I don't miss Paris. I don't miss you, Paris.
London's quite all right. We have similar weather
some days. I don't have to meet an artist for
un double espresso at a coffee table outside
in the sun by some charming petit arc for breakfast
after midday and discuss how I feel about life
currently, today, right this second. Or mumble
to a friend without shame or guilt on an impulsive
short tram journey to the suburb I do not have
a valid ticket for to practice my French and
to check out how the art of music is taught to
the general public with a subsidy there: "I'm
sure I'm in the right place right now", whatever
that means. There are hundreds of artisanal coffee
shops in all shapes and forms all around here,
mostly without a seating area. We don't make
a lot of money in this city for a chit -chat.
And I can also just make my freshly ground Sumatran
coffee, supplied by your family -run company
in Dorset, in my Dolce & Gabbana x Bialetti
moka pot, and delay spending another five quid -
oh oui, we are still more cher than you whatever
you dites (I'm soutenue like that) - until
the next ten minutes of my practical, as opposed
to my theoretical, existence. I don't miss you,
Paris. I can walk faster than I talk and I know
how to queue or use an elevator. There's a lot
of those here. And why would I miss going out
in the evening to an artsy venue, cabaret, open
mic, themed house party, mostly within walking
distance, performed or hosted by friends or by
soon-to-become-friends-after-je-dis-bonjour.
We have endless shows in the West End--yep, endless,
like those invites to l'after you throw at me
(I'm good at saying no to anything these days,
l'after all), and costly, like the historic steps
and cobblestones in Montmartre my designer shoes
never get a chance to complain about. I don't
have to impulsively meet up with a new friend
I can instantly connect on a soul level over
a walk, a thrift tour, or an apero by the
Louvre, or any convenient place within 15 minutes
of our current location. I can make an appointment
to eventually lunch or brunch with a friend about
two months in advance through going back and
forth quite a few times in the city and even
travel for over an hour on the tube each way while
I'm at it. What - what is this achy feeling inside
between my chest and my belly button anyway?
Too many days (two!) without going up and down
the fifth floor manually? Manually? Well, there
is a boy - there is a multifaceted joy
up there. And sometimes it's downstairs too,
on the ground, walking with me anywhere I choose
to. With its light heart and vivid jokes designed
solely and clumsily to make me forget about things
that do not matter - money, calendar, reason.
Can I forget all that? Like forgetting the feeling
of not being able to dream when I'm there because
I can just live every moment without even realising
that I breathe - I simply breathe and live there?
Well, I can dream when I'm here, about anything.
I just close my eyes, regulate my breathing,
sometimes put on some non-jazz music, and see
what I want to achieve and I know I'll achieve
it. Like all the things I've achieved without
you since I left you in 2019. I can at least
try again. Now I visited you five years later,
last October, for a quiet solo birthday walk
down the old streets with my new self - because
my daughter insisted that "I think Paris would
make you feel very happy," after I told her my
New York plan fell through, and even after I
insisted that I was done with you - for a week,
and you think you can make me forget everything
I thought I wanted or was required of me? My
recent monthly weekend visit since November was
extended four times for free. Eurostar princess
here. So that I ended up staying for two weeks.
And I am now back in Wimbledon. Where I thought
I belong. Steadily shaky. Stomping all over reality.
Dreaming of what could be. Because I don't miss
you, Paris. I belong with you.