Mel’s a good conversationalist. She asks many questions, and they’re insightful, sincere questions. When we were in the South of France last week, she asked me if Paris felt like home to me; if when I got on the train to go back to Paris, it would feel like I was going home.
I hadn’t yet given it any thought. My parents divorced when I was eight. I left home when I was 18. The idea of home has changed a lot in my life. I think home to me will always be Connecticut. And I have my apartment in New York, which is where my life is. But I think it’s important to feel at home wherever you are. Right now, Paris is indeed feeling like home.
When I biked home from work last night, it was the first time in at least a week that I had done so, and it felt good. It made me happy to be pedaling along my little route. It made me realize that I have a routine here and it’s a routine that I like. Then again, what’s not to like? Biking past Lanvin, Louboutin, Costes, Colettte, et al. on the rue Saint-Honoré in Paris’ long twilight hours. Can you imagine a better commute?
And then arriving in my neighborhood, with the buoyant energy of the cafes and shops and people. It’s dreamy. I love that it’s the end of the day and I have a few hours to myself. I can wander the quartier Montorgueil and witness the fabulous hipsters in their scarves and Wayfarers. Or I can climb my six flights of stairs, and hang out with Milo in my Parisian treehouse.
I guess I know that no home is forever. But for now, Paris is my home. It’s comforting, exciting, and both familiar and new. And, to use a horrible, horrible cliché, it’s where my heart is.