Who Could I Be In Paris?

I first dreamt of Paris at the spritely age of nine. I wish I could say it was because I had experienced something infinitely more poetic than the truth, but to be completely honest, it was after I’d first seen Ratatouille. Yeah, that one. The Pixar movie about the rat who cooks.

This isn’t going to be about how amazing that movie is, though I’m sure I could write something pretty lengthy about that. I do want to make clear that this was where it started, though. Specifically, the shot of Remy (the rat) in Linguine’s apartment.

He has this incredibly tiny kitchen—not even really a kitchen—consisting of a hot plate on a small wooden table, with some tools and a cutting board. Next to it, however, is this massive window, with the most beautiful view of Paris. I wanted that view so desperately, and the tiny kitchen that came with it.

I wanted the feeling of connectedness that came with cooking and eating in French culture. I wanted to speak the beautiful language, feel the history of a renaissance people. To dance and drink and live without regret as the French do.

Now, more than ten years after discovering Paris through an animated rat’s eyes, I feel that yearning for even more reasons.

Something I have discovered about myself after escaping my nationalistic American public school education, is that I actually love history when it’s taught correctly. As a freshman in college, I learned this well in my World History course. In that course I also found my favorite historical moment: the French Revolution.

I, of course, had already learned a good bit about this revolution in school, but never quiet like this. These lessons celebrated the commoners who rose up against the elite. Even in their failures, trying was an accomplishment in and of itself. Imagining people, furious with their established social structure, taking the power back into their hands, was so deeply inspiring to me.

I started learning French a bit earlier than this, in the ninth grade. Duolingo was this brand new application and I thought I’d try it out to get a head start on the language courses that were fast approaching. While, to be honest, most of it didn’t really stick, I still practice it from time to time hoping that one day I’ll be fluent.

I’m not sure why the language is so universally obsessed over. I suppose that it might be because of the inherent romance in its tone. Or, more likely, the boredom. French speakers (especially those actually from France), sound especially bored when speaking about anything. And we all know that being bored with things is automatically seen as an indicator of being “cool”.

I’ve always imagined my time in Paris as this moment of bliss in my life. A tiny apartment, with a window facing the Eiffel Tower. A big bed, with enough room for whoever I’d bring over after a night of dancing. Giving the waiter my order at the cafe that I’m writing from—un café noire, avec deux sucres.

Funnily, I know that the translation of the above is most likely horrendously incorrect. As would the waiter. But whatever, I think. I’ll learn.

I imagine walking through the catacombs, another historical sight that I would love to see. The feeling of so many human lives, so much history, surrounding me all at once. Knowing that so many others felt the same way at so many different points in time.

Walking through the Louve, listening to the audio tour recount stories. Watching other tourists, stare at paintings, trying to feel something so that they can prove to themselves that they are cultured, artistic, intelligent people. Even though, let’s be honest, we all do the same “hmmm” face at paintings that we’d only look at for a few seconds outside of a museum in passing.

I see myself at clubs, drinking vodka sodas, dancing with women twice my age, talking to them about the universe en Français. Making out with them, smiling. I wonder if French kissing is different in France? I’ve thought. Definitely not, but it’s fun to fantasize.

I’ve thought of the food. Grabbing a fresh bagguette from a local boulangerie. Eating it with butter and eggs, sunny-side up. Maybe with wine, or more black coffee. Sitting around a table with new-found friends, eating dishes rich in root vegetables, sipping something red and tarte, laughing or singing, or both.

I imagine myself a different person—a more inspiring person. Someone who wears red lipstick every day and has her credit card paid off and writes her number on meal receipts because why not? Someone who wears musky au de parfume and lacy lingerie under a blazer and a white t-shirt with blue jeans. Reading Descartes’s Le Monde in the original French. Turning off my phone. Leaving it at the apartment, even.

Maybe I’ve romanticized Paris too much, but isn’t that what it’s for? I mean, after all, it’s the city of love, right? Or the city of lights? Right?

...whatever. I’ll just get an Eiffel Tower jewelry holder like every other white girl and keep dreaming.