C’est vrai. I’m missing Paris. Missing the life I had there. And it’s been on my mind because I’ve been wondering why, when I lived there, time was on my side. I exercised and worked daily, but then I still got around the city and did stuff. Every day revealed something to me—a boutique or a party, something goofy at the grocery store, a new word or cultural tic. I noticed the light in the evening and the flowers in the park and gargoyles on the buildings. The moon. I was inspired to take pictures of these things and motivated to write about them and it all felt effortless and natural and fulfilling.
I’m happy to be in New York. I am home, and that feels right and makes me feel good. But it’s exhausting here. It’s drudgery. And I miss what I felt in Paris. I want to notice things again. I want to float down the sidewalks and smile at nobody, but at everything, because I am so happy and charmed and moved. I want to feel buoyant and alive. I want to live with this secret inside of me—that because I am in Paris, everything is beautiful and makes sense and is for a reason.