 | What is living in Paris like? Living in Paris is not like vacationing in Paris. Vacationing in Paris is like going to a concert by your favorite musician. Someone who’s a legend. Someone who’s still terrific, even though they’re older than Moses. Someone like Paul McCartney. During the concert, you just soak it up, forgetting everything else. You lose yourself in the moment. Then the concert is over, and you go back to the real world. Just like a vacation, where you abdicate your responsibilities and just enjoy yourself. |
Living in Paris is like having Paul McCartney as a neighbor, not going to his concert.
If Paul McCartney moved in next door to you, you’d shriek and call your sister, because she’s always loved him. She shrieks and tells you to save the guest room for her at Christmas. You do, because you can’t wait to share Paul McCartney with her.
But, because you are not a screaming teenager, you’d give Paul McCartney his space and not crowd him on move-in day. Still, you’re dying to meet him, and you do want to be a good neighbor, so you bake a batch of cookies and take them over to him. In that fetching blue sweater. This is like when you first go visit the Eiffel Tower, the most obvious of Paris sights.
You’d give him the cookies and mumble something about living next door, but the words that came out of your mouth were incomprehensible and he looked confused. You tried to say, “Hello, I’m Yvonne and I live next door. Welcome to the neighborhood, and if you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to knock.” But instead you drooled on yourself and said, “SmYvonne, with the forshbooth and wizpit.” Just like when you went to the Eiffel Tower and tried to say, “One ticket, please,” in French, but instead you said, “Un-boulay-thing-see-vow-play.” Paul McCartney accepted the cookies, and the ticket seller handed you a ticket, but they both looked askance and hoped you’d move along.
Still, you got to see Paul McCartney and the Eiffel Tower up close. You hoped they’d forget about that first awkward meeting.
Then one day you are in your bathroom, and your window is next to Paul McCartney’s bathroom window, and you hear him singing in the shower. He doesn’t know you’re listening, and you smile when he breaks off in the middle of the line, “Maybe I’m a man, and maybe I’m a lonely----” and you wonder if he’s concentrating on getting his toenails clean with the little scrubby brush. Or maybe he’s exfoliating. Just like when you go to the flea market and two merchants make a joke and laugh and you smile and they think you got the joke so they say something funny to you and you don’t understand it but you laugh anyway and walk on before they catch on. It was a nice moment, and you vow to study French more diligently. You’re getting there, seeing the non-glamorous side of Paris and loving it. You’re not in on it yet, but it’s getting more familiar.
Then one day, you’re taking out the garbage in your pajamas and that maroon sweater you wear instead of a robe, and you run into Paul McCartney taking out his garbage. He is wearing sweats. You miraculously make small talk without drooling. You discuss the weather, the neighborhood, how loud the garbage trucks are in the mornings at 6:30. You both laugh. When you reach your front doors, he says, “Nice talking to you. See you around,” and you respond appropriately. You go inside and lean on your front door, thanking God for the gift of speech, instead of the curse of slurred gobbledygook.
This is like the day you went to the butcher and decided, for the first time, to ask for three pork chops in French instead of pointing and holding up three fingers. Amazingly, the butcher understood you and smiled and cut three pork chops, then gently corrected your French. “It’s not pieces, it’s tranches.” “Three tranches,” you repeat. You thank him for the pork chops and the correction, everybody smiles, then you realize on your way home that you had the entire conversation in French. You marvel. Things are progressing!
When you see Paris in a movie now, it feels familiar. You’ve seen Shakespeare and Company, and Notre Dame up close. You recognize the Alexander Bridge from having walked on it, not just from that scene in Midnight in Paris where Owen Wilson meets his dream girl. If you saw Paul McCartney in his sweats, Yesterday might sound even sweeter.
Most days you don’t notice them, and sometimes you forget Paul McCartney, or Paris, are out there. You just feed your family and do your work and go to bed, loving your people and doing your thing.
Then you hear that Paul McCartney has RSVPed yes to the yearly neighborhood potluck.
You wonder if he’ll really come. You wonder what he’ll bring. You wonder what you’ll bring. You wonder if he’ll bring his guitar and sing something. You hope.
Then the potluck happens, Paul McCartney comes, and everybody has a good time. He brings his guitar, and sings a few songs. The neighbors are appreciative, but nobody screams. They keep their cool. So do you. It was a lovely evening, and you can’t believe your luck.
This is like the day I went to a concert in an old Paris church building with great acoustics and a Steinway. The pianist played all twenty-four Debussy preludes, and it was exquisite. Debussy in Paris. The sun came slanting in through the stained glass windows. The echo was just right. I couldn’t believe my luck.
Having Paul McCartney next door doesn’t mean your washing machine never breaks, or that you never get sick. It doesn’t mean you don’t have bills to pay. It doesn’t mean you always say the right thing or that nobody ever hurts your feelings. Some days are just days.
