Paris — the city of love. And what an embodiment of romance it is- pretty on the outside, grimy on the insides. Am always the optimist, ha.
The city isn’t what I would call beautiful. It had a charm, yes, but much of it was overshadowed by the crowd, the expensive food and dirtied streets.
I find it hard to grasp the importance of living in the moment. Because that’s what humans do. Moments of liberated joy and wonder are fleeting at best, and it is understandable for people to take photos in an effort to retain something intangible. But at what expense do we do this? We travel halfway around the world to see the Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, only to spend five seconds taking a digital replication of it, and two more interacting with the painting itself. We live in a time where digital photos take precedence over art, and how for the most part, we are essentially passive consumers of tourism.
Paris felt jarringly empty, with experiences that barely scratch the surface and a form of tourism that is picturesque, but dishonest at best. Beneath the magnificent structure of Louvre, the cheap gold and silver on the Eiffel tower keychains sold by negros, I saw streets dirtied with spit and cigarettes; alleys that smelled of vomit and pee, and the homeless sleeping on heated drains under the rain. What are we travelling to, what are we getting away from?
Home is where your heart finds rest, and for the first time in the past few months, I felt displaced.
That said, my fondest memories of Paris will be meeting Misa and Esther for dinner and walking along the river banks with beer and the Eiffel tower at the backdrop, and a humble lunch on the boat with Misa for 3.80€, just before I left. I’d also be reminded of the guy that helped me get to the bus station, the two women who’d look after my things at a cafe while I went to the toilet, and the nice things that were done for me in between. ALSO had the best mash potatoes in my life.
