Sunday
The day started with a flapping shoe: the only shoes Austin brought to Paris--a vintage pair of fur-lined boots from my Opa--were coming undone, and by the time we met up with Austin's best friend Nachman, Austin was holding a full sole in his hand. It was wonderful meeting Nachman, who I've heard soo much about over the last two years. Austin's...sole-mate, if you will, a friend he met during art school in his early 20s. We walked immediately to the nearby farmer's market to see if they sold shoes, and after a heavenly meandering through a rainbow of fragrant fruits and vegetables, we arrived at a single booth that sold traditional Spanish sandals. Austin was quickly (and appropriately) convinced that anything would be better than his dissolving shoe, especially given the amount of questionable liquids on sidewalks, so he bought a pair. To celebrate, we walked to Maison Landemaine, a crowded bakery we'd passed on the way in, and bought a pain au chocolat. Nachman tore at a baguette he shared with us as he lectured us on the importance of bakery-hopping in Paris because really, you're in Paris. I was just finishing my pastry as we arrived at our next destination: T'Cup, which to my enormous delight was almost completely empty. There's nothing I love more than a cozy and quiet restaurant, especially when I'm meeting someone.
Nachman reminded me instantly of a professor whose office would always be open for passionate further discussion on art and the ways of the world. I sat back and nibbled at my cheesecake as Austin and him caught up and talked about art in the age of AI, and how nothing is original, and how efficiency in the professional world is about shortcuts and copying.
After the tea shop, Austin admitted that his feet slipping out of his new shoes was simply not sustainable, so we ended up on the main floor of Uniqlo, where Austin found a fashionable AND comfy pair of white and tan tennis shoes. At last! Now in comfortable step, we journeyed to the Musée National d'Art Moderne - Centre Pompidou, where we browsed exhibit after exhibit, walking past a dotted collection of art students sketching on oversized pads. I love looking at the art, but I also love watching people look at the art. Most of them dressed stylish for the occasion, and many couples were stylistically matched: alternative with alternative, clean-cut with clean-cut.
As we browsed, Nachman expressed his emphatic love/jealousy for Picasso (how can one man be so productive AND revolutionary?) and talked a lot about the idea of psychology versus illustration, and how "good" art speaks universal truths about humanity, grants shared experiences, invites the viewer to think. Hence, his fascination and admiration for Mark Rothko, the abstract expressionist who died by suicide. Nachman insisted I stand in front of one of Rothko's paintings for at least several minutes so that I could understand the tortured artist who felt like nothingness was enveloping him. I tried, but "I" got in the way: my people-pleasing concerns about hogging the space, paired with suspicion that the painting wouldn't "work" on me, made for an uncomfortable minute. But Nachman told me to try again. Yes, the painting's edges blurred the longer I stared. I could see how if it was just me, the painting, and a glass of wine, I could have fallen in.
I can appreciate the philosophy of it and the idea that art that does something has greater intrinsic value than art that is simply well-designed. But by the end of our excursion, I was no better at guessing which artworks Austin and Nachman thought were respectable masterpieces versus soulless garbage. One of my personal favorites, of which I did not solicit Nachman's opinion, was Juliette Roche's "sans titre, dit American picnic, 1918" , a jubilant and whimsical portrayal of slender and colorful bodies, elegance, and little treasures like baby mushrooms and a tiny umbrella.
On the top floor of the museum, we stood on the balcony and stared out at the sprawling vista. The contrast of new Paris and old Paris (skyrises to our distant left, the Sacré-Coeur to our right) was astounding. You can't see things like this in America. Birds-eye views of Europe reminds me of what Eva said about America being so young.
After the museum, we lounged in the sun-soaked courtyard; Austin and Nachman chatted as I tried to recoup. Maybe from all the sugar we'd eaten that day and my lack of water, I was feeling weak and malnourished, rundown.
Our next stop was a coffee shop, where I inhaled two cups of water before journeying back to our hotel. Austin led his weekly Q&A while I relaxed on the bed and Nachman sat by the window. I didn't take off my coat: I'd been consistently cold for the last couple of hours. When Nachman left to go to a nearby cafe, I relished in a long steamy shower as Austin finished his session. After all the walking and socializing of the last two days, I was beyond ready to stay in the hotel room and relax, but I was also desperately in need of hot food and didn't want to cut time with Nachman short, so we all left together for dinner. A single bird sang on a tree on Bouelvard de Grenelle as we walked toward the sparkling Seine. We were headed to Le Beldi, a Moroccan restaurant highly recommended to us by our hotel.
