Since moving to Paris I have come to some realizations and undergone slight lifestyle changes. I am unsure if they are a result of moving to a different country or if I am witnessing myself grow up. One such realization is how being new to a place or situation makes one an observer. This thought was definitely born from my time here. It’s something that I have always known, but have never really acknowledged. It can be conplicated phenomenon. It’s as if the knowledge is there in my periphery, but I have never seen it in full view.
The observer seems to be my constant role in life. While some of it is attributed to me being a newcomer because I have moved to three different cities in 8 months. This has something to do with it in some cases, but most times I am an observer because I am hyperaware. The first time I felt acutely aware in Paris was the first night I went out to explore. My second night in this city was quite possibly the most eventful one I could have asked for. After getting much needed rest from hours of flying as well as recupperation for the time differences between the east coast, Reykjavik and finally Paris, I decided to meet a friend who lives in my area. She showed me first hand that I live twenty minutes walking from the Eiffel Tower. My first time seeing the structure was a very memorable and special occasion. It was lit, as it always is at night on the hour. It wasn’t until later that I found out that there is a regularity to the experience that I was having. The first glimpse that I had was fortunately timed perfectly to see it that way. I am glad that my first time seeing it was when the lights twinkled. It lent to the charm that the tower and city gave off for me. Seeing it up close was another experience. The tower was immense and pleasant to see such architecture in a metropolis. It is art that you can be sure not to find in the west of America. I was enamored with it and hope to remain so no matter how long I live in close quarters to or how ingrained into everyday life it may become.
After we had had our fill of the awe-inspiring edifice, we searched for a place that was friendly enough for our wallets, which ended up being an empty, classically French restaurant. Once we had our fill of the over-sized portions that have no way of being saved, we left for her apartment. Guests of her roommate eventually made appearances and soon everyone was sufficiently imbibed. The conversation was smooth and we laughed a good deal. At some point late in to the night, or early in the morning it began to snow. Coming from a place where it doesn't snow, I and my friend (who is from the same sunny region as I am) ran down three flights of stairs and outside in a rush of excitement. The 'snow' was actually little more than sleet, but it thrilled us none the less. I was in such a hurry to get outside that I did not even make an effort to put shoes on and my socks were soaked through shortly after arriving outside. We were not the only ones to have darted out of the apartment. Two other girls, her suitemates, had come out too and one breathlessly suggested that we run to what she referred to as “the center of Paris”. So we easily ran a long way down the block, not feeling any strain with all the adrenaline pumping through our bodies- which is a especially pleasing for me since I have had bursitis in my ankles for some years now. This exhilarating feeling was coupled with one of pure bliss and attentiveness. As I barreled down the sidewalk I was intensely aware of the lights, everything I was speeding past and the feeling of pure happiness I had for being with these people at that exact moment doing what we were doing. Laughing wildly while sprinting down the street. It felt like living. We were in Paris living and I loved it. I had the sense that I would love every day in this foreign country that would not be so foreign for long.
We stopped once we reached the island in the center of the street that was apparently the center of Paris. We caught our breathe and after a short while decided to head back to the apartment. I and the girl who suggested heading out jogged back to the building while the two in the back walked at their own paces. We waited for the other two girls to meet us inside. I insisted on a picture of us all to commemorate what I was sure would rank at the top of one of my most unforgettable moments in Paris. Still energized by the joy of our run, we decided to take the stairs and forego the wait for the elevator.
