Chapter 58
Greta
I spend so many days at the Louvre that I’m surprised to remember the rest of Paris is there one morning when I go out and have a coffee in a little park.
Taking refuge in capital-A art made me forget that, in reality, the entire city is like a beautiful, living painting with moving images superimposing themselves over each other.
Paris, its lights and shadows, is shockingly gorgeous.
The cobblestone streets, the scent of fresh-baked croissants, the painters on the banks of the Seine, the secondhand book stalls, the crepes with molten cheese, the crunchy toasted bread, the neighborhood of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, with the oldest church in the city and the streets full of galleries leading to the Musée d’Orsay with all its impressionist canvases, all of it entrances me.
In this city, you can lose yourself as easily as you find yourself.
Every day, I find some new corner I don’t want to leave, so I decide to change plans and stay a little longer, even if it means I won’t see as much of Italy as I’d like. I’m in such a trance, I can hardly think of tomorrow before it comes.
I enjoy those last days visiting palaces and gardens and roaming the streets.
I visit the Café des Deux Moulins just because it shows up in Amélie, which is one of my favorite movies.
Lucy used to make fun of me and say I reminded her of the actress because of my haircut and because I was so weird.
Like every Monet lover, I go to the Marmottan museum.
I also visit Sainte-Chapelle, the newly rebuilt Notre-Dame Cathedral, and the catacombs.
Along with all the other passersby, I walk to Montmartre.
I love being just another tourist, with the camera I bought in London hanging around my neck.
I snap a photo of a child climbing up and down the steps of Sacré-Coeur and then watch him until he and his parents go.
I don’t know why, but something pushes me to go to the cemetery, Père Lachaise, but then I get so sad walking among the gravestones.
It’s as beautiful as it is melancholic. It’s late when I leave and catch the Métro.
I buy some bread and cheese to have dinner in my room.
The owner lives across the street, she must be around ninety, but she still takes the stairs faster than I do.
I knock on her door.
“Oui, mademoiselle?”
“I have to go…”
“And you depart when, mademoiselle?”
“Tomorrow.”
“D’accord, all right. Bonne nuit.”
She closes the door in my face. I have to say, I like the character of the French. They don’t try to be someone else. We should all take a page from their book.
Back in my room, I stuff my baguette with cheese and eat it distractedly.
Through the tiny window, I observe the roofs of Paris and know this is the perfect memory for my last night in the city.
The tiny lights look like fireflies resting on the buildings, and I think of all the strangers I share this world with.
I feel the bite of solitude, but it’s soft, almost pleasant.
Spending time with this version of myself is pleasant: I like my sense of humor, my sarcasm, my ideas.
I’m feeling more and more comfortable in my own skin.
I’m happy. I’m with myself.