A few minutes from the restaurant, Nachman mentioned we were now in "high Paris", one of the city's richest residential areas. He pointed out a few snooty looks we'd received as we walked. I didn't notice until we sat in the restaurant and a presumably mother/daughter walked in and was given the table next to us. The older blonde woman had diamond-studded glasses; her two small dogs sat quietly under the table with gemstone collars. The younger woman was a naturally gorgeous blonde, appropriately adorned; I sat there sipping white wine, imagining what luxuries she's afforded for her beauty and lineage. High Paris. What kind of men (or women) does she say yes to? What is the composition of her inner world? At one point, both of them stared directly at Nachman, Austin and I for the better part of a minute. I shouldn't assume it was malicious, but it was definitely direct. I probably should have removed my beanie, but my hair was greasy, and what offends more?
Dinner was incredible, and Nachman, a part-Moroccan, gave it high praise, saying some of the food was exactly the way he remembered growing up. We indulged in lamb tagine, the finest-grit couscous I've ever eaten, and assorted dried fruits, aromatic and sweet. I helped myself to seconds and thirds. Excellent.
At the restaurant, Nachman and Austin talked about relationships and the importance of really getting to know someone before moving in, and also understanding the importance of having conversations, not arguments. During the first year of knowing Austin, I told him I didn't want to live with him for several more years, maybe never. I wanted to preserve for as long as possible the perceived "magic" of our relationship before sharing the burden of domesticity. But I caved at the end of the year, weighing emotion against ration, trusting my emotional self--the one that since the pandemic has felt the urgency of spending time. So when he was considering moving to Brentwood or across town, I offered him my house instead. Do I think it has contributed to a diminishing of magic? Absolutely -- novelty is a byproduct of living apart, the irony being it also requires way more planning. But does living together (with someone I'm compatible with) burden, restrain, strain? Absolutely not. Do I think it has deepened our knowing of each other? How can it not? Living apart means protecting each other from your worst moods and choosing to come together when you have energy to give and are open to receiving. (I can see that being a primary reason to stay separate). But living together means learning how to comfort the other person during those moods. It provides an opportunity to demonstrate love when your partner needs it the most, and receive love when you do. I guess I'm not preaching one way or another; I could fight for both sides. Relationships are endlessly interesting to me, which is probably why Austin thought it strange that I didn't say much during the meal, but I was trying to soothe my increasingly dry throat.
After the restaurant, Nachman and Austin planned to get a drink and hang several more hours into the night, but I told them I really wanted to get home and relax, so they detoured first to take me home. As I was showering again, Austin came back in. He told me Nachman wasn't feeling well either. By the next morning, I had a full-on head cold.
Monday & Tuesday
The original plan was to hang with Nachman, who was still in Paris for the rest of the week visiting family, but both he and I were sick. So Austin and I stayed in the hotel until check-out time, when I sloth-walked with Austin to the metro. I was exhausted, throat dry and gagging, sneezy and feverish. Miserable. By the time we got to our second hotel, the one by the airport, I wanted to collapse. I took a long, hot shower and went to bed early. Our flight wasn't until afternoon the next day, so we slept in a little Tuesday morning but still got to the airport way early. By this time, I was in full-on drainage mode, constantly needing to grab more tissues and occasionally cough. We bought masks as soon as we could find them and I stared at the phone, waiting for time to pass.
The flight was fine, but then came the long journey on the metro back to Spandau. I was so relieved to be back in the apartment. Never again, I whined to Austin. I hated traveling like that, rush-rush from one place to another. He put me to bed, insisted I take an ibuprofen PM so I would actually sleep, boiled me a chicken and gave me a glass of broth. Slowly, I healed; by Saturday I was feeling mostly back to normal. Austin felt run down for a couple days himself but never caught what I had. He's also managed to avoid COVID. Maybe it's all the fruit he eats--on any given day, he will have consumed at least one orange.
And so now here I am, already two weeks after Paris. Would I go back? Absolutely, in the summer, for at least two weeks. The food is incredible and plentiful. Some sidewalks smell like bread. There is such an elevation of aesthetics in Europe--everything has form, strength, resilience. Maturity. Even the doors, much like Spain, have substance. It's nice to imagine slow-strolling down Parisian cobblestone at night, then coming back to our cozy apartment to write. But is that a bit like saying "it's nice to imagine hiking every weekend in Seattle" when in reality it's maybe once a month? I think ultimately what I want is overwhelmingly simple: somewhere to observe (people-watch, flaneur), experience (be invited to, and engaged in, conversation and dance), and retreat (into a quiet, cozy, comforting space). I guess for that, the world is open?
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