This event is an example of a time when being super aware of my surroundings was a positive for me. Most of the time I feel like it is mostly used to notice things that sadden me. The number one way this happens is when l notice my relationship with people. I do not know if there can be a balance of love between two people. Most times loves comes from one side more than the other, even if both parties love one another. When it comes to relationships with my friends, I feel that I am on the lesser of receiving ends. It has something I have come to except, but sometimes it bothers me not to be cared about as much as I care about other people. I like telling people that I love Kanye West for the things he says. None of them know that I’m serious when I say “I wish I had a friend like me.” Because of this, I feel that I related to a writer who I might not have understood otherwise. While I don’t agree with everything he says, I can see where he is coming from with some of his reasoning. The philosophies that he comes by are chiefly from the walking sessions he has with himself. Walking is widely known to be a way of reflecting, and in incidents of even deeper self examination of self, it can take the form of meditation. Simple contemplation will most definitely lead one to think on the most pressing matters in one’s life. This can also include the things that weigh a person down. Walking gives space in Rousseau’s mind to dwell on what seems to be his most difficult hardship in life which is his seemingly one sided battle against the unspecified multitude of people who feel the need to attack his character. What his enemies do specifically that hurts him is not explained much past them being “automatons who acted only on impulse.” People can only be “calculate[d] through the laws of motion,” meaning that he has no way of understanding them. This may have to do with his discontent with people. He does not know how to read them and therefore misinterprets his situations.
Interestingly, despite his constant unhappiness, Rousseau feels that he is better for the torment his enemies put him through. As lonely as he is, he would not exchange situations with someone who enjoys an easier existence. It is not unusual that he would feel stronger because of his troubled past. In situations where a person has actually had a hard time in life, they are more resilient than those who have not. Rousseau’s claim however, is more of a case of self pity than surviving against all odds. His confusion between the two indicates that the people he accuses may not be as interested in him as he thinks that they are.
Even with his inaccurate picture of people, he brings up a thought-provoking idea about effective actions versus evil intent. which is that attempting to do ill and failing is just as harmful as if the person had been successful with their efforts. All importance is placed on the intentions the person has. Even while he is deep in his depression, Rosseau retains the mental capacity to make some logical connections. This philosophy is supported by the belief that people should not be faulted when good aims yield poor result. The person is usually not faulted because unfavorable circumstances were not planned upon.
Rousseau claims that he finds calm and peace in his sadness. This is very likely a coping mechanism or a result of him becoming accoustomed to being sad. If a person believes that they are always the victim of some kind then they are likely to resort to dwelling in that space all of the time. It hurts less to get your hopes up. Rollercoaster emotions are troublesome to manage. The problem is that he probably has these feelings unnecessarily since there is no evidence of anyone purposely taking action to hurt him.
The things that I notice are not always positive or negative. Sometimes I unintentionally and at times neutrally observe the world. One such time that this took place is on my Montparnasse walk. Beginning my walk at the Montparnasse Tower was interesting. Before my arrival I had read that the Tower was officially the ugliest tower in the world at one point. I find this intriguing since this is not usually the case in my experience with very tall buildings. I didn’t find it a beautiful, but I was still slightly surprised that it had once been classified as unsightly. Perhaps this speaks to the high standards of French taste, unless it speaks of the poor taste of the French in what may have been an attempt at modern architecture. Perhaps it shows how rooted the French are in making structures that are uniquely French in their use and style. To indulge in other designs on a large scale would take away from the European ambience that Paris has.
The walk began in an area that I have never been to. The first and biggest difference is that it is more urban than the sections of the district that I frequent. The wider streets made for the plentiful shoppers are evident of the heavy traffic the region expects to receive. Cars and buses were more abundant as well; bringing in soon-to-be customers as well as exporting the ones who have had their fill. The store windows are a suggestion of what the people who routinely visit the 16th arrondissement are styled like. I guessed that the clothes in the windows looked to be the attire of 25-40 year-olds with a substantial amount money to spend on clothing. The step just below semi-formal that is worn so casually by this group of women. Sure enough, I noticed many of the women on the street clothed similarly to the window displays. Seeing the clothes embodied as actual women on the street gave me satisfaction to confirm my judgment as true.
