I am in a coffee shop in East Atlanta–Joe’s–using the wireless internet to work on reserach for my “Sexuality and Parenthood” term paper.
Except, as usual, my research has morphed into a delirious bout of web-surfing and day-dreaming.
And so, sitting here, I’ve been scrolling through her blog. My reactions are two-fold:
Why the jealousy? Why the awe?
Clotilde lives in Paris (“Monmartre to be precise” according to her About page) with her boyfriend Maxence. First of all, I am jealous of their names. Second of all, though, I am jealous of their lives! Like Clotilde’s visit to L’Etoile d’Or “a little candy store in the rue Fontaine, sprung right out of a fairy tale.” Or her description of Brittany, “a fantasy land of wonderful crepes.”
Very nice, Adam, but we need a telling flashback to flesh out your envy.
Rewind to three weeks ago. I am in a book store–Chapter 11, in the Ansley Mall–and on a themed display shelf there are books relating to Paris. The one that caught my eye was Ernest Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast”. Here’s the quote that did me in:
“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”
My recent birthday puts me at the very tail end of my “young man” years. My New York plans (I plan to move to New York at the end of the summer) are incredibly exciting and seem the inevitable route. But there is this daydream in the back of my mind: there I am, on the Seine, with my laptop and beret, writing to you about the croissant I just digested. I become a regular at the French Dunkin’ Donuts and sing all my Thursday Night Dinner Songs with a French affectation, like Maurice Chevalier.
Ok, so maybe not. I mean, for starters:
1) I don’t speak French;
2) Where would I work?
3) Where would I live?*
* Ok, the third one was addressed slightly last night in the car with my friend Andrew. I brought up my repressed desire to live in Paris and Andrew–who lived in Paris for a whole year–said he’d totally go to Paris with me and share an apartment.
Maybe, though, I can use my writing ability and infectious juvenile obsession with food to convince a magazine editor or book publisher to let me live in Paris, on their money, on the condition that I write frequently and enthusiastically about my adventures. Anyone want to sponsor me? I’m good for it, I swear.
Ok, back to my research. Maybe I won’t get a moveable feast. But at least my daydream was a nice moveable snack. C’est la vie.