Midnight In Paris

So, while I was in France I spent some nights writing (spare me the boos I know you are throwing from behind your monitor). I was trying to come up with something decent that summed up my trip for you guys, and I think I got close, but also got really introspective into a side of me I don't like to bring out often. That being said, here's my little non-fiction essay about my time spent in France.

The Americans in Paris

As you read this, you should know I am writing on Thursday, 17/3/11. It is Saint Patrick's Day and I am sitting on my twin bed at the FIAP Jean Monnet in Paris France. I stare at a white sheet of paper and white stucco walls as I begin to write this piece with my favorite red pen. It is just past midnight, Thursday has just begun and for the majority of us, the night is young.

My roommate for the week Barry has stepped out with Diana and Amy to hit up the clubs and bars of Paris, while I have chosen to stay in as I always do. Tomorrow I will visit the cemetery where Oscar Wilde, Chopin, and Jim Morrison are buried before embarking on an adventure to a European football match.

The night is as young as an infant to most, this is my 4th day here, but I feel as if I have only just arrived. As the rest of the group descends on Paris, the night glows bright like Times Square on New Years, it is a night of celebration, a night to party. The flags have been raised and Paris has been put on notice, the Americans have arrived.

However, it is not just us who have arrived, world travelers from all corners of the globe has descended on Paris. Outside my window I hear the shouts of an Argentinean rugby team and outside my door I hear the conversation of some Canadians. If America is a melting pot, Paris is a petri dish of culture, all forms and different people thrown together in one large social experiment, all existing as different strains of the same DNA, the DNA of humanity.

I reflect on the week to that point. I have seen things so majestic and moving that some people may only see once in a lifetime. It is in this moment that the true paradox of Paris becomes clear. It is a city tied to the past with such reverence for the days of European strength, trying to exist in the world of an ever changing and complex future. Parisians and tourists then are prisoners of the present, caught in a place where moments last for eternity as time continually moves forward.

It is in this cruel constraint that we must exist, I have gone without any type of electronic technology for 4 days, and I am perfectly ok in saying that. Others through wait for the moment in which they can return stateside to cradle their effective cell phones again.

It is in small moments where time freezes where I hope to remember this vacation. I fear however that for most of us, the stories and moments they remember will be nights of wild parties and sweet wine. Instead of being left breathless by viewing the Eiffel Tower at night, they may remember the flashing lights of a nightclub. Instead of marveling at the Mona Lisa, they will marvel as they made it back to the hostel at 5:15 in the morning.

It is not that I hate people who drink, far from it. It is that after seeing how alcoholism makes people act and having it be in my family, I have never had a drink of alcohol. I know plenty of people who do, but the idea of a night I can't remember is much less pleasant to think about than a night I'll never forget. Plus, I'm fun enough without drinking anyway.

It is in this moment that I realize that I am not having as much fun on this trip as I should. That is not to say I'm having a terrible time, but the truth of the matter is that I have nothing in common at all with any of the people I am traveling with. Once this trip is over, I will probably never talk to any of them again, while they have formed some connection. I feel ostracized from the group, a lonely traveler through France.

The other question I needed to understand the answer to was why was I here. What had I come to Paris to find? Pictures fade over time, memories fade as we age, but it is the stories that we have to hold onto. For most it'll be the crazy nightlife, but what is it for me?

It won't be of the food, although Steak Tartar and Creme Brulee were surprising good. It won't be of the spiritual experiences, even though Notre Dame is enough to bring any man to their knees. It will not be of the history, enough though seeing all the tourist spots makes everything seems so small over time.

It is then that I think of a few hours earlier. I got on the metro on my way back to the hostel after a group dinner. On the train with me were two attractive American girls, one blond, one brunette with southern drawls. A few stops before I saw supposed to get off, the brunette stood to leave. I knew that I could keep going on, but I also knew that I could transfer back to this line. I needed to find her, for that moment where ever she was was where I wanted to be.

I dashed off the train and followed her through the largest metro station in Paris, getting short of breath and slightly irritated that she has always just out of reach. She got in front of a group of tourists on a moving walkway and with one more turn she was gone, another shadow in the City of Lights.

As I think back to that moment, I thought why did I do it? In asking this question I found not only the answer, but also the answer to what I came to Paris to find. I came to rekindle the magic of life. I had been swept up for a moment in a opportunity that never arose. I learned that magic is where fortune and luck meet at the intersection of life.

As I sit here, I here the Frenchmen outside my door say Merci to someone and I want to take this moment to say Merci Vocu to Paris. Thank you for letting this American be swept up in the magic of your city if only for a little while.