Continuing on my walk I came across a pair of women signing to each other on the edge of a curb. They seemed as if they ran into one another in passing, happened to notice that the other signed and struck up a conversation. I have only seen a discussion like this one once on a subway in New York. Two sign language communicators engaging, bonded by their language and affiliation to someone without hearing or being that person themself. Watching them, I observed the same feeling that I had experienced the time before. I was pleased to see people communicating due to a commonality, coupled with a touch of pride, not unlike the way a mother is happy to see her children get along. It really is not so uncommon for people to find qualities they are surprised to share with others, but the added layer of using a special form of communication gives it more weight for me. This is probably credited to my appreciation for my own unexpected bonds. One such bond is one I shared with a girl that I only saw on the street. She wore two puffs in her hair and casually talked to two other people while she munched on something. She was the only black girl that I saw on my entire walk. Beyond that, the reason she stood out to me is because of the shoes she was wearing. She had on Jordans. I felt connected to her because seeing her in them was a reminder of home. I was also glad to see another person in this city who values them.
The attention to character that I have extends to reading into people that I can only read about as well. Hemingway is one of these people, as well as the people he writes about. He makes himself transparent by the topics he does and does not write about. Hemingway presents both his first wife Hadley and his friend Sylvia as largely happy and content people. They are probably the ideal women of that time who are pleased with their lot in life and in love with their significant other. He puts both women in a flattering light, but there is much more to them than what he chooses to include in Hemingway’s Feast. This may possibly be especially true for Hadley. In the snapshot he gives the reader of her in the chapter ‘Shakespeare and Company’ she seems to be a complacent housewife who is very much in love with her husband. While it is true that she was in love with Hemingway, her happiness is far more questionable. One reason for this is her lack of a passion. She saw Hemingway invest countless hours into his work and felt empty for not having something that excited her in the same way. This left her feeling like she was “not special as Ernest was” (Grammel). She understood that Hemingway “lived inside the creative sphere” while she “lived outside” of it (Grammel). He himself was at times the cause of her inclination to feel excluded from his world since he would leave her out at times. An example of this extremely personal offense is the way he chooses not to characterize Hadley in the novel Hemingway and the Sun, where everyone he is in regular contact with is personified except for her. It was a maneuver that whether purposeful or not managed to make her feel shut out, but even though the book saddened her, she remained proud of him.
Beach is anothre person who is deeper than what is shown of her in Hemingway’s writing. She was a person dealing with problems that lied behind her brightness as well. For one, she had to manage being the virtual workhorse of writer James Joyce. Her title of editor entailed various secretarial duties as well. The amount of work he asked her to do was a heavy load in addition to tending to her own business. She did things for him that only a person who loved him would have done, persevering despite the ingratitude she felt. What little thanks she did get was shortly followed by yet another request. In addition to being overworked, she began to have trouble in her love life as well. After coming home from being held by Nazi soldiers, she learned that her partner had been with a different woman behind her back. Through all of this and she still managed to remain “the nicest person” Hemingway knew (Grammel). When it came to Joyce, Beach was largely submissive and sheepish, but extremely brave when it came to other aspects of her life, such as living in a country heavily involved in a war. A place that was clearly unsafe where she watched people flee the country all around her. Beach looked on all of it with an air that greatly resembled a person of nonchalance. She stood up to soldiers even when doing so put her in substantial danger. She once refused an officer that demanded a book she had displayed as if to be sold. When he asked to purchase it, she denied him. In response to him threatening to damage her store, she cleared it out and painted over the name in the window to make it unrecognizable. She risked her life for things that she believed in.
There is more to both of these women than Hemingway gives them credit for. Writing about them this way could mean either that he didn’t see these complexities or that he did not want to see them and wrote about them as he wished they were.
Being aware of other people also forces me to know myself in addition to the people around me. It would be impossible for me to try to escape myself, which is why a great amount of introspective monologues and conversations happen in my head all the time. Because of this,I have learned a lot about myself and philosophies that I have.
