This trip to Europe has been like one long open house. In the back of my mind in every city I visit there’s the lingering question of “Could I live here?” Yesterday I returned from four days in Paris and the answer is a resounding yes. French cities have an unquantifiable quality and back in Netherlands I find myself missing that je ne sais quoi.
The first time I was in Paris I was seventeen and humming the then-new Feist album ad nauseum in my head. I’m sure the power of suggestion had something to do with the music choice, Paris being where she hit it big and all, but it made the perfect soundtrack while I drifted wide-eyed through Champs Elysées.
Who knew that my next trip to the French capital would be on another school trip? Once again, I found myself wandering around the city iPod-less. Both were whirlwind trips and the exact opposites. This time I went to Musée d’Orsay and passed over the Louvre; I loitered around a lit-up Tour Eiffel instead of going up it during the day; I watched the sun set on the incomparable view from Montmartre instead of gazing over a city of lights.
This picture was taken during my first trip by my friend Bi Ying, who I will reunite with this summer when she moves to London. I’m wearing a new jacket and smoking my first cigarette in Les Deux Moulins, the café from Amélie. We were nervous as we wandered along a long road down to the café, praying we had enough time for a crème brûlée before we had to meet back with our tour group. I had decided prior to the trip that I would buy a pack of cigarettes from Georgette’s counter for a souvenir. I was gutted when I discovered there was no cigarette counter but settled for a pack of Lucky Strikes anyways.
As we sat there waiting on the fabled confection, Bi Ying remarked that I could smoke a cigarette. Her suggestion set off the poseur-rebel in me that delighted in the idea of a first smoke. I peeled off the cellophane wrapping and lit it with the tea light candle on our table. Delivishly, we took turns taking puffs and snapping pictures. On the long walk back uphill, I hacked my lungs out and swore I would never smoke again for comic effect. Back in my childhood bedroom in Markham, there’s still a pack of cigarettes with one missing.
Three years later, I went back still unable to smoke a cigarette without coughing and sporting the same coat, now dirty and well-worn. I lost one of its buttons during my visit, but I’m not too sad. I was too drunk on warmth and beauty. It’s telling when you leave a city unsatisfied and wanting more–something that has yet to happen to me in any of my travels this time around. I left my heart and my button in Paris, but it’s okay. One day I’ll go back to get them.
