Memoirs of a Stina

Le jour de l’an, 2017

No meat, no milk, no eggs.

Daily meditation, exercise and water. Lots of water. Lots of breathing, C——–. No more rage. Oh, just let it go, let it all go! Be kind. Be silent. Smile.

First, I take a brisk walk to and through Bercy Park. It seems smaller than I remember it, though still so pretty, despite the chill and grey of winter. Fifty-six minutes. Then I just amble, this street, that street, all in my arrondissement. I buy a few treats from an open boulangerie patisserie: a little mushroom pizza bread, a three-chocolate-mousse-cream creation, and a custard and chocolate chip pain that I devour on the short walk home. I don’t normally have a sweet tooth but I have very much been craving something sweet these past two days. I originally wanted to buy only the little pizza bread, but to pay carte bleue, it is a minimum of a five Euro purchase. I am happy for the forced indulgence.

The meditation consists of, at least begins with, a short daily podcast I found last night. I am reminded of a time, back in ninety-eight or ninety-nine or two thousand. I was working at Christina’s Restaurant. Everything was pissing me right the hell off. I was really trapped in an inexplicable anger, agitation, annoyance. A rage. Someone suggested I read “Don’t Sweat The Small Stuff.” I went out and bought it immediately. As I began to read it, I scoffed at the blatant and obvious little pieces of advice and wisdom it was offering, nothing of rocket science. This was going to be a pointless and unhelpful read, clearly. But I decided to read on, finish the book. A little miracle happened. In the end, I felt better, something healed. Sometimes we just need a little reminder. A few simple words, heard at the right time, can be so powerful. I haven’t felt that mysterious, nagging rage since, until now, these past few months. Life is cyclical, who knows when or how or why the big wheel turns, but turn, it does. This podcast reminds me of that book. Heck, maybe I’ll re-read the book, too, when I get home. This podcast is simple, you just listen to this guy say a few wise, helpful things, you just pause, you just listen.

I have a fun and wonderful day of inner peace and childish joy, hopping on and off buses, riding around, and walking, walking, walking. I go to Cimetière du Père-Lachaise. I visit Oscar Wilde’s grave, I visit Édith Piaf’s grave. Two women from Texas ask me if I know where Jim Morrison’s grave is. I love being helpful. I remember the kind, old lady, sitting in her car at the dead end I came to en route to Oka National Park during my bike ride last summer. When I told her I was lost and where I was going, she simply said: “Suivez-moi.” Following in her beautiful footsteps, I tell the two women: “Follow me.” I take them to his grave.

I hop on another bus. I get off at Canal Saint-Martin. I walk and I walk. I visit Café Bataclan and the memorial that still remains in the parkette juste en face. Oh, this world! Let’s just love each other, let fear not be oppressive, let it be an awakening! What a day, what a day.

I take the metro to Daumesnil. Au Va et Vient is still closed. I was hoping it might be open this evening. I don’t want to go back to Au Métro, I didn’t love it there, my waiter wasn’t smiley. So here I am, at Félix Café. I like it here until my waiter forgets to bring me a third glass of wine and bids me good night in English. Adieu. Still, I like the twelfth. My bus ride earlier today brought me through the twentieth, it also intrigued me. I could live here, but this visiting stuff is over. And being alone, I’m done with it, too. I’m ready for an adventure, a journey, an exploration with and of someone. But not just anyone.Yes, I’m thinking of, dreaming of M—–. I have proven time and time again, in so many ways and places and situations, too, I can make it by myself in this world. Now, the scariest adventure of them all, can I make it in this world with someone, can I venture deeply into the world inside, with lovely company?  Oh, if a hypocrite could pray…

Le réveillon

I awake at six, how splendidly spoiled it feels to nuzzle into the last dusty corners of sleepiness, bundled in big blankets, able to choose more sleep, no alarms, no appointments. After ten, I rise, I shower, I dress, I heat and eat a piece of quiche, I leave, who knows where to…

I alight at station Saint-Germain-des-Près, another last-minute decision. Maybe I will go to Les Deux Magots? It is right there when I get to street level, so I do.

