A Goodbye Letter to Paris (for now)

This is approximately the fourth time that I have put everyone, including myself, under the impression that I was leaving Paris for good.  And crazily enough, I am still slated to leave in two weeks, with (so far) no plane ticket to return.  But all signs are pointing to a return this spring, which leaves me in a strange limbo-like situation that I am all too familiar with.  The last time I found myself here, in this proverbial ‘pee-pee dance’ between two countries – yes, an awkward, impatient state of being – it got so close that one of my French aunts planned, and then had to cancel, a small family gathering to wish me au revoir.  That was last spring, when instead I ended up moving in with my boyfriend.  But here I am again, a year (and a relationship) later, in exactly the same clueless position, not knowing where the hell I want to live, and I ask myself: “how did I GET here?” (the 80s pop reference is intended, folks)

This time around nothing nearly as embarrassing has happened by way of huge changes or dramatic announcements.  The only uncomfortableness, so far, has been a few emails from friends and close ones asking: “What will you miss most about Paris?” followed by: “Can’t wait to see you!” from those back home.  I grimace at these letters, because I can’t help but imagine what I must be turning into in their minds – the wayward American, the lost one who just can’t settle down and…grow up.  But the question they pose sticks in my mind, especially during this very decisive time, because perhaps it might help me arrive (albeit late and reluctantly) at a conclusion.  …But, conclusions have never been my thing.

So yes – what would I miss about Paris most if I left?  The only answer I can muster, as plain as it may sound, is Paris.  This is both a very good and very bad thing.  The very bad first: maybe, if this city had ever offered me something tangible or truly stable by way of a job or existence (and I have looked, believe me I’ve looked), I wouldn’t have had to depend on the abstract essence of the city itself to pull through.  The connections I have made have been wonderful for the most part, but the people that I can truly call my people, those that know me through and through, mainly live elsewhere.  The fact that I am American has definitely pigeonholed my social existence here – I have been stereotyped on more than one occasion as some sort of Victorian upper class Henry James type who is just blowing through to ‘take in some culture’ (on a recent desperate interview I even had the questioner say something to me along the lines of ‘you seem to have got a lot of time on your hands’ when discussing how much to pay me, which was next to nothing) – when in reality, I am dans la merde like everybody else.  There have also been those that have led me to formulate stereotypes of my own – crazy maladjusted expatriates who clearly made a mess of their lives back where they’re from and are now wreaking havoc here, as well as rich clique-y types who throw their money around and do nothing but reinforce the original stereotype stated above.  Don’t get me wrong – I am not bitter, nor do I regret for one second my time spent, the connections I have made, or all that I’ve learned here.  I fell in love here for the first, and so far only, time.  He will therefore always be one of my people.  I was not sitting and stewing here, feeling alienated at every turn, but I feel the need to show the dark side of the adventure as well – I have had my moments of feeling at odds with everything here.

But back to that thing I mentioned earlier, that ‘abstract essence’.  What the hell is that?  Sounds pretentious and French. But it is most certainly real. It exists nowhere else, and that is what I would miss most, of course.  Perhaps because my jobs have always been fleeting or typically expatriate-style, or maybe because the people I know here are great but not my people, perhaps those are the very reasons I have not been distracted when looking above eye-level, at where this essence principally exists.  It is a promise, a hush, a serene view that helps me to slow down and take stock; enjoy the now.  This silent, historic energy has a life of its own, indifferent to the smallness and busyness of everything below, and it floats on the facades of the buildings, up over the Seine, among the rooftops and in the spoken French of Parisians who talk as they stroll through the streets.

OK, I’ll stop, as there is already quite enough laudatory and middling poetry written about Paris to fill a café in St. Germain.  But frankly, that’s what this city can do to you, when she wants to.  Make a New Yorker wax poetic.

Whatever the case may be, I have a sneaking suspicion that destiny, or Paris, or both (I think they know each other) are not done with me here.  In a beautiful coup of irony, certain professional projects have fallen in my lap since I attempted, feebly, to decide on leaving.  I am now torn between waiting and seeing where they might lead (waiting and seeing are the two activities I have partaken in the most during my stay in France), and going home to pursue more tangible and secure goals leading to more tangible and secure futures (the voice of my father comes to mind).  But of course more tangible and more secure might also mean less interesting and less varied.  And less French, as in français, the language.  I am one of the few who originally moved here for the pure reason of a love for the language – there was no love affair, no heartbreak or lucrative job that seduced me to take the leap, just the language.  These are the elements that give me pause about leaving, and keep me doing that strange dance.

To move on, I must identify why I have spent the last year and a half, on and off, thinking of leaving.  If I stay, I owe it to myself to really stay – this, I believe, is what expatriates mean when they talk about hitting the ceiling.  A close and very sensible friend of mine in Paris has on more than one occasion given me perspective on this issue, showing that by making a decision I will alleviate the very large problems that encumber my day-to-day existence here.  And the mental knot is, of course, that if I decide to stay here permanently, I might (or might not) find that I truly love it as a permanent home, but I would only have a clear enough perspective to see that by making the definitive decision to stay.

But the thing about a city like Paris, a city with a discernible, independent energy, is that it’s easy to personify her (already by assigning a gender!).  And once she is personified, a dialogue develops, a dialogue that I have now had for almost three years, and one I don’t think can exist in any other city (at least not my home city).  In this dialogue, I now see how guilty I am of assigning Paris blame for what has not gone well in my life here.  And now upon leaving again, for (what may in fact be) the last time, I realize that it’s not Paris’s fault, it’s mine.  Leaving won’t solve all my problems, and staying wouldn’t be the easiest route either.  This is the challenge of decision, wrapped up nicely in the form of two cities on either side of a vast ocean; both take sacrifice, both take effort, and both promise excitement, adventure and alarming possibility.  A wise person once said, “You take yourself with you wherever you go,” and that is the truth.  A move anywhere will change your life, but to make yourself whole and complete, you must learn to appreciate that life wherever you are.

Copyright © Dan Heching