Ici, tout est calme

In August, Paris is quiet. Everyone (those Parisians who can) has left the city. Every boulangerie in a three-block radius of my apartment has the familiar sign "Congée annuel," or the slight variation "Horaire estivale: Fermé." For the first few weeks of August, there is a sort of yeasty time-share agreement among bakers; not willing to let their neighbors starve, time-slots will be agreed upon and one boulangerie will usually be open on rotation. But for the last week or so of the month, even the iron-clad work ethic of the Sisyphean breadmakers falters. The sign is guiltily scotché to the glassdoor in the hasty départ to the seaside under the cover of night. The following morning, the remaining Parisians can be seen roaming the streets, gaunt and croissant-less, muttering under their smoky breaths that next year, yes, next year, they too shall go ailleurs, loin, très loin d'ici.

But I, on the other hand, already elsewhere in Paris, am filled with the marvel of learning that beautiful new word: estivale.

Paris to the Moon

I came to Paris almost three years ago now with my metamorphosis already mapped out: my triptych-plan was to become happy, to become a writer and to become rich. That is where my pragmaticism ended. Being one of Henry James' Americans, I believed that Paris was the celestial city; this is where those changes happen. And after several seasons spent here, I still believe that. A belief that has been challenged, though, has been on the nature of metamorphosis - is it the sudden shock of epiphany that leaves you blinded, newly-formed and crawling along a different road? Or is it Stendhal's idea of crystallization which necessitates a complex mixing of winters and salt-mines and negative experiences to create diamonds? Stendhal observes a leafless tree branch left in a salt-mine during the winter emerging as crystal-covered wand. He was trying to understand how love can alter the layers of vision - depending if one wanted to see rotten wood or shining light. I feel as if I have been wandering blindly in my own Parisian salt-mine, unsure of what it was I had wanted to find. So, doing what it is I always do in these situations, I went to Shakespeare & Co. to buy a book. On Marie-Hélène's recommendation, I bought Paris to the Moon by Adam Gopnik. I am hoping that by reading about Gopnik's Paris, I will learn how to talk about mine.