im not tired or hungry. im not walking on roads, least of all with suitcases trailing behind me, in an unknown, cold country in the dead of the night. looking for my hotel, looking for the correct street. figuring out a new language. looking at open cafes and wondering whether to find the hotel or eat first.
its not like that at all.
it is not as if that evening or the next we had partaken of wine to make us feel the way I feel now. It is not like I had music playing when I got off the airport bus.
so what is it that has been nagging my mind to remember the evening I alighted in Paris?
I am sitting in parallel realities. one where I sit and listen to music, a glass of wine in my hand, and another where I am wandering the Rue Oberkampf at one a.m,wondering which is the correct end of the street to go to. Encountering very civil, very helpful and slightly tipsy people who would lead the way, and we would walk, a google map printout in hand.
nothing at all to remind me, of all places, of Paris, now.
except having watched La Double Vie et Veronique. Which doesn't really show paris, and very little of France. Only French (and Polish to which I can boast no connection in recent past whatsoever).
and I dont remember the French from Paris. I guess to me one of the best part of Paris was the late evening when the night was lit up with laughter of happy people sitting in "cafe"-s finishing off the night with drinks (since food had closed ages ago - i was informed very helpfully by a couple of restauranteers. and i was welcome the next day, and was to be guided by the multiple copies of their visiting cards they gave me, almost walking me back to the hotel). some of them cycling away, some sitting around, some walking off into the morning. Living their lives and enjoying it. but the night to myself. empty and nice.
so maybe the feel of that Paris coincided with dear Krzyztof's creation. who knows.
All i know is I remember walking in Paris and drinking wine in Florence.
Well past midnight, at home, listening to Hindi music, and the consistent patter of the rain outside, with nothing Italian or French around me.
I remember the languid nice feel of a vacation, and let myself submerge into it.