Comfort in a Cemetery

You can call it fate or perfect timing, whatever you want, but something put me in front of that cemetery today. Something told me to take the ligne 3 metro instead of the ligne 2; something told me to walk; something told me to go see what lies behind those stone walls.

That was when I realized how homesick I was feeling. Early today, I sat in my lecture class and couldn't stop thinking I was wasting my time. So, I left. I walked to the Musée d'Orsay and imagined the world of the French painters of the 19th century. I should've been born at least 120 years ago. That time was so alive back then in Paris: modernization, impressionism, realism, surrealism. After an hour and half lost among the paintings and sculptures, I headed back to Sciences Po for my next class. Turns out it was rescheduled for tomorrow, so I went to run errands in the 11ème arrondissement. That was when I found le Cimetière Père Lachaise, or rather it found me.

What are those walls hiding? Who are they protecting? I walked around on the cobblestoned walkways up and down a city of tombs and mini chapels. None looked the alike, but all were for the same thing: in memory and honor of the dead. Almost three centuries of families, the old French aristocracy, are buried here. Among them, several famous authors, musicians, philosophers, politicians, international figures. I rushed first to see Balzac. I spent a semester with my nose stuck in his novels. I felt comfort seeing him there. Then came Jim Morrison, Poulenc, Delacroix, Maria Callas, Gertrude Stein... For some reason, walking around the cemetery slowly faded away my homesickness. It was cold, but the sun was shining. I hadn't noticed the sun in weeks.

I found comfort in these resting places. These cold stones of solidarity and strength of families through the ages warmed my heart. They were there for my while I was missing my family more than anything. I was among the homes of thousands of families; families from all over the world. Even though death breathed through every stone, every piece of metal and glass, sucking the color out of any plant that touched those stones, I felt love. That's what is keeping this place together.

Oscar Wilde's tomb overwhelmed me. Adorned with the kisses of thousands (maybe millions) of women wearing shades of red lipstick, Wilde's tomb and memory certainly doesn't die over the years. Two teenage girls wrote their love oaths at the foot of the back corner of his tomb. It just never dies...

Ironically, the rotted remains of France dominated my homesickness. Thank you Paris, the city where nothing really dies forever.

Familiar Stranger

I met him tonight. I met his eyes in the darkness of the street as he locked up the bar. I knew it was him right away.


00h10 

Seconds before, the jingling keys in his hands turning the lock seemed to have prepared me for him. They told me in their light metal-ringing song that this is the one you had heard about.
Just the night before, the the old woman told me about him. It felt like come straight out of a fairytale story book. She told me his heartbreaking story.

Her, white as the Polish snow of her homeland. Him, black as the history of the country that forced his parents flee to France. Her, a tall, majestic dancer studying in Paris. Him, a bar tender trying to make ends meet. They meet at the bar and instantly fell in love. Every night, she would wait anxiously for midnight so that she could spend the first minutes and hours of her day with him. All he could think of was her. They could easily see themselves together forever. But tradition and family stands in their way. The old-fashioned ways of her homeland would never accept the new man in her life, much less the children that would come from their marriage. She flies back to Poland, occasionally coming back to visit him, but it's never long enough.  She has to make a decision: family or love? 


I smiled at him as I walked by. I thought of what Madame had told me the night before. What a crazy modern Romeo and Juliet story. He walked quickly passed me, and I wondered how he was feeling. Does he ever worry that he might never be with her? Is he happy? He hop-skipped twice as he walked off the sidewalk to cross the street. I guess that was my answer. If anything, tonight, he is in a good mood. Tonight, he is just any other bar tender trying to survive in the city. Tonight, he is just another guy walking down the same street as me.

Soft heart in a hard city

I didn’t recognize the song right away, but for some reason I just knew that’s what it was, as if I subconsciously wanted it to be that song. Like a sheep in a heard, I just kept walking, not thinking. I just want to get home. I just want to get home. That mantra had been playing on repeat in my head since I had left my apartment at 7 that morning. I just want to get home. But that voice. It pierced through my zombie state of mind

 and I just froze

in the middle of the corridor. Machines, not people, set on auto-pilot and always upset about something rushed by. They became a blur of black coats as my eyes tried to focus on the source of the music beyond the crowd. I couldn’t see where the voice was coming from, yet it was so clear and strong.

