Tous les mêmes? Pas du tout

There is something inherently fervent about French people. Parisians, especially. There is an urgency in their step, knitted brows, sharp tongues. Beautiful words spill like warm water from their mouths, quickly, carelessly, seductively, as if they are utterly and completely unaware of how saccharine their voice is to my ears. Les mots ne peuvent pas la décrire. Not English ones, at least. The soft clinking of cutlery, like the sounds that tiny stars would make; the hazy, sooty smell of cigarettes brushing the tip of your nose. I was in love with the vague concept of France until I had an affair with Paris.

I stood for hours in the Orangerie. There was a painting by Monet called "Argenteuil" that I remember staring at for a good ten minutes. It was a beautiful impressionist piece, with a gold, antique, very French frame. A small painting. Capable of being looked over, dismissed; eyes carried over it but the feet of passerbys kept moving. The subject is boats (Boats. You laugh. You rub your eye with one hand. 'It's just boats.' That very fact was what captivated me.), with such depth that the minute I laid eyes on it, I fell into it. I stumbled, tripped, and settled into these subtle, comforting colours. I wanted to touch it. Maybe because I wasn't allowed to - when a person is told that they cannot do something, the desire to do that very thing burns now inside them, even though it didn't before. Being rebellious is a pleasure in which only the willing can indulge. The urge to take my face and press it against the painting was so strong that my hands were tense and I could almost feel the canvas against my cheek, like waking up to find yourself lying on hard, cool pavement. Looking at that painting left me standing there, crossed arms and cocked head (in true connoisseur of fine arts fashion) like an idiot, a true simpleton, a cherub freshly dropped on Earth and has scraped its knees.

It's funny, the things that people are willing to put themselves through when they're travelling. On any other day in Canada, waiting in line for two and a half hours in the heat to see a pile of bones underground would be a colossal waste of time. But in Paris, somehow it just feels right. Waiting in that line, as sweat filled my tank top and even my sunglasses couldn't completely block the glaring sun, I felt dizzy from both the impending heat stroke and the excitement of what was to come. The sun beating down on me simply alluded to the culture I was about to absorb. This is worth it, I kept saying every time I had to lean against a tiny fence that wrapped around the perimeter. Somehow, this ridiculous waiting time felt justified. The catacombs were chilling, both physically and mentally.

When we went inside Notre Dame, I felt like I was being assaulted - I somehow didn't expect it to be beautiful, and severely so. On the other hand, I felt slightly sheepish and guilty - I was infatuated with the gorgeous religious imagery. My grandmother is religious, a Roman Catholic with a capital C, devout and stubborn, so naturally I was sent to a catholic elementary school in which I found nothing stimulating nor believable. So, standing in the grandiose yet crowded cathedrale de Notre Dame, I couldn't help but feel strange about my love for the art but apathy for the religion. We lit a candle for my grandmother in one of the cathedrals and thus ended our personal tour de Notre Dame.

I said to my mother one night, "I think that Paris would be the perfect place to take a significant other. Now I know why everyone says this place is so damn romantic. That's because it is." People who visit Paris without a significant other still become a lover of Paris, but also become Paris' lover. She caresses you in the cafes, holds your hand in the art galleries, and messes with your hair in Versailles. She never sleeps, her soft lights shining in the dark, crisp street.

I have never been more introspective. I didn't learn much about myself, but I was very much content on the inside. My thoughts were constant and loud, but happy. On the last night, as I was leaning my hips against the wrought-iron bars across our large apartment window and playing Francoiz Breut on my phone, my mother was chattering away with my sister on her phone and I felt... full. It was cold outside, the night for Parisians had not ended yet, and I felt full of culture and experience; soft, warm, and satisfied. Paris was a hearty meal, one with which I needed no dessert or tea afterward.

Je suis desolee que je ne peux pas trouver les mots qui sont le plus beau pour decrire Paris, mais j'espere que vous me comprennez.

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