Travel Thursday #2

A Day In Paris

The magic begins at home with a cup of black coffee at 3 a.m. and a cigarette. The journey to the airport goes as planned. Perhaps the anticipation causes an unnecessary acceleration. In my head, the only logical conclusion is that I love the journey - the idea of commuting - far more than the actual destination.

The airport is quiet and barely awake. The air is not yet infused with the bitter-sweet aroma of ground coffee, but here I am; too late for its birth, too early for its death. The airport is a poem, and in it I often immerse myself. It is now 4 a.m. and I am ready to begin my wander. I just hope my addiction to rumination allows me to enjoy the moment, regardless of the flooding.

I find it hard to put thoughts on paper lately, for in my head they seem like beautiful symphonies, and words simply cannot express that. Exhaustion is bound to happen, but it fascinates me how an addiction can erase all of that. This is my life now; always in a hurry to my next destination, never quite sure where I am or what my location is. I try not to push my agenda but often fall into familiar patterns of longing for attention.

It is now 5 a.m. and silence still inhabits this waiting room for explorers and those who seek change. Is that what I’ve become? Is the journey my own personal form of escapism? I know very little about things I am an expert on, but that might be because I feel it all instead.

The idea of owning solely what you can carry is blissful beyond explanation. A notebook weights less than nothing, yet when filled with jottings and observations, this nothing becomes nothingness; the seed from which everything sprouts.

With plenty of effort in your arsenal, you are capable of moulding your present into a future of your choice. Not one other person has been or ever will be as good at comprehending your uniqueness and authenticity as you.

Now back to my journey. There is still over and hour to go, so I am urged to wander once again. People-watching they call it, but for me it is simply observation and absorption; small doses of what keeps me going. Tired eyes miss it all, but an exhausted mind misinterprets it all. I am not quite sure which one is worse to be honest with you.

Three girls sitting opposite me to my left have been eyeing me for a while now. It is intimidating - their beauty - but I gather the courage every few minutes to glance in that direction. This whole situation makes me think. Who observes the observer? There is a universe in us all, and it is only upon the merging that we will see that disconnection is a mere figment of our imagination.

I like to think of people as keys on a piano. Alone they emit a monotonous beauty, but when a musician composes a piece, each key’s magic is vital for the result to resonate with the artist’s vision, and so I observe - in an auditory way - the movement of Einaudi’s fingers upon the face of the earth.

The boarding of the airplane reminds me of healing. Many rush it, following others and their hurry, but in the end all that most of us reach is the pinnacle of frustration and disappointment. Perhaps patience is the best way to experience life.

My allocated seat - 14C - had me sitting next to a beautiful woman, but fate changed its mind last minute and forced me to sit in an emergency seat. I guess this is for the better.

I have just spotted an observer. Is my long hair, grey cardigan, silent personality and little notebook deemed odd? Am I an anomaly, or just an emotional piece of dust way overdue a spring cleaning?

I have heard the safety instructions leaving the plane speakers above my head countless times. I probably even have them memorised subconsciously by now, but does anyone actually absorb what is being said? These instructions remind me of my early work; when the writer was the only reader. People may show interest, but rarely will you find a seeker of truth, a real one; a person who outdoes themselves daily to digest all of the delicacies of life. And trust me, there are many.

We now hover mid-air, splitting clouds and imitating stars. Since honesty is my new driving force, I confess that I mask my lonely with imitations. To be adored is a deep desire of mine yet I cannot swallow a compliment. Money without fame is like the happily ever after we are bombarded with, but that specific combination is hard to attain. I need sleep.

I often declare lies, but currently all that dwells in me is truth. Culture is a fascinating phenomenon. We are a species who despite past genocide attempts survived. There are days where I think that we are immortal - days like this - but on days filled with much more boredom and staleness, I see myself drowning amid a failed experiment.

If we were all to burn, I’d be the eternal flame, igniting the uninspired and the blind, for those are my companions.

What is art and what is inspiration? This trip is my attempt to immerse myself fully in both and see how a soul so lost yet found finds its way. Appearance is hard to maintain, for style changes daily, and so I lose my skin every once in a while in attempt to adapt to the new now.

This mellow snapshot of melancholia evokes a rush of ecstasy, yet mixed with what I know, it taunts me to let go and surrender to conformity. I am what I once feared, but so are you. Together, pen in hand, we will re-write our fate and paint a twenty-first century Mona Lisa, perhaps with words, or maybe solely with our naked bodies.

I am still to fill my pallet with red. The desire to create is there, but not all works of art deserve to be showcased to the public. This is where I run into a contradiction. Artistry is a form of expression - a lethal weapon - which not many possess, at least the real thing. Mimes carry replicas, and when used carelessly, they leave the world far more wounded than it was before. The search for genuine dins is futile in a world so stubborn and easily controlled, and so I create my own - a universal land of poetry and love in which I take refuge.