Tears started sliding down my cheeks. I couldn’t figure out why. I wasn’t feeling particularly sad, just very tired. The voice continued to sing. I could see the guy now, a homeless man sitting humbly on the floor of the metro corridor. Armed with his guitar, amp and mike he attacked our ears and invaded our hearts.

I moved out of the way of the mob and closed my eyes. Then it hit me. Today marked one month since I’ve been in Paris. My first month alone in an other country. Today was also the first day I had to encounter the strictness of the French education system (I don’t know how you learn through their methods…). I realized how much I missed certain people back home: my brothers, my parents, friends. I wish they were here with me. I know how much they would love it too.

The voice kept poking at my heartstrings.

As overwhelming as those feelings were, I knew that overall, I am happy here. I’m meeting people from all over the place. I’m spending more time with my aunts, uncles and cousins who I don’t see enough. I feel like I’m really getting to know my family and in exchange, I’m getting to know myself a little better. These moments are priceless and worth every penny I’ve spent trying to get to Paris.

In one month, Paris given me a thicker skin, just like any city would. But, there’s something about Paris that keeps your heart throbbing.

He finished his song. Immediately I broke out of trance, realizing that I wasn’t the only one who had stopped. I pulled out a couple coins and tossed them in his guitar bag. I looked at the man in the eyes, smiled and said “Thank you.” Then off I went, my heart full and happy, no longer exhausted.

Stranger in the Metro

She noticed him because of the way he dressed. It was simple and camouflaged with everyone else, but he stood out to her for some reason. The way he carried himself, the way he wore his casquette, the way he swayed as he stood beside her waiting on the quai of the Concorde station waiting for the metro. Any minute now...

She caught his eye too. He stood nervous, almost. One glance wasn't enough, neither was the second. She was his newest addiction among his many. Every stolen look at her made him shiver much harder than any Parisian winter. He just couldn't stop staring. She didn't seem to notice him, and he wished she did.

The metro pulls into the station and through separate doors, they get on the same car, meeting in the middle, sitting in seats face-to-face. How perfect, he thinks. How perfect, she thinks. Yet, they ignore each other.

She kept looking out the windows, watching him only through the side of her eyes. As she started dreaming of the world above ground, he couldn't help but take in her every detail. She kept her chestnut hair neatly pulled back, but loose. Her hazel eyes glowed of youthful passion even in the metro's fluorescent lighting. Freckles paraded across her pale skin from one rose cheek, over the nose and onto the other rose cheek.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't figure her out. She wasn't from here. There was something different about her. He could tell she was a dreamer, but her expression was almost that of anger. She intimidated him. He tried to find something to talk to her about.

She tried to memorize his face with every half-a-second glance. After all, time was running out. At the most, she had five minutes to enjoy his presence before she reached her final destination, unless he got off before that. He had one freckle placed perfectly between his eye and upper cheek bone. His tame scruff hid his youthful face. He could not have been older than 25. She could read his nervousness as his fingers played with a light blue bracelet from some South American country. He chewed compulsively on a toothpick. When she looked away, she could feel his piercing dark brown eyes dissecting her. The feeling was uncomfortable, yet thrilling. There was no explanation.

Charles De Gaulle Étoile


He gets up slowly as the metro begins to slow down. As he waits by the door, she stares at him, wondering if he will look back one last time. The doors burst open. He takes the toothpick out of his mouth, turns to look at her one last time. Their eyes meet. His eyes smile. She returns the gesture with an acknowledging smile as her cheeks flush a darker pink. He steps off the metro and the doors behind him close. He wished he had talked to her.

Her metro begins to move again, faster and faster now, down its hundred-something-year-old rails. She wished she had talked to him. That would be the closest she would ever be to him, unless fate brought them together again.

Argentine


She snaps out of her dream state and realizes the metro had frozen time. She gets up and walks back into reality.

Aimless Wanderings: the Parisian love affair

I had always heard people talk about Paris as the city of love and passions. I never understood that saying. I have been here many times and never felt anything remotely close to its cliché saying until today. I think I must have fallen in love about a thousand times over with every step I took.

Today I walked from my apartment in the 17^th arrondissement, which is nearly the edge of Paris, all the way to Notre Dame Cathedral in the center of the city. I can’t explain to you why I chose to walk or why I walked to Notre Dame but the experience was worth the four-hour ballade along les Champs Elysées and les quais of Paris.