Today is a day for eating meat, bidding it farewell. For now, for the most part. I order the steak tartare and a glass of Bordeaux-Supérieure. I sit, it’s a long time, I savour. I feel the wine sweetly seep lightly linger so slowly, through me, over me. I haven’t eaten meat since the Solstice, it is the official date. But. There will always be the odd exception. I am in Paris. It is Le Réveillon. It shall be marked with savoury blood. It is what I planned.

I walk along Boulevard de Saint Germain, past the Christmas stalls, filled and pretty with cheeses or soaps from Marseille or scarves or Matryoshka dolls. On Rue des Écoles, I go to OCD. I spend a lot of time selecting, but I am tormented with buyers’ guilt before I even spend a penny. In the end, I buy two French films, one new, one old: “Un homme sans l’occident” from 2002 and “Je t’aime moi non plus,” a film from Serge Gainsbourg, 1975. I think of this past summer, how wonderful it felt to buy nothing. Reconciliation, reconciliation, where art thou?

Finally, I have been dreaming of it, I go to Shakespeare and Company. Oh, look. There is now a “Shakespeare and Company Café” attached. For some reason, I instantly hate it. Without conscience, I decide it is indicative of commercialism and profitability and exploitation of a sacred past and a molestation and mitigation of a mellow melancholy, now chaotic. I buy myself two books, one for K——, and this interesting paper pouch containing two mystery poems for M—–. The books jumped out at me, as did the gifts. I love when gifts happen organically like this, it’s the only kind of gift I like to buy, not anything and always and something for the sake of something and not something you have to deliberate over and are unsure about. The gift tells you, it’s just perfect.

I walk over to Le Petit Pont, my old haunt, though it is all new staff, no face to recognize, nobody to recognize mine. Or so I think. My waiter gives me a strange look and asks if I have been here before. I tell him not since April, and before that, not since the previous summer. He is sure he recognizes me, much to my delight. He is very good to me my entire visit. He brings me a complimentary glass of champagne. When my phone will not connect to the Internet, he shares his phone’s connection with me and leaves it with me so that the connection won’t drop out. I order six escargots, it is part of the exit parade I am holding for meat today.

I take the bus home which is fun, and something I would say most tourists don’t do. One summer, B——- told me how he loved to take the bus and I thought that was a funny thing to say. But now I understand completely. So much better than being underground, a nice little cruise through the city. He opened my eyes to this simple pleasure.

Au Va et Vient is already closing up for the night. I go to Au Métro. Time for the third and final stage of meat’s parting procession. I order the cheeseburger, blue. With salad instead of fries. It is not rare at all, it is raw, red, bulbous grinder worms, shiny and gleaming. It melts in my mouth. It is divine. It is falling apart, dripping blood down my hands. Salacious.

I return early to my little thirteen meters squared piece of Paris. It is only after six. I am invited to C———‘s where he and his daughter L– and also A—— will ring in the new year. I just don’t give a shit about New Year’s Eve. I don’t want to spend the night drinking. I don’t want to wake up with a hangover. Plus, C——— lives in Sèvres, it’s so far.

Bonne année, tout le monde. Fais de beaux rêves.

Le 30 décembre

I was still awake last night when the fog arrived, thick, heavy, low. Like a cashmere blanket, this morning it hovers still. The roofs are powdered with melancholy, the streets are dusty with introspection. I drink my coffee and smoke my cigarette out the window. In stark contrast, down below the long lines of blue awnings, the markets are alive! It is Friday.

“Profitez! Profitez!” The vendors call. I walk the entire length of stalls on my side of the street, then the opposite length, too, eyeing, deciding what, if anything, I shall buy. On the first round, I buy three pieces of quiche for home. I deposit these in my little fridge, then set out again.

On my second time through, I buy three cashmere shawls, all different styles, one black, one forest green, one dark grey. I chat with Hubert, from whom I bought the third shawl. He is older, maybe my father’s age, maybe older? These are the moments I love. “C’est quoi ton petit accent?” I make him guess. American, English, South American! He tells me I am “charmante” and “Il y a quelque chose dans tes yeux, j’adore.” Oh, the French.

