Paris

I am part of the NYU Writers in Paris program, until the end of July, taking classes and reading and writing in English in Paris. Yes, I know.

I have figured out how to eat, sleep, and use the bathroom, but I am still learning how to speak. I have reverted back to my infantile state. In this foreign country, I am given a status less than a child's, and the foreign children love this; but they are not foreigners, really, because it is their country.

I got lost at the airport when I couldn't find the girls I was supposed to share a cab with. I got lost on the subway system, but luckily only had to backtrack once. I got lost on my way to the apartment building. I got lost this morning and wandered into the 20th arrondissement. I keep forgetting to eat, because that requires money, and so I am dizzy and hungry and confused most of the time. This might also have something to do with the jetlag that I have almost cured. Since I fell asleep on the plane thanks to Benadryl and Advil, I am pretty much already on Paris time. The tiredness comes from many things: the two hours I spent looking for the girls in my program in the airport; the two hours I spent looking at a map, finding the subway stop closest to my building, and lugging my luggage through the subway; the four hours I spent at a nice dinner paid for by the university not drinking wine and eating slowly so as not to upset my stomach; the two hours I spent wandering around the 20th, very lost, magically finding my way back. My concept of time has shifted, as well as my ability to perceive it.

I missed a few spots shaving and there is again that nagging feeling, "I am not a real woman," and then I look closer at the legs of the girls sitting next to me and there are tiny bits of hairs still on their legs too, and I think maybe all women everywhere have the same feeling of not being woman enough, which is Judith Butler in a very small, female-centric nutshell. All the boys here feel that way in the sense of being men, and they are correct also in that they will never achieve that. This is way so many heterosexual relationships don't last: the man and the woman have not questioned the inherent genderedness of our society, and therefore are still trapped in it. They go around thinking that they both need to be some sort of perfect versions of a man and a woman. They also believe in effortless relationships that they float through because of some mysterious element called love that other people could never have experienced. If they had experienced it, they would have just pushed through all the snags in the relationship. Ah, but a relationship is literally about tying the knot, about creating maps for the snags so that each time you create them you will have less trouble creating them again.

I think it takes a long time to starve as long as you are drinking water, and since I am eating a little every day I know that it is impossible that I will die. So far, this thought carries me through the days of not eating much. The cheap crèpes and paninis don't sit right with my stomach, the cafés are too expensive, and my stove doesn't work. Also, there is no hummus in France, apparently. The supermarkets are just like in Rome: small and full of nothing. At least in France the selection of cheeses is very large. Here in Paris, there is not a market in every neighborhood, so the supermarkets must carry more. I broke my 50 euro bill with all my groceries--at least it wasn't a 100.

I am still wondering: why did I have to come to Paris to be inspired? Because I didn't. I have a great idea still floating around my mind from being in the states. Everything inspires me. This city, it's like all other cities. I didn't need to leave New York to become inspired.

But, I remind myself that there are differences. And those minute differences will be what I will write about and how it will be a particularly Parisian story. Something that could not have taken place anywhere else, that is what I want to write. I am also praying that my laptop doesn't go dead while I'm here, after spilling some water in the keys and putting it upside-down in front of a fan for half an hour.

There are people outside playing loud music, the birds are loud, the voices are loud French from the upstairs windows, and everything is foreign. But the streets are just like Rome, the signs, the stop lights, the cars and motorbikes. And I have everything here to last me the month (I am hoping to do laundry only once).

That is almos everything, besides the chatty girls in the graveyard and Oscar Wilde's funny grave.

Also, Frenchmen think everything is very funny, but they are always wrong.