It’s 5:45. I’m preparing for my morning run. If I’m feeling really good… or bad I might go out up to three times in a day. I’m excited to get out this morning. I’ve missed running these past four days. Work and other responsibilities really got in the way this week. I don’t usually let that happen, but sometimes I run into emergencies that can’t be left until the last minute.
The air is pleasantly cool when I open the front door. I begin walking to the corner towards the main street. I live at the end of a cul de sac, so my destination is a little ways. This initial power walk conveniently serves as my warm up. I am coming close to the park that marks the point where I start my jog. I am a big fan of this park. It has a merry-go-round and several swings. My favorite attractions at playgrounds. They also happen to be the least safe. A fact that very likely has a good deal to do with my preferences. I have never been one to take much heed to safety precautions. In my experience, they are almost never needed. My apprehension of injury has always been heavily outweighed by my fondness of adrenaline. I’ve always hated anything that has to do with overprotectiveness. I have a tendency to do what I want and deal with the consequences as they come.
Once I reach the park I pick up the pace. My muscles fall into the rhythm I’ve trained them to know. They have been ready to do this for a while. I know that I’ll be sore tomorrow. It’s been a little too long. My breathing and heart rate both increase. I pass the Menchies I may or may not stop by at the end of my run. If I don’t, I’ll be proud of myself for resisting temptation. If I do, I’ll have a delicious reward at the end of my run. I’m winning either way.
The sweat is falling freely now. I’ll be drenched all the way through within twenty minutes. Another twenty-five and the endorphins kick in. This is the reason I keep running. Not solely, but mostly because I am addicted to this pleasurable blend of endogenous and morphine. I would be nice to live in this state, but I guess it wouldn’t be as special if it were constant. That’s the problem with good things. They need negatives to make them more poignant. Even as a child, I never understood the need for balance. It always seemed to me that it was possible to have just happiness. Good having an opposite never seemed necessary to me. Now that I have matured some, I can fathom the need for yin and yang in this life, but I like to imagine that there are other dimensions with only one side to the coin.
Passing the school district headquarters means that I have just done 2.5 miles. My body is beginning to acknowledge tiredness. Entertaining the thought of stopping is dangerous. Considering a break would lead to compromises and persuasions from myself that I don’t want to begin to allow. I am not interested in engaging with this chain reaction, so I don’t allow myself to think about it.
Coming to the end of my run, I am again faced with the enticement of the frozen yogurt store. I decide that I do not need it today. I don’t want to negate the work I finally got the chance to do.
Living inside of your head all the time can cause one to be close minded, but I allow outside stimulation to help me shape and even change my ideas sometime. Walking to the Marais and finding the section of the area with graffiti is one place that did this for me. Although what I think about graffiti did not change my life it is an exercise in letting my ideas evolve and not relying solely on myself to advance my intellect.I embarked on this walk with the idea that I would be going to a place with a very large amount of graffiti. Being told that this quarter was known for it’s illegal art prompted me to imagine all the many walls in this portion of Paris covered in colors with beautiful artwork on them. Upon arrival I found this to be far from true, yet for a very short time I remained open to the idea of seeing all the graffiti on some walls and in doorways. Uneventful for the most part. I assume that what I consider to be inconsequential illegible scribbles on the wall, may hold more weight in a French mind that has not been acquainted with illegal art the way a Western mind is since most of France seems to be free of spontaneous writing.
When I did find the small area with writing on the walls, I was surprised at the amount of graffiti in such a well off area. It had many high priced stores with expensive clothing. The kind of store that only has four shirts on display, never has much traffic, yet still manages to remain operational and look comfortable. They are also the kind of shops with sales people who ask you if you need any help that make me uncomfortable because I know that I am not going to buy anything. I am told that there is a third variety as well. A kind that is hopefully strictly European where they do not like for you to touch, in order to inspect their clothes that are either hanging or folded up in a way that does not allow you to see them. At first I assumed that Parisian graffiti artists did not understand graffiti. I am used to the normality of it being done only in low-income areas, since that is what primarily happens in California. Eventually after some thought, I came to hope that these artists are actually doing graffiti in a better way. Using it to bring certain peoples’ attention to a specific plight. If this is not what their purpose is then at least it gives a minute sample of a world the patrons of this area will never truly know.