Despite me solely finding joy in escapism and inner exploration, there is a place I adore and call the capital of poetry; Paris.

My plan is simple. I will visit places spontaneously, but first I will travel to La Défense. From there I will commute to Café de Flore for a cup of very much needed coffee.

Taking my time to appreciate the slow movement of people rushing around is like a drug to me. I wonder if the destination will evoke just as much detail in me as the journey. What if speculation is my only trait worth mentioning?

The majority sleep, regenerating they call it, but to me it is a momentary death of our consciousness. I am so eager to explore that remaining seated on this vehicle of freedom is hard. I probably have some kind of disorder, but in today’s world, who doesn’t? If humanity was a poem, it would be bursting with apparent joy, but its undertone of depression and isolation can be felt even now.

To speak on what is, the poverty in the eyes of successful people is so coherent. There is an addiction that comes to play here, becoming reliant nothing without persistence. The problem lies not in the lack of commitment, it lies solely in the scarcity of love for the journey and all that it brings.

I walk into a shop to calm my empty stomach and end up walking out with a bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice. Why do I do this to myself? I have adopted this false theory that states that I can soothe my hunger with liquids. What deception.

It takes less than a moment for you to get lost, but in that very moment you may also lose yourself.

Although scary at first, birds get used to the feeling of flying. Can you imagine a bird without wings? The closest comparison I have is that of a painter without a paintbrush. Birds are the artists of the heavens, painting a new path with each flap of a wing.

Although I feel at ease at this destination I have reached before, I can’t help but feel alienated, as if I came from a different world. This kind of disconnection is something I have been feeling for a long period of time now, and I can finally put thought to paper and say that isolation is a fractal of my soul. My next stop is Café de Flore.

The streets of Paris don’t give the city enough justice. Filled with clueless tourists and flashing camera phones, the city is an artificial world experiencing itself. What I am trying to say is that here, in Café de Flore, I finally feel like I am in France. Mellow conversations which I do not understand moisten the air with a deep, deep culture, almost as deep as the color of the red wine this man to my left is sipping.

I ordered a black coffee, simply wishing it takes an eternity for it to brew, as witnessing this scene is like being an extra in a French movie from the 1960s.

Everybody here drinks wine. Perhaps that’s what makes these people so appealing. The beauty of seriousness and formality never hit me until now. Right here, right now, I feel at home.

Despite everyone’s hospitality, expressed through a smile or a gentle nod, I am still but an observer. Is there truly a place for people like me?

My coffee arrived. As I sip on its infinitely black appearance, a gust of awe clears my mind, leaving me speechless. This here is a coffee similar in taste to others I have tried, it is also similar in scent and appearance, but none of these matter. It is the location and the atmosphere created by those who surround me that makes this one of the most enjoyable cups of coffee I have ever sipped on.

Commuting around this city is simply a pleasure. The underground metro system resembles a spider web, crafted with such immense care and patience. I like to say I am disgusted with the average overpopulated city, let alone a capital, but this busy, cosmopolitan mentality is beginning to grow roots in my heart. Time to get off.

‘We live, we die, and death not ends it.’ read a pole at James Douglas Morrison’s grave. Even after all those years, I can sense Jim’s energy in this place. The roots of this beloved tree I lean against have probably by now mixed with Jim’s corpse, which would explain the poetry of this lung.

Yes, lung. Trees are the lungs of the Earth and we mustn’t forget that. I reach into my bag and find my packet of smokes. Camel yellows. I sit in silence alone and feel like only me and Jim exist in this world. We are communicating on a level far beyond conversation.

I am not the only lonely wanderer of Paris. There are many just like me, and the sight of a plethora of members of our species joining together in memorable places to cherish beauty is breathtaking. At 3 p.m. the Notre-Dame bells rang.

There is a dove for every lover in this city. No wonder they call it the city of love. The brave ones even lock their love, but where do the keys go?

The benches of Paris are truly some of the most beautiful places to dwell at. No matter where you sit, there will always be something to observe, be it people or buildings.

Today is a quiet day here at Trocadero. There is a different kind of energy in the air. This can be felt throughout the whole city. Could this be my most memorable visit?

So many beautiful people walk these streets. The city is so full of them that there is no room left for ridicule. And so comforts acts like a blanket over this city of terror.

There is a photo-shoot being taken right before my eyes. How mesmerising. I wonder what people think when walking these streets. Are there individuals out there who fail to see the poetry of Paris?

you don’t get the chance to see much red here, so when you do, grab onto it and rejoice such a metaphorical work of art.

Apparently the rivers have also flooded parts of the city. To me it simply looks like the trees have been doing too much weeping. I have always felt a tint of melancholia in this city which is portrayed to have it all.

xxx.i.mmxviii

Sources -

All photographs were taken by me.

Namaste!