It is too cold to wear the shawls. In my Canada Goose, I get on the metro, en route to I don’t know where. I alight at Gare Saint-Lazare. I walk in search of Galéries Lafayette, a destination that occurred to me on the train. I find it quickly. I look at Longchamps bags and laugh. The one I like is four hundred ninety Euros. It’s funny. I leave. I go for lunch at La Pointe Drouot in the ninth. I have the tartare d’avocats et crevettes comme entrée and the pavé de saumon grillé beurre Maître d’Hôtel. It is delicious and not too much. My new dessert, since becoming pescatarian on the Solstice, is one piece of bread with butter. What a decadent way to end a meal.

I continue to meander, wander, follow my own footsteps. I come across the most interesting little boutique d’obscurités. Bins of plastic hands from hitherto defunct mannequins, corked glass bottles containing statues of Jesus, the humorous and unexpected answer to the classic ship in a bottle. Dishes, thimbles, signs. I carry on.

I go to the little bookstore on rue Tardieu where they have a small section of old books on consignment in the back. This is where I found my beloved book of poems “Toi et moi” by Paul Geraldy, winter of 2012, when I was here. I remember it cost twenty Euros, I debated for a long time, it seemed so expensive, but I had to have it. Thank goodness I bought it! It is still my favourite book of poetry to this day. It so masterfully but humbly takes you through the stages of love, from crush to heartache, with a keen sense of insight and humour, all said so simply, I just love it. Since that great find, I have come back here, again and again, in search of another treasure like this. Nothing has ever come close, though I have bought the odd this or that, half-heartedly. Today I see that the consignment section has moved and is smaller than ever, consisting mostly of old grammar and lesson books. Everything changes. I have changed, Paris has changed. Perhaps I did book this trip a bit prematurely, a bit automatically. I thought I would be working on the final draft of my book, but I finished it well before the trip. I thought my days would be spent working, romantically, engrossed, alone without time to notice. Instead I am wandering around, feeling disconnected from old paths and habits. A couple of friends have suggested that I should just leave. Never! I love Paris. I shan’t end my relationship with it because time goes on and things change. I am receptive to whatever this moment is meant to teach me. I am patient. At least so far.

More left, more right. I take the metro to station Jaurès. I walk up Avenue Jean Jaurès. I am to meet Pierre chez lui around half five. I know this area well, and his, too. I have stayed with him before, plus I helped him move there! I arrive an hour early. I go to MacDo to pass the time, use the Wifi, for nostalgia, I used to start my days here when I stayed with him, and to eat something for the sake of eating something, I’m sure we will have drinks together. I order the Menu McFirst Poisson with Deluxe Potatoes and a Badoit. The sandwich tastes like cardboard. Cardboard will soak up alcohol very well.

I go to TonTon Jaurès and have a glass of red while I wait, he is running a few minutes late. Then, he appears! Hello, my friend. He orders a beer, we chat. He tells me about his recent trip to Cracovie, Pologne with his ex. They were together a year, even lived together for three months. I asked what ended it. He said she swears a lot and likes to sit in front of the television eating. I understand immediately. What I don’t understand is how it lasted a year! I tell him about M—–, that it is new, but that I really like him. He asks what I like about him. His values, his lack of anti-desire for things, his anti-obsession of money. And other things. We go to his house. He gives me a purse I left there a year and a half ago. We have wine. Then the ladies arrive.

Meet Sara, Parisa, and their mother, Roya. “Royale!” I say. They are smiley and sweet. Roya speaks only Farsi, Sara speaks only Farsi and English, and Parisa speaks only Farsi and French. They are ex-flatmates of Pierre who have come to drop off some shopping for Pierre. What fun we have! We chat, we listen to music, we dance, we sing! Pierre may be silly but he is cheery and fun. We open a second bottle. What a fun, special, lovely evening. Pierre drives us all home, me first. And you know what? As I exited the car, something so beautiful happened. Sara called out: “I love you!”