You get to do plenty of lovely things when you live in Paris, but sometimes you forget you’re in Paris when you flossing. It’s just flossing.
But some days, baby, I’m amazed.
If Paul McCartney moved in next door to you, you’d shriek and call your sister, because she’s always loved him. She shrieks and tells you to save the guest room for her at Christmas. You do, because you can’t wait to share Paul McCartney with her.
But, because you are not a screaming teenager, you’d give Paul McCartney his space and not crowd him on move-in day. Still, you’re dying to meet him, and you do want to be a good neighbor, so you bake a batch of cookies and take them over to him. In that fetching blue sweater. This is like when you first go visit the Eiffel Tower, the most obvious of Paris sights.
You’d give him the cookies and mumble something about living next door, but the words that came out of your mouth were incomprehensible and he looked confused. You tried to say, “Hello, I’m Yvonne and I live next door. Welcome to the neighborhood, and if you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to knock.” But instead you drooled on yourself and said, “SmYvonne, with the forshbooth and wizpit.” Just like when you went to the Eiffel Tower and tried to say, “One ticket, please,” in French, but instead you said, “Un-boulay-thing-see-vow-play.” Paul McCartney accepted the cookies, and the ticket seller handed you a ticket, but they both looked askance and hoped you’d move along.
Still, you got to see Paul McCartney and the Eiffel Tower up close. You hoped they’d forget about that first awkward meeting.
Then one day you are in your bathroom, and your window is next to Paul McCartney’s bathroom window, and you hear him singing in the shower. He doesn’t know you’re listening, and you smile when he breaks off in the middle of the line, “Maybe I’m a man, and maybe I’m a lonely----” and you wonder if he’s concentrating on getting his toenails clean with the little scrubby brush. Or maybe he’s exfoliating. Just like when you go to the flea market and two merchants make a joke and laugh and you smile and they think you got the joke so they say something funny to you and you don’t understand it but you laugh anyway and walk on before they catch on. It was a nice moment, and you vow to study French more diligently. You’re getting there, seeing the non-glamorous side of Paris and loving it. You’re not in on it yet, but it’s getting more familiar.
Then one day, you’re taking out the garbage in your pajamas and that maroon sweater you wear instead of a robe, and you run into Paul McCartney taking out his garbage. He is wearing sweats. You miraculously make small talk without drooling. You discuss the weather, the neighborhood, how loud the garbage trucks are in the mornings at 6:30. You both laugh. When you reach your front doors, he says, “Nice talking to you. See you around,” and you respond appropriately. You go inside and lean on your front door, thanking God for the gift of speech, instead of the curse of slurred gobbledygook.
This is like the day you went to the butcher and decided, for the first time, to ask for three pork chops in French instead of pointing and holding up three fingers. Amazingly, the butcher understood you and smiled and cut three pork chops, then gently corrected your French. “It’s not pieces, it’s tranches.” “Three tranches,” you repeat. You thank him for the pork chops and the correction, everybody smiles, then you realize on your way home that you had the entire conversation in French. You marvel. Things are progressing!
When you see Paris in a movie now, it feels familiar. You’ve seen Shakespeare and Company, and Notre Dame up close. You recognize the Alexander Bridge from having walked on it, not just from that scene in Midnight in Paris where Owen Wilson meets his dream girl. If you saw Paul McCartney in his sweats, Yesterday might sound even sweeter.
Most days you don’t notice them, and sometimes you forget Paul McCartney, or Paris, are out there. You just feed your family and do your work and go to bed, loving your people and doing your thing.
Then you hear that Paul McCartney has RSVPed yes to the yearly neighborhood potluck.
You wonder if he’ll really come. You wonder what he’ll bring. You wonder what you’ll bring. You wonder if he’ll bring his guitar and sing something. You hope.
Then the potluck happens, Paul McCartney comes, and everybody has a good time. He brings his guitar, and sings a few songs. The neighbors are appreciative, but nobody screams. They keep their cool. So do you. It was a lovely evening, and you can’t believe your luck.
This is like the day I went to a concert in an old Paris church building with great acoustics and a Steinway. The pianist played all twenty-four Debussy preludes, and it was exquisite. Debussy in Paris. The sun came slanting in through the stained glass windows. The echo was just right. I couldn’t believe my luck.
Having Paul McCartney next door doesn’t mean your washing machine never breaks, or that you never get sick. It doesn’t mean you don’t have bills to pay. It doesn’t mean you always say the right thing or that nobody ever hurts your feelings. Some days are just days.
You get to do plenty of lovely things when you live in Paris, but sometimes you forget you’re in Paris when you flossing. It’s just flossing.
But some days, baby, I’m amazed.