I must have fallen into a coma. I forgot about sleep, food and everyone else on the planet. It was just the live city and I in perfect harmony. I photographed whatever I felt was beautiful and when I got home, I realized that most of my pictures were examples of love in the city.

I saw a man on a bridge with a bag at his feet that had two big teddy bears in them. He reached into his bag and grabbed one, held it out in front of him with one hand. The setting sun perfectly illuminated the Eiffel Tower in the background. With his other hand, the man grabbed his fancy camera and photographed the bear. I could only imagine where that picture would go. Maybe he has a loved one whom he wishes could be there with him at that very moment where the light shone so perfectly.  Maybe that loved one will never get to see Paris or maybe one day he hopes to bring that person there with him. I wondered how far that picture would travel across the world, if at all.

I kept walking. I couldn’t help but smile. I fell in love with the idea that this place makes people dream and feel alive. In a way, it was doing the same for me. I weaved between the left and right banks of the Seine lost in thought. I passed trees bearing the scars of lovers. There were two bridges decorated with the safety locks of lovers, each different shapes, sizes and colors. On them, engraved or markered on were the names and words of wisdom of lovers. Apparently the city took them off one night and the next day, people were putting back the locks.

Three hours later, I’m finally at Notre Dame. All I wanted was a picture, but for some reason, I felt compelled to go inside. I couldn’t remember the last time I visited the cathedral. Inside, the soft harmonies of an organ greeted my ears. Music: my second passion. I took the time to take in everything I saw, heard and felt in the soft, candle-lit atmosphere. It was almost therapeutic. I stayed for a mini service/organ and choir concert. I think it was probably the most beautiful sounds I had heard all day.

After that, I walked to the metro station and went straight home. I looked at my pictures and thought about the day. I still can’t believe I’m here until June.

Portuguese Soup

I wasn't expecting anyone. Yet, someone kept buzzing for me to let them in the building. I ignored it. Two minutes later, a knock came at my door. Louder and louder. I walk over to the clandestine metal door and peered through the peephole.

It was the land lady, staring right back at me with a big smile.

I had only been in Paris for about an hour. I didn't expect to see her. Elisa has been the landlady of our building for 25 years. She has seen me every other year of my life for thirteen years. Between my brothers and I, she is known as the "woman we can't understand." The city has had no impact on her accent, nor has it changed her life. She seems content in her little studio apartment with her husband and five birds, one of which is a grey parrot who makes cat calls to good-looking women.

"Bonjour Elisa. Comment ça va?," I asked her after opening the door.

She barges in, explains to me how to open the door next time she rings, rushes to the kitchen mumbling something in Portugrench about lunch, pulls out a bowl and walks out of the kitchen. Still talking, she grabs my wrist and drags me out the door.

I blink.

I find myself in her apartment making awkward conversation with her husband until she emerges from cloud of smoke and smells of a well-cared for meal with a steamy bowl of yellows, greens, oranges and browns. Knowing very well that I would be alone for a couple days and didn't have much food, Elisa wanted me to have some of her Portuguese beef stew.

It was worth the invasion. I had never had a stew where the peas, carrots, onions, potatoes and beef worked in such flavorful harmony.

I'd say it was a good first day.

The Hardest Part

I haven’t been sleeping well, but that’s because I know my trip is only two days away. I started gathering what I thought I’d need, and honestly, I can’t believe I feel like I need this much. Of all the things that could be scaring me right now, packing is the most terrifying part.

Why?

I guess it’s a mental thing. Packing, physically putting clothing, shoes, electronics, etc. in that big red suitcase, makes everything official and that much more of a reality. There is no way I’m ready for reality. I’ve been a bum since the semester ended a month ago!

I also don’t want to admit to myself that I’m leaving my family and my friends behind for six months. I never really planned on studying in Paris.

Rewind to last year around Christmas time. That was when my parents and my aunt, a ScPo alumni, brought up the idea. Why not, I said? I visited the school. I did hours of research. It turns out that UF has a partnership with Sciences Po.

Now back to real time, here I am, packing. It’s surreal. I can’t even imagine what I’m in for. There is so much I want to do and see and learn. Europe is going to be my backyard, and I’m going to be the toddler that wants to explore every inch of it.

Ok, back to mentally preparing to pack. This is my procrastination.