I love you.

Such delicate, delicious, dry wood for my cooling embers. Thank you, Sara!

I love you, too!

Le 29 décembre

I think the neighbours are drug dealers. They never work, they are always up very late, they are home all day.

I am standing in front of that big, white wheel they’ve installed between the Jeu de Paume, where I am headed, and the Orangerie. It is a Ferris wheel and when I was here in April for the marathon, I took a spin on it, by myself, doesn’t that sound perfectly lonely? Well, perhaps, but think of it this way: imagine not going on it because one is alone, waiting until the sweet day when, romantically, one would ride it with that special someone. Those who wait shall weep! There is no wait, and I didn’t feel lonely, just alone. What is the difference? Sadness. Me, I have joy. And hope.

I am here because the day I rode la Roue de Paris, I also ate a fantastic square of pizza from a stand at the foot of the wheel and I want another. It contains two of the naughtiest foods still permissible on my eat list: bread and cheese. Yum. I savour the mushroom slice as I stand and write with the Sun patting my head like a good girl, a smart girl, a happy girl. I eat the whole thing, I am full and ready for some art at my favourite gallery.

The exposition is called “Soulèvements,” or Uprisings. I loved it. It began with the elements, the environment and followed through gestures then words, then conflicts, and finally desires, qualified as indestructible. What a beautiful thought. So many short films. I watched them all, and one twice. I didn’t buy the program and I regret that. I may go back.

I walked through the Jardin des Tuileries. I sipped a noisette at Le Carrousel sur la rue de Rivoli. I was so happy, then the sadness came again. What is going on with me!?

Christina, remember the chaos, the hundreds of students, the noise, the frustration, the million things a minute, Christina, remember the rage. Life goes in cycles. Your memory is short, remind yourself of what was and, now, softly, what is. Enjoy this nothingness, this quiet, this peace, these lovely, long days of mostly silence, of breathing, inhaling, exhaling, absorbing, writing (your neglected, beloved blog!), all under the pretty parasol of Paris, my dear. You don’t have to see a soul, you don’t have to do a thing. Christina, acknowledge the fleeting sadness, the uncertainty you feel being here, embrace it, learn from it and grow. Be patient. Keep writing. You don’t have to see anyone, you don’t have to do a thing.

I am back at “Au va et vient.” I really do like this place. I have the velouté champignons with a glass of Côtes de Provence. Now I have ordered a second entrée, les cubes de thon. And a second glass of wine. It is early, but I feel a natural close to the day. I go home. There is an old film on TV, “Le vieil homme et l’enfant,” 1967. It is wonderful. I love old films. I sleep right through the night.

Le 28 décembre

A dispute in the night between the neighbours wakes me at 3:30am. Actually, it’s perfect, my normal rising time. But there is no need nor desire to rise this early here where the sun only rises at almost nine and I have no exercise clothes and the metro doesn’t open until half five. Finally there is a crash and I worry about the female neighbour. I open my door: “Tout va bien!?” She nods. “Je dors ici.” She is opening a different door down the hall. Another apartment? A separate room? “Moi, aussi, je veux dormir!” I say and close the door.

I go back to sleep, I wake again after ten. I eat the rest of my broccoli green vegetable soup concoction with emmenthal râpé. On my way out, I stop at the Monoprix for les petits mouchoirs. It is necessary. This cold is still here, it has weasled a free trip to Paris, it has, though it is finally on its way out, I think. I stop at Bar Croq Soleil and enjoy a noisette and the quiet of my little neighbourhood. This is the Paris that I love, the little cafés, the overheard conversations of locals, la vie normale. It has taken me three days to adjust to being here, to reconcile my presence here with my headspace of home and new truths. But alas, I feel joy, the joy that whispered to me at the airport when I arrived then got lost in the shuffle of realities. Oh, I could dance, I feel so happy. Negativity and unhappiness are so heavy, my goodness!

