Il pleut des cordes

As I am too often wont to do, I sit at the little desk that faces my window and begin to write a blog entry instead of doing whatever I'm supposed to be doing.  In this case, I should be preparing English lessons for my tutees and packing for jolly ol' London.  But il pleut des cordes--it's raining cats and dogs--and all I feel like doing is making coffee and thinking over the events, big and small, of the past week.

So I'll compromise: write for a wee bit (I'm preparing myself for London by picking up some of their argot), drink some coffee to spur me into motion, and get to my packing and tutoring.

(Editor's note: I did in fact get to my obligations.  But I continued to add to this entry over the next few days, hence its length.)

My current state of mind can be described thus: I feel as though I'm on the cusp of a different perspective.  Ok, I know you're all going, "What? Cusp? Perspective? At least she's not writing about the weather again..."  But hold your proverbial horses, I can explain!

I watched Obama's inauguration speech last night online.  Besides being blown away by his ability to present rich prose in a way that is moving, but not sentimental, and easy to understand, though not simple, I started thinking about change (how could I not?) and transition.  The country is perched on the cusp between two vastly different states of mind, preparing for the sea change that is beginning to take place.  Though I'm exhilarated at the possibility of real change, I'm anxious for its embodiment, its concrete manifestation; but change is still only a twinkle in the cold January air.  We are thus on the cusp of a new way of being and seeing the world.  

Cusp, noun.

figurative: a point between two different situations or states, when a person or thing is poised between the two or just about to move from one to the other

Now perhaps you're beginning to understand why I can't stop using the word cusp.  It's a bizarre little word: its consonants are in unexpected places (the sound "sp" seems to belong at the beginning, not the end, of a word) and it has an awful lot of sounds crammed into one syllable.  But imagine "a pointed end where two curves meet" (like the tip of a Gothic arch), and you might start to see the visual onomatopoeia in cusp.  Onomatopoetic words are formed from the sound associated with that which the word describes (like meow or sizzle).  Cusps, however, are associated not with a sound but with an image.  In my mind, the image of cusp mirrors the word: an intersection between two continuous lines (the soft sound of "cu" meets the harder sound of "sp"), a breaking point between what was and what will be (the abrupt -p sound at the end).

So now that we are all sitting around saying "cusp, cuuusssssP, cccusppp" under our breath, we can return to the idea of being sur le point d'une nouvelle perspective (on the cusp of a new perspective), and maybe I'll even get around to writing about Paris!

How many novels, memoirs and essays have I read--from the comfort and familiarity of home on the West Coast--in which authors expound upon their ardent love for Paris?  Many.  In any event, I sped thirstily through these accounts, savoring the poignancy and immediacy of artful recreations of experience.  I, sitting in an armchair at home in Seattle or lounging on the lawn at Scripps, loved Paris too!  I too was part of the dream that is Paris, the mystique and legend of the city.

But when I arrived, among the bustle and hassle of setting up life in another country, I felt nothing of the sort: not only was the romance of Paris hidden from me, I was also acutely aware of my status as an étrangère--a foreigner, a stranger, an unknown.  There were, of course, moments when the curtain was swept back and glimpses of the magic appeared--an autumn walk through the Luxembourg gardens, having a disorganized, intellectual conversation with Quentin in the courtyard of the Musée de la Vie Romantique, peering out into the rain from a well-heated and softly-lit café--but I didn't experience Paris on a sensory level.  Rather, I was busy watching and listening, exploring, testing.  In my typical way, I was scrutinizing the city on an intellectual level, constantly wondering: What's this?  How do you do that?  Do I like this?  Do I want to do that?  How do I fit in here?  I was consumed by learning and analyzing.  And I was a bit disappointed to find that I didn't fall in love with the real, concrete Paris as easily as I fell in love with the literary version.

Recently, a few things--a trip, a book, a moment with a friend--conspired to shake up my way of seeing and understanding the city.  In the blog entry written shortly before returning home for Christmas break, I wrote that I would return to Paris with new eyes.  I was right that my perspective was going to change; I didn't know how that change would manifest itself.  It's true that I regard Seattle as home but, upon my return to Paris, I felt an attachment to the latter that I have never experienced with the former.  Paris felt like mine.  Seattle has never belonged to me in such a singular, independent way: I had come to Paris of my own accord, had discovered little gardens and warm cafés by myself, and had lived a hundred lovely moments which--though I longed to share them with my friends and family--now reside in my pocket as little private memories.  Paris has thus taken up residence in my being and has helped shape the abstract notion of my identity.

My friend Meredith and I sat on my desk the night before she returned to Boston, gazing out over the dreamy view of Paris rooftops.  For the first time, I felt real affection for those rooftops.  What has changed my perspective of Paris is not just that I have discovered it on my own, but also that I have shared it with friends that have become very dear.  As my friend Brooke so wisely quoted, "We'll always have Paris."

Bisous,

Alice