One bit of insignificant graffiti (if it qualifies as such) that I strangely appreciated were mice substituted for the L and E in the names Charles and Pierre. They were extremely life-like, so it looked as if they were scurrying up and down the side of the building. I do not remember what kind of establishment this was on. I am unable to infer reasons for why the letters are no longer there while figures are.
Towards the end of my walk I came across an alleyway filled with graffiti. This is where the bulk of the art was. A good sum of it came from this small area. Here was the greatest variety of art I had come by so far. The pictures on the wall ranged from inspirational to political. The walls were a place for people to express themselves in words as well as pictures. The quote that stood out most to was “Feet. What do I need you for when I have wings to fly?” It says something about the people who come here to contribute the alley. The wall is a communal place for artists to express themselves. It is the one part of Paris that I have come across that is not the clean-cut and perfect place the city seems to be everywhere else, which makes it even more special.
Being as observant as I am can cause me to be lonely sometimes, similar to the type of characters I decide to write about.
I need to get out. Everything has been weighing on me for weeks now. Staying in the apartment is like letting them marinate in a small pot. A very small pot. The apartment is tiny and too small for my problems. I’m sure I’ll implode if I don’t get outside soon. There at least, the problems can float around my head instead of crushing me the way they are in here. Maybe they crush me in here because the walls are too close. I wonder how much my troubles would press me if we were living in a place that was actually big enough for all of us.
Deciding this pontification can take place outside, I grab my camera, Coco, her leash and nothing else. I silently walk passed my mother, who is watching TV in her room and exit the building.
Just as I knew they would, my worries disperse. I imagine them as molecules in a jar, put into a slightly larger one. All of them are still there. Their situation is the same in both places. One jar just gives them more room to bounce around in.
The reason for these problems is that it’s mid April and I still don’t know what college I’m going to. I’ve been accepted to all my back up schools, but my second choice hasn’t sent a response. At this point in time I have assumed that I’m not accepted. Everyone I know that applied to the school has already accepted. Even if I do get in, I don't even know how I expect to pay for college. Sometimes I blame my mother for not having prepared for her future better. I hold my dad at fault too, but most of the anger is usually directed towards her because she is the one I see every day. He lives in Georgia. They separated a couple years ago. I talk to him regularly and we see him when he can afford to take time off of work.
Part of the reason for my bad mood is the guilt of not having applied to any schools with significant photography programs. I remember being fascinated with Polaroids as a child and loving to take pictures with the disposable cameras I was always badgering my parents to buy me. The interest stayed with me. I took photography classes and eventually became good enough to make a business of doing headshots and photographing events. Everyone has always praised my work and even I think I’m kind of good sometimes, but never good enough. I ultimately would like to photograph landscapes around the world for a travel magazine, although I don’t know if this will ever happen. Since I have never been sure of myself, I persuaded myself that I didn’t need to go to a college with photography. The colleges I applied to were regular colleges where I can major in accounting, a safer career. I’m good at math, so I know I would enjoy it, but photography is above everything else. What I’ve come to realize, too late, is that I can’t do photography on the side because I would learn more and faster being in a school where I would be able to commit more hours to studying the craft. I love photography more than anything in the world, yet I am too scared to pursue it.
The place I have decided to walk to is somewhere I refer to as ‘The Hill’. It is simply a hill that is significantly higher up with a number of bigger, expensive houses on it. It is only across the next main street behind where I live, yet I have never been over there. I have wanted to for a while, but the motivation to do as much walking as this exploration calls for has never come to me until now.