I take the metro to Châtelet. There are over 16 different exits here, none mentioning the Centre Pompidou where I am going to see the Magritte exhibit. I choose an exit randomly and surface to street level, finding myself standing in front of none other than the impressive front window of the Sarah Bernhardt. Ha. I assume the waiter from the other evening won’t be there since it is daytime. I go in, in need of wifi. He is there, immediately. Alas, he can interpret my presence here again however he wishes. Je m’en fous. Anyway, he is sweet and smiley and has given me five Cafés Richard Speculoos cookies. I dip them in my noisette, and my second noisette, as I write. He hands me a card as I am leaving, the business card for the Sarah Bernhardt. On the back, he has written: “J’aimerais bien vous revoir, G——.” Now it is certain, I won’t come back.

I timed it. I knew the line-up would take forever and a bit, I remember from last time. It was winter of 2012. I was here to see the Salvador Dalì exhibit. Knowing from that experience that the wait would be long, I stopped at Le Cirque and had a glass of wine and the vegetarian lasagna. Well fed and sufficiently calmed, I was ready for the lengthy queue. The sun shone brightly. I was quite warm until I wasn’t. It took an hour and twenty minutes to get into the Centre Pompidou.

Once inside, an announcement is made: There will be a ninety minute wait to see the Magritte exhibit. Yes, there is a second queue inside. Again, I knew this would be the case, I remember. I visit galleries three and four, then seat myself at the café and replenish my patience quota with a salmon and quinoa salad and a glass of red.

Today I received the most wonderful text from M—–, a simple one, a friendly and casual update, small talk, but that ended with “I miss you, C——–.” How happy these four words made me. How nice it is that he included my name. I am floating. I miss him, too, and missing him feels nice.

Suddenly I saw the line was much shorter than it had been. I capped the, miraculously, still half full single-serve bottle of wine, threw it in my knapsack, and dashed to join the queue. Only a half hour wait, sweet victory! Now here’s the thing. You wait eighty minutes in a line outside, you wait another thirty inside, plus the exhibits in between, after that you really want to maximize the visit, take your time. Nope. Just no. I wanted to get the hell out of there. I spent a slim hour.

But in said hour, I saw every painting. I learned how philosophical he was. I knew nothing about him before, just a few of his iconic paintings. I love how deep his messages are, I love the paintings’ cryptic and provocative names: The Empty Mask, The Art of Conversation, The Blank Signature, so many more. My goodness, in that fast hour I fell in love with this man and his work! So very much worth the waiting and waiting.

And when you are in love, your love is everywhere. One painting screamed of M—–, called “La Clef des Songes.” He is always telling me about his dreams, how dreams are so meaningful. I argued that some aren’t, that some are just a mishmash of leftover thoughts from the day’s events. He said maybe. The thing is that I listen to everything he says, I hear every word. Sometimes I say nothing, and worry that I bore him. But still I am interested, I am really paying attention to this man, and that is something. He is brilliant. I am a sponge.

And then I went to Bistrot du Coin where J—– works, is the manager, in the twelfth, not so far from my rented flat here. My friend, my prof. He scooped me up, lifted me off the ground, hugged me like home. This is how it should be between friends. Time has not stolen him from me, I am grateful. How nice it is to see him. I ate the caviar d’aubergines and had a healthy glass of the “wine of the moment.” Another great thing about J—– is he corrects me when I make a mistake, then I correct myself and thank him and we share genuine smiles and it always makes for a nice moment. I really appreciate it. And tonight he said something wonderful. I told him how I have rented my own apartment, only 13m2, that in the past I have always chosen to stay with friends or even rent a shared space so that I can speak as much French as possible. Now, I told him, I don’t care about the extra practice at the cost of sharing a home, I accept that I will always have imperfect French and I don’t care, it’s fine. He told me no, I am bilingual, that no matter what subject, politics, feelings, anything abstract or complicated, I can always find a way to express myself. He told me that my little mistakes are part of my charm. I laughed and told him I am counting on it.

