Paris Pick-Me-Up

view with sunsetSometimes I think my mom’s on vacation. Or it’s just been a while since I’ve connected. I itch to ring her and say, “Hey, let’s catch up. Got so much to tell you.” Then I realize the separation is permanent. Permanent. It screams at me: forfriggingever! And I despair. I mean veer-into-oncoming-traffic-and-end-the-pain despair.

When I feel this way, I book a flight to Paris.

Paris is a lifeline for me. Paris, and my little apartment, save me from falling into the dark pit of depression. The City of Light means something very particular. Paris is how I get by, how I look forward. When I feel myself contracting into an angry fist, I know it’s time for Paris.

When I feel myself contracting into an angry fist, I know it’s time for Paris.

After a stay in Paris, whatever is brewing in my head, in my soul, is resolved by the time I return to New York. Paris lifts me up, makes me stronger. It clears my head. Paris unties the knot in my gut and makes me excited to be alive. It’s my spa. I always return a better person than when I left.

Paris restores my faith in mankind, in myself. It makes me wide-eyed and new. Optimistic to the point of delusional. Breathless. I’m more creative in Paris, more daring. I’m enraptured with everything around me. I am invincible.

IMG_1384

I don’t know why this is so with Paris. Maybe it has to do with the Rose Line running under the city. Maybe it’s the beauty all around. Maybe it’s because I’m on vacation. Whatever it is, everything I need manifests itself just when I need it. Problems solve themselves. Life falls into place without struggle or force of will. It’s just the way it is with Paris and me.

Paris was not my city of choice. I didn’t dream about living here, but it came into my life and got into my blood—shaking me hard and realigning my perspective. And I was addicted. Two trips a year became four, then six. Then an apartment in the 11th arrondissement. Now, Paris is part of my psyche, part of my story. And I believe the fates conspired to put me in this city precisely when I needed it most: to give me hope when life seemed hopeless.

Read more about my Paris journey.  

3 responses to “Paris Pick-Me-Up

  1. Hello my dear friend. Love your postings, but sad to hear that you are sad. I know how much you miss her! I’m glad you kind find some comfort in your home away from home. Miss you tons!
    Love ya,
    Julieta

  2. Pingback: Shaken, not Stirred | My (Parttime) Paris Life·

Comments

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s