These are the words of Marc Lavoine that crossed my mind while re-reading your previous Parisian letters… You said it pinched your heart to disclose those addresses that marked you in your greatest intimacy… and I get you.
And we want to be the only ones… Naturally, so many people could have access to read it, but no one gets fascinated in the same way, we do not perceive the same voluptuousness in the same colors.
Each letter and word embark us in a bamboo slimming costum a doua generație tango, we want to feel only on our skin. And we end up in a mordant jealousy… yes, Paris apporpriates the entire lexical field of love, the psycho-dramas, up to the lightness of a day in May. At times I dream of being a fine contemporary art connoisseur facing a ready made exhibition at the Centre Pompidou.
This whole atmosphere would unfold under the warm light of a Pipistrello lamp, in a bitter orange smell of Martin Margiela candles and the sound of Ibrahim Maalouf for YSL… Paris is a love story.
I never had the chance to live under its rooftop during my seven French years, but fate had planned the rendez-vous and signed a blank check for SNCF Voyages… The city of lights waited for me in its train station riscuri de sănătate pierdere în greutate two years, every two weekends… to find each other.
And like any other love, it weaves its web like a spider in secret chambers, in dusty backstages where we make promises, where we swear on our sorrow and beseech fate.
And our loves were in Paris, in its litterary cafes behind Sciences Po, le Bizuth et Café de Flore, this district of intellectualism and elitism trembles.
And as the slavic atmosphere was nicely braided in my hairs, we continued to taste with relish at Café Pouchkine mythical Moscow ambience placenumerous golden pastries with noble titles such as Diadema, Saint Honoré Tvorog or Prince Vladimir.
Then, long walks in Place des Vosges where my amoureux vibrated when seeing intellectuals and politicians he culturally followed ; on the boulevards where my heart would implode at the sight of accumulated beauty : Saint Honoré, Place Vendome, the cradle of jewelers that is a work of art in itself, Les Tuileries with its green chairs, the witnesses of the narcotic emotion that Paris inflicts to its pedestrians.
Paris is a life story, because I have given life in Paris. Becoming a parent is difficult to talk and write about, not because the words are hard to find though they arebut because when you find them, they feel too intimate to share. The smells and sounds and stirrings of the heart are individual and holy.
You hesitate to say anything at all, as if staying quiet better preserves the miracle. Discovering motherhood in Paris also made me question about these mothers and their philosophy on bringing up adorable and polite little French kids.