Paris

I want to tell you about Paris, in some sort of lyrical way that’d do justice to Paris. But I’m in the deadzone of jetlag. So all I can say is Paris was perfect. In every way. It was nothing I feared and more than I hoped. I tried to write it all down while I was there. So that I wouldn’t forget anything. But I’d get distracted by an argument at the cafe between the construction workers carving up the sidewalk out front and the cafe owner, who I loved, who told my French had gotten better since I arrived, who when I asked for just the baguette, the croissant was too much, brought me two baguettes, so that I ended up walking around Paris with an emergency baguette in my pocket. Or I’d pull out my notebook on a bench on the Seine and end up feeding the baguette to the impossibly pretty pigeons. How the fuck are their goddamn pigeons pretty.

I spent most every day walking around to bookshops with my French editor who laughed every time she asked if I wanted coffee and I’d respond with “Fuck yeah.” There’s no translation in French apparently. There should be. The bookshop owners said they loved my book. It’s the wildest goddamn thing, to see my book in a window of a bookshop in Paris. I’ve always gone into bookshops to see my friends. The characters in novels and the writers I love. Now I walk in and see my book alongside authors I actually know.

I’m terrified of public speaking. I throw up and break into a sweat that’s more like getting dressed without toweling off. I can feel it running down my armpits, between my boobs, down the small of my back. My mouth goes dry and all I can hear is my racing pulse. It didn’t happen in Paris. I don’t know why. But I still searched for a face in the crowd. Like when you’re a kid and you think you’re drowning. Let’s be honest, we were probably drowning a lot more than anyone knew. Trying to yank our wet hair out of our face as we went under again. And you’d spot the edge of the pool and try to focus on that. You can make it to the edge. So I look for a face. It can’t be someone I know. Their faces lie and tell me I’m doing alright when I know it’s not true. I find a face that feels warm. Someone making eye contact with a half smile, encouraging me, listening. I found two faces in the crowd. And switched between them when I talked.

Then came the question and answer segment and I found out they were the two who’d translated my book, Marie Chuvin and Laure Jouanneau-Lopez. I don’t remember the question I just know we all teared up and no one else was in the room. Somehow they’d made my book sound like my book, even in French. I recognized my patterns and my rhythm. Goddamn brilliant work they did.

They ask different questions over there. Not just journalists, but the audience too. There’s a common enough thing that every memoirist I know complains about it, warns new memoirists about it. No one will ever ask you about craft. It’s like they don’t know it’s a craft at all. Just some story you told. A journal you let them read. A fluke that it sounds like a book at all. So you come up with some canned answers when they pry too deep, when they cross the lines they always do. None of my canned answers worked. They actually wanted to know about the writing. They wanted to know about poverty and the America I’ve seen. I teared up more than once.

At night I’d go back to my hotel and tell myself to get some rest. Then I’d take an advil for the pain of walking 20k steps a day and go back out. I’d walk down to the Seine and walk until I could see the Eiffel Tower and facetime my mom or facetime a friend. It was daylight wherever I called and I’d show them the glow of Paris at night and the tower in the distance.

I was walking everywhere because the trains weren’t running mostly. The first night, because I’m a hypochondriac and because I’m related to nurses, I watched my calf twitching and convinced myself I had deep vein thrombosis. I googled the symptoms of deep vein thrombosis and pinched and prodded for a lump. Then after I worked myself into a decent panic, it occured to me to check my other calf muscle, also twitching. And I remembered maybe walking more in a day than I have all year might have something to do with the pain.

But the upside of trains not running is I didn’t have to deal with many Americans. Everyone has the same list. If you’re going to Paris, they all tell you their list of secrets that’s identical to every other list of secrets. Same with any city really. All you have to do to avoid Americans is avoid the list. We crossed over a couple times. Walked around the left bank and all I heard were American accents. And we’d walk back to the Marais where the Americans didn’t venture. It’s not on the lists. But the waiters are kind

My editor, Rachele Bevilacqua

I ate everything. I drank more coffee and wine than is likely advisable. I ate snails and ate them again at a Vietnamese food stall because I promised my Vietnamese neighbor I would. I ate head cheese and pigeon sauteed by a chain smoking meat vendor. I ate cheese that I could swear was molding in front of me. I ate way too much bread. I ate a chicken liver salad because I refused to admit I’d made a mistake not asking for an English menu. My problem, as explained to me by Rachele, is I can do the soft Rs on account of learning German from birth. So while I speak 5 words of French, my accent lies and says I’ll understand more. And I speak, rien. Rein, with a soft R, which translates to nothing, but a lie. The chicken livers weren’t bad though.

I never took out my good camera. I didn’t want to see Paris through a lense. Probably the coolest thing is I’d stopped at a street market for a snack on my way to the modern art museum. And while I stood outside checking my teeth for spinach, I heard my name. Jarring as fuck to hear my name in Paris. It was a woman named Laurie who’d come to my event the night before. She’s a director at the art museum and took me on a private tour, of the goddamn museum of modern art in Paris. We met up again on Saturday to see Matisse at the Louvre. It was like touring a museum with my brother, who knows all the backstories. I wish my brother could’ve been there.

I’m sure there’s more to say. It’ll take me a while to process it all. But goddamn I do love Paris.