Paris is the best and worst place to write
By: Philippa Hughes
Tags: Travel, Identity, Travel Writing, Paris

Life in Paris isn’t all spritzes during the golden hour in front of the Odéon with lovely friends old and new, and then a party in a top-floor apartment overlooking the Luxembourg Garden on the front side and a straight shot view of the Eiffel Tower at sunset on the back side. I spend a few hours each day hunched over a laptop in my little studio apartment struggling to write words that don’t come easily. I am often paralyzed with self-doubt. Other than Saturday mornings with a writing group at the Unicorner Cafe, where everyone is focused on working, I haven’t found a good cafe writing situation yet where I am not distracted by people watching and the potential for wine.

I have had to figure out life stuff and do chores, too. The trash and recycling bins were hidden behind an unmarked door in our building and it took me a couple days to find them. The washer is tiny, so I wash small batches of clothing frequently, and the dryer doesn’t dry, so I hang wet clothes on a collapsible clothesline that takes up half the floor space in my small studio apartment. I am trying to resist eating out all the time so I don’t go broke. I stand in line with other neighborhood denizens in the mornings to buy a chocolate croissant and a baguette at the boulangerie around the corner. One baguette lasts me a couple days. I am trying a different cheese every few days from the exquisite cheese shop across the street from the boulangerie. The people who work there don’t speak English well, but they have been super kind and helpful explaining the cheeses to me. Each purchase feels like a leap of faith and I have never been disappointed. The first time I stopped by, they steered me toward the milder cheeses. When I came back the next time, I asked for something plus forte, a little stronger. So far, I like the pélardon the most. The cheese shop also sells fresh, never refrigerated eggs that I leave on the counter until I am ready to eat them, and freshly-churned, salty butter that seasons the eggs perfectly when I make omelettes. I shop for things like toilet paper and cereal at the Monoprix a few blocks away.

This is the extent of my hardship in Paris so far, so I am not complaining. I know how lucky and privileged I am. I learned a piece of shocking news, though, two days before I arrived that has derailed what I thought I was going to be writing about in my self-directed writing residency. (More on all of that once I’ve had a chance to fully process!) Despite having a few friends here, having met a few fantastic people, and having been in touch with the folks I am closest to back home, managing the emotional aftermath has been challenging being alone in a foreign land. It helps that the foreign land is Paris.

I experience awe and wonder every day and am overdosing on these frequent boosts of serotonin that lift my spirits. For example, last night I attended a performance of Madame Butterfly in the courtyard of Les Invalides, which was once a veterans hospital that happens to have been built in the 1600’s and happens to be a magnificent example of classical French architecture where Napoleon is entombed. Rain clouds had threatened to spoil the show all afternoon. Sitting in bleachers en plein air, I munched on a ham and cheese sandwich washed down with a cup of white wine and chatted with the woman sitting next to me in broken French before the show began. When Cio Cio San wrapped herself in the American flag and declared her undying love not only for Pinkerton but for all things American, my mind started wandering as I thought about American Imperialism and what it means to be American. Toward the end, lightning lit up the sky as if in sync with the music. I cried a little at the stunning beauty of it all.

At that party overlooking the Luxembourg Garden the previous evening, a new friend Sharon from DC and I talked to Eva, an Icelandic woman who’d lived in New York City for 12 years. After a few minutes of getting to know you chit chat, I asked them what it means to be American. Sharon pointed at flaws like systemic racism and vast economic inequality, which I could not deny. Eva said, America was a land of opportunity that offered possibilities to seize that weren’t available in the same way in European countries. I think they were both right.

Eva added that Americans were optimistic, positive, and welcoming. It wasn’t like that in Iceland or in Europe, where it takes a long time to befriend a European. Other Americans I’ve met in Paris have confirmed this. One new American friend in Paris has a group of friends who are all ex-pats from countries around the world. Another person I met says all her friends are Parisian, but they hail from former colonies, several West African countries and Vietnam. One American I met says his friend circle consists of mostly French people, but those friendships are limited by his inability to speak French fluently.