I can never walk into a rich or even well-off neighborhood neutrally. There is always a mixture of sadness, yearning and even some anger. I never allow myself to feel them acutely, but I am always aware of their presence.
The residents of this area are aware of me as well. It’s some time after six now. The street lights are on. I am currently passing a group of people talking outside of a house. They are all white as I expect the entire population of ‘The Hill’ is. I am approaching them and as expected, one or two of them look up at me. Their eyes follow me for a couple of seconds and after they are satisfied that I am not looking to start a trend of harassing multiple people at once with a medium sized multi-poo as an attack dog, they turn around. I am only barely annoyed by this occurrance. I knew it was coming.
Suddenly a thought strikes me. I pick up my camera. Raise it to my eye and snap a picture. One of the people who had been watching me before stares at me. I continue to walk by as if what I have just done is not abnormal and a possible invasion of privacy. I wonder if they’re all looking at me now, but I don’t look back.
After walking for maybe thirty more minutes I begin to wonder when I will reach the top. The single street I have been walking on is winding. It’s impossible to tell that it curves this much from the bottom. I begin to estimate how long it takes to get up there by car. Ten minutes? What an inconvenience to arrive at your street only to have to drive an additional ten minutes up the mountain you live on. It must be hard being rich.
I have come across a house that has caught my attention. It is by no means the most extravagant or appealing house on the block. It’s actually quite small and plain in comparison to the rest. I stop though, because it is one story with a flat roof. I imagine living in that house and reminiscing of sitting on that roof watching fireworks. It’s perfect for it. I know that if I lived in that house sitting on the roof would be it’s most important purpose. I take a picture of the house for all the nostalgic memories I never had there.
Finally, we come to the top, which is a cul de sac of the biggest houses yet. It’s good that we’re finally here because Coco has been walking slower than usual. She’s tired. None of us have ever walked her for this long.
This spot in the center of the street is the perfect place to see nearly the whole city. It’s dark now, so lights are on everywhere. Everything is twinkling beautifully below us. It isn’t every day that you get to look down on many of the places you frequent, unless of course, you are a person who lives on a hill. This is why people love looking out of airplanes so much. It’s amazing to look down and imagine life taking place on those microscopic streets and in the ant houses. It’s also hard to imagine that people live down there when everything is so incredibly small from this perspective. I wonder if that’s what people who live on hills think of those who don’t.
The Sun is completely down now. I didn’t make it up here fast enough, so I missed the sunset. That would have been nice to see. Even still, I am enjoying this view. It’s helped with the dejection I was feeling. Nothing has really changed. The problem molecules are still in that slightly larger jar, but they aren’t weighing on me as heavily now. My head is clearer. This walk hasn’t been for nothing though. I’ve escaped them for a while.
It’s officially nighttime now. I wonder how long I’ve been out. I’m suddenly tired too. I’ve had my fill of an impressive view. I decide that it’s time to start down the mountain. It takes half as long to get down as it did to get up. Downhill is so much easier and fun than going up. Up is work, but you know. Anything worth doing….
The walk significantly alleviated the pressure that drove me from the apartment in the first place. I can think here again. I even feel like I might be able to figure something out to better my situation. Maybe I’ll start doing headshots more seriously. I can save up to go a couple places with good landscapes. I don’t know if any of it will work, but I have to try. I need to at least to work towards something that will get me closer to my goals.
Once I’m back inside I see that I have been gone for three hours. My mom greets me with a, “I was wondering where you went.” She doesn’t ask where I’ve been. I appreciate that. It makes me feel mature, and telling her where I went would probably include explaining why. I have no interest in doing that.
I head to the kitchen to stare at the freezer until I see something I will give in to eating. Coco comes in, reminding me to take off her leash. I remove it idly, thinking of how I’m going to make everything right for myself. She then runs out of the room to find my sisters. I still haven’t taken her on a walk as long as that one.
