In Paris, I cannot pronounce Croissant

I have not written extensively about my summer abroad. I honestly thought that my penchant for sentimentality and prose would instill some kind of rejuvenation of my creative spirit. It had the opposite effect as I experienced a case of writers block. Although I went to study abroad, my primary objective was simply life, to experience something completely new and exciting. And I did, for the most part. I left the country with a completely new experience of what physical love could be. I left with a new definition of sensuality. As I channeled Anais Nin, the role of eroticism is an abstract manifestation of poetry. In those subtle touches and natural embraces, I gave in to a usual part of myself that is always guarded. Like a bad basic cable movie, I learned a lesson that most women my age know very well. Some men do not call back. Most men do not have a clue who Anais Nin is.

I always refer back to sex, not just because I miss it, but because it is universal. Unlike animals, we possess sensuality and eroticism. It’s a physical poetry that we sometimes call love, but that I often confuse it with simply just fucking. That’s ok, too. I was in Paris for a week, the last week of my summer abroad. The city of love, lonely as fuck. I met Valeria and Emmanuel at the corner bar of some street in Montmartre, right before the steps that lead up to the Sacre Coeur. I had already been drinking. I was returning from an all day excursion from the Luxemburg Gardens, where I saw a very attractive young man reading Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast.” A perfectly Parisian ode. I went to the Louvre, because that is what we all must do. I spent three hours sweating my sickness out. I saw the Mona Lisa. It was tiny. It did not change my life. I was most impressed with the Delacroix paintings. These were my favorite. I suppose I am more of a Romantic than a traditionalist? I went to dinner by myself. Had drinks by myself. The waiter tried to impress me with his own tattoos. I believe you, you’re cool. I rode the metro by myself, intoxicated. Somehow I was not scared that I was a woman. It was a very short and quiet liberty that I experienced in Paris. I still felt those aching strings within myself, “will I be loved when I come back?” The short answer was a very brutal No.

But I met Valeria and Emmanuel that night, a West African couple fluent in French, English and Spanish. Valeria greeted me in French, but I just gave her a doe eyed look for five seconds and uttered in Spanish that I did not speak French. She spoke to me in Spanish, and I did not feel lonely anymore. We spoke of revolution, literature, America and love. Emmanuel was much more in love with Valeria than she was with him. This I could tell by the way she held her cigarette and smoked it through her smirk while she gazed at him in dominance. I probably fell in love with her, too. I fell in love with her for the same reasons that Emmanuel’s psyche fell in love. It was the unspoken poetic gaze of her sensuality. I wish I was as powerful as Valeria.

I made them laugh with my charm. Valeria said she was drawn to me. She said I had a very friendly look. I usually get told I have a very sad look to me. I suppose it was the Paris humidity. I don’t know. I told them the funny story about the French baker and me. He couldn’t understand my accent when I said I wanted a croissant. You know the French and their R’s. Valeria told me that Parisians tend to get crabby during peak tourist season, but not everyone is like that.

When I returned to the apartment I was staying at, I felt a particular kind of magic. Not just the travel kind, but also a certain romanticism instilled in my sensibilities by Hemingway, Miller and Nin. The moment that I was experiencing wasn’t quite reality, that in time, would slowly store itself away in nostalgic memories, only to be referenced when I need magic and escape from the mundane demands of routine. Traveling tricks you into thinking life is so much better outside your world. Anything and anywhere is so much better when you don’t have to show up for work, pay bills, or drive in traffic. If I transplanted my responsibilities to another country, I would be just as miserable.

Of course, the charm of Paris is its history. It’s in the buildings, on the cobblestones, in the churches and in the term Parisian itself. How fucking fancy. I wish I could transplant the magic of Paris, instead of reliving it in nostalgia. The magic of possibility, of adventure, infiniteness, space and love. Most of the times I am so wrapped up in my ego, in my pursuit of isolation, in my stubbornness to prove that I am not 23 anymore. I say that I have no time for magic, for the frivolous pursuit of companionship, but that’s just a lie because it’s downright silly. I am just scared. I do not posses the power of womanhood and sensuality that Valeria owns. Perhaps it exists in my words, but I’ve wasted them on men who see the world as a literal space, not a spiritual possibility of adventure and love. In my books, Paris encompassed all that. Valeria was the symbolic manifestation of Paris, a sensual woman with red lips smoking a cigarette. The seduction of Paris.

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