Le 27 décembre

The fact of the matter is that it has become so familiar here it barely feels like I’ve gone anywhere. The fact of the matter is that even though it is much milder here, it is still winter, and I am a lover of the Sun, and I need to be somewhere hot right now. The fact of the matter is that I haven’t slept and this cold won’t go away and I’m getting cranky. The fact of the matter is that I booked this trip in September and am I even the same person I was then? The fact of the matter is that I am not willing to spend the money to pick up and go elsewhere. I worked too hard for too many days these past few months to reach financial goals I refuse to reverse. The fact of the matter is that my adversity to planning is a little bit biting me in the ass right now. I knew I wasn’t excited to come, I didn’t even bring running gear or swimwear. The fact of the matter is that what I really need right now is some Nature and not more city! Oh, I will stick it out, I will make it work, I will be fine, I will be more than fine, I will still enjoy myself, and it is likely I will even have some victorious tale to tell, some epiphany, some morale of the story to share. But that is the future and right now I need sleep, convalescence, and some depth to my days. Right now, I’m floundering, going crazy.  And the sun won’t rise until 8:43.

Glory be, the markets have arrived! I shower then stand and deliberate for a long time before setting out: to bring my big Canada Goose coat or not. I decide against. I will find and buy some warm shawl, I have a mission, some purpose. The first stall I pass sells…yes…cashmere shawls. Short mission, successful mission. There are three I love. I buy the blond sand brown one. Twenty-nine Euros. The markets are back every Tuesday and Friday. I will visit again.

I alight the metro at Bir-Hakeim. Sure enough, it’s there where I left it, la Tour Eiffel. I go to Firmine to visit C——— but he is not there yet. I ride by Vélibre along, just along, following my front wheel. I end up at the Jardin de Luxembourg. The Sun is shining like an angel. I park my bicycle and just face Her, I light up, too. I feel better, I feel good. I am okay with knowing that I am not having a totally terrific time. Paris has changed and so have I. I don’t want to pretend I am blissful when I am not. It is unhealthy to embrace (and certainly to chase) certain emotions and neglect, deny others. I won’t do it, I am incapable of doing that. All is not good and that is perfectly okay. Permit me, please, to experience and explore my transitional feelings as I continually grow and change as a person. I will not deny any part of me, of the natural intermittent cycle.

I visited A—— at Le Comptoir d’Issy.  I had two glasses of wine there. We got along like always, it was nice to see him.

I now find myself at “Au va et vient,” in my quartier, the twelfth. I think I have finally found my happy place.  Here they are genuine and smiley and conscientious of giving good service and reply to me in French, all the things lacking in the restaurants and cafés in the tourist areas. I will come back here. I order the bruschetta aux champignons and a glass of the red that the nice waiter recommends. And then another. I type on my laptop, the angst of the morning begins to lift as I realize I just need to avoid the busy, popular parts of Paris.

A gentleman arrives and sits across from me. He becomes engrossed in his book. I admire him. Another gentleman arrives, sits beside me, one seat over, and strikes up some small talk. It is fine, I am happy to speak French. I lie, I tell him I am a music teacher. I don’t know why I lied, I have never lied before. It was a bad choice of a lie as this led him into a mild soliloquy of his long desire to learn an instrument, how he contemplated the saxophone but that is, he sought the right word, too popular, and so he chose the clarinet. He was finished his meal and I was still attempting to finish mine. In peace, might I add. It is not wrong to be friendly and talk, I love it, but also there is body language and social cues. Alas, this is Paris, this is life. As a woman out on my own, it happens often, more so here than home. Even at Sarah Bernhardt, the waiter asked me out for a drink. I told him I would be back to the restaurant soon, knowing now I could never return or it would be read as a vote of interest. Now this man, too, who spoke on and on as I politely smiled and nodded and chewed, finally leaving, after having asked if I live in the neighbourhood, said that perhaps we will see each other again here. Yes, perhaps. But also, fuck off.

Le 26 décembre

I slept and I slept and I slept, not even curious to check the time, how decadent am I! I rise to smoky skies and a misty rain. The aluminum roofs cry sweetly like an old nickel. Oh, Paris, from my sixth floor window, I breathe in your slow temperance, your low hum. I drink a coffee that I prepared from a pot of boiling water, heated on one of the two burners that sit atop a tiny fridge. In North America, we would call this a « bar fridge. » Here in Paris, it is simply a fridge. I smoke a cigarette as I prepare my lunch of boiled broccoli with Knorr moulinée de légumes verts on the other burner, with the other pot. I have everything I need, I feel so light and happy.

