Interminable Gloaming and Imminent Departure

The bed was slept in and the sheets are crumpled.  Mismatched shoes and wrinkled dresses and stretched-out shirts are strewn between the bed and the desk.  The door of the cupboard, from which cellphone chargers and sticky notes are spilling, is open.  Mugs stained with tea and coffee are lined up by the sink.  Books are stacked on every available surface.

Soft crackles of thunder sound in the distance.  The rain drops speckle the tin roof of the neighboring building.  The smell of damp grass and wet pavement rises like sweet steam from a cup of tea.

Paris in the quiet afternoon hours of a Saturday.  A woman is shaking out and folding white sheets; I can see her at her open window in the building across the garden. 

I feel as though I'm watching myself in a movie--the camera pans around my room, taking in the mess, the girl sitting at her computer, the sound of gentle rain--as though this scene belongs to someone else.  As my remaining time in Paris shrinks from a few months to a few weeks and, soon, to a few days, I feel oddly devoid of emotion.  I remember the times when I couldn't wait to leave; I remember the times when I hated the very thought.  Now that my departure has transitioned from an abstract notion at the edge of thought into a reality that must be dealt with on a very banal level, I don't know what to think.  I stand at a distance, watching myself go through the motions.

I began writing on a Saturday.  Now it's Monday night and hot.  Really, vachement chaud.  "Mais cette chaleur, c'est insupportable!" is the complaint on everyone's lips.  I'm at my desk, windows wide open, curtains hanging still and listless.  The heavy blue above the buildings grows heavier with the falling night and rising damp.  We are all hoping for rain.  

The neighboring church bells are about to ring 10pm but it's not quite dark.  The days have been unbelievably long; dusk seems to last for hours.  Le crépuscule s'allonge doucement sur les cheminées.  "Crépuscule"--whose closest English translation is in fact the rarely-used "crepuscule"--is one of my new favorite words.  Soft, round, and heavy like a good down pillow.  It weighs on the tongue and has an enveloping, but gentle, sound.

I hope I don't forget my French too quickly once I'm back in the States.  Though I have to admit that the recent heat wave has reminded me why I can't wait to get out of the city.  A deep ambivalence follows my every move.

The night air is thick and sultry.  My eyes are drooping.  The crépuscule has finally ceded to the deep purple of night.  I hope I come back.

The Hourglass

Endings. I always seem to bump up against them. Home in the Pacific Northwest, college in Southern California, a year in France--it all sounds fabulous on paper. And for the most part, it is. But it is also a lot of moving around, a lot of goodbyes, a lot of plane rides. As much as I'd like to avoid the very idea, I'm leaving Paris in six weeks. I'm leaving indefinitely.

Nights spent in cafés and a tangled web of streets slouch by; mornings and afternoons march seamlessly, endlessly onward. The dissonant church bells chime eight times and I walk down the eight flights of stairs for dinner--peas and smoked mackerel and onions of late. It always seems to be time for dinner, and rarely time for lunch. Hours seem alternately like molasses--seeping from an upended jar--or like sand in a sablier--falling endlessly in the abyss of memory. Thick or fleeting, minutes leak away--irresistible and irrepressible.

A few days ago, I was walking through the familiar tunnels of the metro on my way home. Shouting echoed from around the bend; before I had time to consider its source, a man materialized, almost mowing me down as he hurtled by. On his heels were his pursuers, and a woman shouting, "Arrêtez-le! Arrêtez-le! Voleur!" (Stop him! Thief!) But he was gone far before my mind could process the incident; I exchanged looks and pfffts (a key expression in the French lexicon, whereby you puff up your cheeks and slowly let the air out of slightly parted lips) with my fellow communters, and the gentle, habitual hum of trains filled in the silence left in the wake of commotion.

The voleur really struck me, but I could not put my finger on why. Thefts must occur on the metro all the time; why did I practically collide with one on that particular afternoon? It seems somewhat futile to seek a reason for such occurrences; what seems more useful is the way in which you interpret them. A few days later, I began this entry about the approaching end of my time in Paris--without making the connection. But a few days after that, it dawned on me that the voleur mirrors my perception of time and experience. I've often longed to grasp experiences, hold on to images, pause the clock for a minute in order to be, to stay, in a lovely moment. This longing always becomes particularly poignant before endings. But time, like the voleur, will fly by. And then it is gone.

Leaving Paris, however, isn't an entirely sad affair. In the past couple of weeks, the tourists have arrived in droves, and I imagine it will only get worse as spring dries into summer. I'm looking forward to getting away from the camera-wielding hordes, getting out of the stuffy city, and passing the lingering Seattle evenings out on the porch with the dogs. So many things I love about home have slipped from the forefront of my mind. But one of those things was brought sharply back into focus the other day on the #12 train towards Porte de la Chapelle (I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time on the metro, but I suppose most city-dwellers do). The doors clanged open and out floated the twang of a familiar song. A tall man with a guitar, a harmonica and a little potbelly stood amidst the pointy Parisians, noses buried in newspapers, eyes trained on cellphones. He was singing, in a pitch-perfect country drawl, "Your cheatin' heart will tell on you..." I sat entranced, thinking to myself, "What you doin' all the way out in this here country, cowboy?" But then I thought, "What am I, suburban-raised West Coast girl, doing all the way out in the middle of the Parisian subway?" So I just gave him two euros and asked where he was from. "England." Fancy that.

Anyway, I am off to read L'éducation sentimentale, whose main character comes to Paris, finds love, loses money, dresses superbly and eventually becomes as disillusioned and cynical as all the rest. Sentimental education indeed.

Gros bisous, mes chers lecteurs. I'll see you sooner than you think.