
I saw a movie last night. Things were happening more or less within Paris.
I then remembered my own staying in Paris. It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t good either. I felt I couldn’t approach Paris the right way unless I was 100% parisienne myself – a temporary staying, even if a long one, can’t solve such an intricate Ego-problem.
When shopping at the Galeries Lafayette, when walking through the white dust of Jardin du Luxembourg, when eating pancakes within le Quartier Latin and even when using the copying-machines in the labyrinthine Sorbonne’s libraries – your steps, your hands, your good French, your smile divulge a restrained extatic feeling that could only belong to outsiders.
You need to „involve” with Paris if you want to stop looking ridiculous on its boulevards; because Paris is very much like sex: you can only instill it when you stop caring about how you fit in it.
Now that’s what I used to call a challenge.