I look down from my perfect, simple throne. Paris, how I admire your wide, wide streets allowing only a single lane for traffic each direction. Even these are near empty. It is almost noon but the city coos calm and chill. It is twelve degrees. Beside each lane there is a second lane reserved just for parking. These are full. People are sleeping or walking or riding a bicycle, they are doing anything but driving cars. I smile. I extol the Parisian city planners. Beside each lane of parking is an open space where two more lanes of traffic could be, would be, if this were North America, where today there is the chaos of Boxing Day, I laugh! This space if reserved for the markets, and I see that, while I slept, the awnings have been set up, I am excited.

Last night there was a party next door, they woke me with their laughing and music and camaraderie. Not only did the noise and the waking not bother me, it made me smile. I was happy for their happiness. Merry Christmas. I can hear them perfectly, the walls are paper thin. They won’t hear a thing from me but my incessant nose-blowing. This cold is proving incredibly loyal!

Beside the wide open market spaces, there is finally the sidewalk, where I need to be soon. I have forgotten shampoo. I study the Monoprix from my window, is it open? If not, I have my toque. Oh, Paris, my darling, what will we get up today, hmm?

The Monoprix is open. I bought organic almond milk, organic soy milk, coffee, organic whole wheat pasta, organic vegetarian pasta sauce, organic whole grain biscuits and granola bars for my breakfasts. M—– should be happy to have such a good influence over me. I am. And a bottle of wine with a bicycle on it.

I am so happy that I have been remembering to “vouvoyer” everyone. I am seated at “L’imprévu” on Boulevard de Bonne Nouvelle, quite beside my old stomping grounds, I know this area very well. I rode here on Vélibre after some souvenir shopping for my students near Place Vendome. I hope they will like and use these gifts. They are only expecting keychains, I am sure. But I got some of those, too.

I haven’t advertised on Facebook that I am here, in Paris. Normally I would, excited to share my joy with my friends and family at home, eager to be greeted by my friends here, to be invited out here, and there. I will, perhaps, eventually. Right now I am happy to wander alone. And to sleep in. And to simply do whatever, to do nothing much, walk around, ride around.

It is half five and the sun is setting quickly. The sky is grey but with a billowy blanket of purply-pink sky just above angular rooftops topped decoratively with thin, cylindrical tubes, pipes, the perfectly quashed upside down cigarettes of the gods. My stomach is as empty as the wine glass in front of me. Plus I promised the SDF I would return with some change. And I am cold. Time to go.

It is seven in the evening. I have just enjoyed la salade océane at Sarah Bernhardt, in the fourth. With a glass of Saint-Amour, and then another. This is what I love to do, meander around, following my feet, eating here, drinking there, wherever that may be, smiling at everyone, talking with strangers. Wherever I end up, I always stay much longer than everyone else.

J—– is asking where I am, am I here? I am here. We try to make a plan, perhaps to meet where C——— works. But not tonight. I think I’m drunk.

Every time I come home to my rented flat, and tonight makes only the fourth, it gets bigger and bigger. At first it felt so foreign, so small, now it feels as though it’s mine, and plenty big. And this is with her (the owner) not making effective use of the space. What I could do here! I could easily be happy in just this much space. In fact, I am envious. My apartment at home is thirty-nine meters squared. This place is thirteen meters squared. It has everything! At home, I have too much, way too much. While everyone else around me searches for more, bigger, better, I crave to shed, to have less, to be lighter. And though I have far been the oddball in this regard among my peers, M—– is so many steps ahead of me, though for him it is effortless, organic. I gain so much from everything he is. I wonder what I can offer of sustenance in return? Something, I pray. And since I don’t believe in praying, what I mean to say is I will just be myself and love him freely. There is nothing else one should do.