in search of a sonnet for Paris

This is "the end of the first part of Paris," but 

"there is never any ending to Paris." 

(Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast)

Something about the cold air and the Christmas lights has made me fall in love with Paris all over again.

I hesitate to even use that phrase, to say that I've fallen in love with a city. It sounds so cliché and so typical of my generation - we all speak in superlatives and describe things as "the best ever" on a daily basis. 

Not to mention that people say things like that about Paris all the time. My brother asked me last week if I'd heard of "Paris syndrome," which is at least enough of a thing to have its own article on Wikipedia describing it as a "transient psychological disorder" most likely caused by the disconnect between the wildly high expectations that people have of Paris and what they find when they actually get here - not that anyone hates Paris, but it is so idealized, more than any other city on earth, that one almost has to be disappointed by something. 

But Paris hasn't let me down. I did have this fear of burst idealism as I approached my move here; after all, my only previous experience in the City of Lights was 48 hours the previous summer, and it's not that unusual to have a really spectacular weekend somewhere. Realistically, could one city really be that much more special? 

Well, yes. 

Paris really is that special. 

I've found myself walking around at night recently and searching for a combination of words that could describe the effect that this beautiful city has had on me. No other city, however exalted in my mind, has ever made me wish I had Shakespeare's talent for using words as an art form just so that I could do justice to the things I see and how they make me feel. 

I was watching "Midnight in Paris" (for probably the 20th time) two nights ago and decided that the following quote, from a conversation Owen Wilson has with Marion Cotillard as they walk down the steps of Montmartre, is probably the closest a non-Shakespeare could get to an artistic encapsulation of why I love Paris:

Adriana: I can never decide if Paris is more beautiful by day or at night.

Gil: Oh, you can't, you couldn't pick one. I can give you a checkmate argument for each side. You know, I sometimes think, how is anyone going to come up with a book or a painting or a symphony or a sculpture that can compete with a great city. You can't. Because you look around and every street, every boulevard is its own special art form and when you think that in the cold, violent, meaningless universe that Paris exists, these lights... I mean come on, there's nothing happening on Jupiter or Neptune, but from way out in space you can see these lights, the cafés, the people drinking and singing...  for all we know, Paris is the hottest spot in the universe.

Like Adriana, I can't decide when Paris is at its most beautiful. But I think its beauty is more moving at night, especially at this time of year. There is just something about walking along the Seine on the left bank towards Notre Dame or looking across the river from Châtelet and seeing the Eiffel Tower in the distance that makes me unable to stop thinking some variant of "This is so amazing. This city is its own category of special."

I catch myself smiling slightly as I walk down the street, unconsciously displaying how the city has buoyed my spirits. I am in school here, leading a life that is both academically, linguistically, and financially decidedly not stress-free, yet I can't think of another time in my life when I've felt so consistently happy. If I imagine the appearance of my inner persona, she is always laughing and dancing. I can't say I've ever thought about such a thing before, but a year ago, I imagine my inner persona would have been sitting down and looking worried. Some of the change comes from other circumstances (I have a job now!), but most of it comes from being in Paris. 

Last week as my friend and I were walking along the Seine towards Notre Dame around 10pm, we had a conversation about how we just feel so grateful to be here, and we aren't sure how we can ever pay that forward to someone else. How did we get so lucky that we actually live in Paris, even if only for eight months? I told her that when I go running, it's more because I want to see and appreciate the city - pay homage to it - than because I care about the fitness aspect. I've run on and off for years, but no other place has actually turned me into a person who regularly runs five or six miles at a time, several times a week, because I just like seeing the city that much. 

Are the city or its inhabitants perfect? Of course not. I've been bitching all week about how the sidewalks in my neighborhood are suddenly covered in piles and smears of dog shit. There have been problems on the Metro, leading to me having to walk home or to a girl's body slamming into my face because the train braked too suddenly. And Parisians really are remarkably good at making you feel like you're in the way, for no reason at all. 

But I still think it's accurate - clichés, superlatives, and Millennial-speak be damned - to say that I am in love with Paris. I will miss being with my family on Christmas, but I feel like I already have the greatest gift of all: being here, and knowing that I don't have to go home for another four months. I am constantly and deliberately appreciative of everything I am gaining from this experience, and I hope that the few of you following this blog can feel some of that same magic as you see my pictures and read my stories.