|Me in Paris, 30 April 2010|
I know it’s a cliche, but if I could take the next three months of my life “off,” I would pool my savings and return to Paris.
There, I would live the life of a starving artist – sort of like A Moveable Feast – scraping by on what I could, taking aimless walks through the ancient, winding streets. I would subsist on coffee at dawn, rich pastry in the afternoon, and cheap wine by night.
Like Bambi learning to walk on ice, I would slowly polish up my shaky French-speaking abilities. At first, I would mumble coyly under my breath my broken grammar and limited vocabulary, skating by on a shy smile. Gradually, I will ingratiate myself with a group of artists and intellectuals and other bon vivants who would view me as a cute young Carrie Bradshaw in exile. They would teach me clever turns of phrase, and I will be the token New York ex-pat who sparkles with wit and dazzles with tales of living in the Big Apple.
After the appointed time, I would return to New York, leaving behind friends and lovers with the empty promise of staying in touch. By the time I would return to New York, Fall would have fallen into Winter. Days dominated by slush and rush from one shelter to the next, the dreariness of the daily grind amplified by the harsh winds that hurtle down the avenues, whispering as they freeze my ears, “you’ll always have Paris.“