I returned from the States last Sunday morning in my typical I-just-spent-the-night-in-the-seat-of-an-airplane stupor and decided to go to the market before succumbing to the temptation of full horizontality. I walked out on to the quai and there was not a single car. I walked up rue des Saints-Pères and the shops and restaurants were not just empty but stripped bare, deserted in a way that could provoke fear that something terrible had happened, or was about to: Did the economy fully collapse while I was over the North Atlantic? Is the flood finally coming?
No, it’s just a Sunday in August in Paris.
Luckily, most of my friends are still in town. The market was wonderfully uncrowded. Fish, my local, is open until the last week of August. Le Chateaubriand, miracle of miracles, was open on Tuesday when I called on a whim (more on that in a few days). I’ve had plans most days or nights this week. In other words, there are still people to see, places to eat, and more room to do both.
Still, though, I feel in an odd place this week. Going back to my home country where I saw friends and family but felt in no way at home, coming back to my current home that is so far from that other home: It all seems to have taken a toll. Do I even have a home, really?
I told a friend that I was glad to be back and she said, “I’d be happy too, if being back meant being in Paris.”
This is precisely the kind of thinking that has gotten me into trouble in this city. Paris has a reputation for beauty and romance and delicious food, and all of these things can be found here. But I’ll tell you something: She makes you work for it.
It’s a lesson I learned six years ago. And then again two years ago. And then again today.
Beauty, love, and a full belly are not awards handed out by others, not decorations bestowed upon us like medals. If this is your attitude, I think, then they may never arrive. Or if they do, the coronation will always be a thorny one that tears each apart, turning beauty into vanity, love into want, and your hunger for both from a healthy appetite into gluttony.
The glutton is never satisfied, is she?
The cure for heartbreak is to love, not to be loved. The cure for hunger is to cook, not to eat. The cure for homesickness is not to go home, but to live, wherever you happen to be.
Paris Restaurants Open in August (Budget Travel)
List of Paris Markets (Mairie de Paris)
The last paragraph is brilliant! Kind of genius! What a mantra!
Welcome back to Paris!!!!
I just discover your blog and I like it very much!
Take care, Martha
Patrick: I think it’s all true, and yet…
MarthaD: Welcome and thank you!