A Final Thought on Paris

Hemingway described Paris as a moveable feast.  I think he sums it up perfectly.  The moment I stepped off of the metro at Saint Michel I fell in love.  The convergence of old, and I mean really old, and new was a feast for the senses, for the mind.  It is no wonder that Paris is a magnet for the artists, dreamers and lovers of the world.  It lives and breaths like few cities in the world can.  Having never left the North American continent, Paris was the obvious first trip for a self described writer and his fashionista girlfriend. And although our trip only lasted a few days and nights, I’m feeling Gertrude Stein when she said,  “America is my country and Paris is my hometown.” Perhaps one day I will be so lucky as to say the same.  There are the obvious reasons that I would want this.  The cafe lifestyle.  The food.  The wine. The architecture.  The history.  But what stood out to me more than anything else was the conversation.  The city spoke to me.  I felt the ghosts.  The collision of old and new stories and ideas had my head spinning.  The writer in me craves this conversation.  Sure, it’s not the first time a place has spoken to me.  Gustavus, Alaska always has in a Jack London sort of way.  New York, Boston and New Orleans definitely moves the needle. But SoCal, while certainly thick with positives, has no conversation.  At least not one that I am hearing.  It is all Zen.  Lots of space and silence.  And unfortunately, space and silence inspires few thoughts for this writer.  Paris, on the other hand, quenched a lifetime of thirst… Paris woke me up and I’m getting thirsty again.