A New Yorker In Paris: Week Four

Thousands of love padlocks on Pont de l'Archevêché.

Oh, parting is such sweet sorrow, isn’t it? My time in Paris has come to an end and I had to pack up and head on back to crummy old New York City. Yes, that was meant to sound ridiculous and spoiled. I guess I’m just not entirely ready to return to my beloved city. Sometimes you just need to be away from your reality even longer than you had originally planned if you’re going to move on and evolve. I have not evolved!

My final days in Paris mostly consisted of wandering aimlessly through the streets, perfecting my version of “Zou Bisou Bisou” and buying little French trinkets for my friends and family. I was even kind enough to get some goodies for my B5Media ladies, because I’m trying to get them to like me and sweets tend to do the trick. I picked up some really bad touristy t-shirts for my nephews, at the request of my sister, and spent my afternoons in cafes reading Colette (in French of course) and wondering why I had been born so late that I missed out on being a potential lover of Ernest Hemingway. I think we would have gotten along most fabulously.

Notre Dame.

When I left Paris the spring had already settled on the city, so coming home to a cold, dark New York was even more painful than it would have already been. Paris was so green, whereas NYC has yet to get there and the trees from where I’m sitting right now are still brown and depressing — although I could be projecting, but I doubt it.

Elliot Stabler is no longer speaking French on my TV and I clearly understand every word of profanity that is screamed on the New York City streets below. Did you know that even ‘fuck’ sounds better in French? Well, it does.

I do consider myself fortunate to have been able to have this trip, but the selfish part of me would like to have stayed there through the summer. Paris doesn’t have the humidity that we must endure in NYC sometimes; but then again it doesn’t have lots of things like a Metro that runs 24 hours a day and bars that will serve you until 4am. It’s a give and take.

Either way I hope to do another apartment swap with someone in Paris again in six months to a year. I firmly believe that is you keep moving, you can somehow outrun your past. Maybe.

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