, and I attribute this to the fact that I have found nothing to write about. But the truth is, I wasn’t looking for anything to write about. I had given up on the ability of Paris to induce creativity in my own mind. Tragically, I even considered surrendering this very blog.

No! One shall not wave a white flag! One’s residence in France does not require one to take on the precedent of surrender! I am the exception. I will induce the flow creativity, despite Napoleon’s soft whisper in my left ear. I must take influence from the Joan of Arcs of France instead. In them, I will find my subjects. In them, I will find my comfort.

Would you call me pathetic for calling my mother last night at 1:00 AM and requesting a care package of sour-patch kids and Reeses cups? Judge if you want, but I have a feeling that with these little pick-me-ups in my bag, my eyes will be opened just a centimeter wider, and that Napoleon will be forced to find someone else to taunt. In the words of Dido, a musical favorite from way back in seventh grade, “I will go down the ship. I wont put my hands up and surrender.”