Sense and sensitivity

We really have a love and hate relationship with an gaping hollow middle. There is absolutely no neutral territory between us, no self-questioning, no doubts. I am either totally up-to-my ears in puppy love territory or in a state of total resentment and misunderstanding for what I have done to deserve this sort of a miserable treatment. It is really by-the-book passionate love affair, with all the ups and downs that are inherent in such matters of the heart. I cannot just look at him in the morning and think "hey, he's alright", recognising some of the positive features of his body, while accepting his mood swings, his sheer unpredictability, his sarcasm. Perhaps my responses to him are in fact stimulated by his unstable and explosive personality: at times melancholic, at times welcoming, at times rejecting, at times indiscernible.

As an ergonomic chair, I adapt to the shape of his body but also to his emotional state of being, usually trying to accomodate him on his days of blues and rejoice on the rare days of sunshine. The days of sunshine, while rare, are exactly what makes the blues and everything else that comes with them worth the wait. The sunny-side up is really what the French would call impeccable, the Americans fabulous and the British brilliant. It is definitely all of those things and many more, making it an irresistible temptation to fly across the world - if need be - just to see him, smell him, embrace him, and perhaps most importantly let him embrace me, surround me, nourish me. On those impeccable, fabulous and brilliant days he can, at the sleight of his hand, order to curtains to be drawn open in order to reveal in all their magnificence his prize possessions, his jewels like the Pont des Arts.

On the days when the impeccable, fabulous and brilliant recede into the background, and the blues install themselves for days, sometimes even weeks, the curtain remains drawn. The audience is simply snubbed and no amount of clapping, whether sincere (the loud overly enthusiastic type that no aristocrat would lower himself to) or artificial (usually with binoculars in one hand, preventing the production of noise of any noticeable decibles) can get the curtain to raise. No amount of praying, begging or self-sacrifice can induce him reverse his decision, and if he does, it is certainly not for any reason connecting to either one of these acts.

It might just be an accident if he finally changes his mind and sheds his steely demeanor - I can never quite figure out what has caused the wind to change. It is something similar to ordering lunch at a 3 star Michelin restaurant and trying to guess what is inside the dish. Even after a lengthy explanation by the waiter, it still comes out to something reduced with something else, mixed with another secret ingredient and all steamed in a pot with a million of other spices. A witchcraft which - for those of us earthly beings is quite bluntly put, unconquerable! Given the mysterious nature of his moods, at times I feel that I have no other option but to adjust, pretend that I am going through a sunny-side-up stage, when in fact both him and I know know perfectly well that it is exactly the opposite.

And this is exactly the dance I have been unscrupulously following all of this week. It has been a masquerade smiles, polite phone calls and half-hearted excuses. I am simply not really sorry about treating him and all of his complexities and explanations the way I do. After all, what can he expect when the rays of sun stop illuminating those irregular highlights in my hair, when the normally open invitation for embrace seems to have suddenly expired, and when he is clearly flashing the sign the French would interpret as pas disponible, the Americans as out of stock and the British as left town?

I guess it must sound nonsensical to say that Paris has left town, but there are days (and lately, these days can pile into weeks and even months), that I can honestly say he has. Paris has left town, leaving me wondering what I am doing here in his quarters, which seem so utterly empty when he is not around. Having patiently waited through all of winter, I have naively thought that spring will bring him a change of mood, but this has simply not happened, though to be fair, he has made some sporadic efforts. Once again, he seems to be going through his blue stage, showering me with rain in the exact moment I finally bring out those favourite suede shoes, sending gusts of wind when I finally master the courage to wonder out for a quick run around the park, and simply shutting down for the evening much faster that I am ready for it.

More than anything, I guess I am angry with him for not controlling his subjects, yes, those other people that I patiently share him with. While on a sunny days (when I can find a place on a terrance of one of his trendy brasseries, which features every model of Chloé, Prada and Chanel sunglasses released in the past season) I am ready to be more forgiving, I am not finding this forgiveness in me given the schizophrenic temperament he has been exhibiting of late. His subjects are becoming more and more rebellious, more and more numerous, more and more unpredictable and dangerously more and more individualist. And that is even before the tourist season brings with it herds of others competing for those very same islands of peace and happiness where I have become a regular.

Paris, I know there is really not point of praying, begging or self-sacrifice to make you take seriously my request, but I urge you to consider that my love for you is not eternal. I can, and indeed have, been offended by your inhabitants whose attitude to sharing makes it difficult for me to share you with them. I know there is no other like you, with museums that dazzle, restaurants that nourish not only the stomach but also the soul, and not least importantly, avenue Montaigne that makes me want to put that Visa to use like never before. As a first measure, I might find other museums, restaurants and shops where my soul, stomach and feet will find their happiness, but this might not just last forever. I am afraid I might stop adjusting to you, like that ergonomic chair, and start rejecting you, as if you were an allergy-causing substance. For the sake of our relationship, I hope you will consider my humble request.

Islands of small and peaceful

There are two kinds of people: those that are born, live and die in big cities and those who could skip on all the fatigue, pollution and melodrama associated of living in the big apple, big london or even the not-so-big paris. I have always been of firm conviction that I belong to that first type who cannot spend more than a weekend in the country side, and even that, on the condition that there is wi fi access. It is not a question of being obsessed with connectivity, of a blackberry happily blinking along, with being virtually at the office - god no! It's really a question of lights, action, camera; of speed of action; of being a part of something larger (and not just a little bit larger). And I am not speaking from a position of ignorance here - I have lived in a small town! A small student town in the Netherlands, of which, as small towns go, virtually no one has even heard of or ever will. The only good news about this place, which proudly featured in its center - as indeed most European small towns do - a church, a pub, and a bank - was that I could pronounce its name which is not the same I can say of anything else in Dutch. (not to self: Dutch was clearly not my special talent in the language department).

After that experience, I resolved to myself to that I would never again live in a small town. And I have not. While my travel itinerary has been diverse, from Ukraine to Canada to UK and finally to France, I have exclusively lived in big cities. I think my quantitative threshold lies somewhere near 2 million inhabitants. Though it has never been explicitly set, every significant other, friend or relative in my life had at some point understood that for me, no city can be considered to deserve this status if it does not feature museums (note the plural here is no accident), restaurants, night life, theatre, think tanks, universities, and of course, a synagogue - in case I ever have an urgent need to enter into direct dialogue with god. So far it has never happened, but in case such need ever arises, it ought to be urgently satisfied. Besides, a city with no synagogue is not a good sign if I ever want to start eating kosher. Again, it is not likely to happen, but since I am already a vegetarian, who knows what the next weird thing I will do?

So, here I am, in probably what is the best compromise between big city living without big city distances - Paris. A city which I can cross in its entirety (without of course the suburbs, in which no self- respecting parisian goes for one and quite convincing reason: fear) for 20 euros, which is comparable to about 3 subway stops in London. A city which at the same time as being small is incredibly diverse, with little self-contained villages with almost distinct accents, dress-codes and dog sizes. On this last point, you might think I exaggerate, but I assure you not. For instance, in the sixteenth, a dog is an accessory, it must fit in the second smallest longchamp bag, otherwise, it's too slow to walk. In the eighteenth on the other hand, a dog is an instrument of protection and therefore it does not fit in any bag - not even the largest longchamp.

And yet in this compromise, I can't help but think that people like me, who love cities for their action and tireless movement, can only be happy in this whirlwind if they find their oasis of small and peaceful, a sort of a microcosm of reality. In Toronto, it was Queen Street West. In Paris, it can vary from the neighbourhood cafe, which during off peak hours features only two types of creatures - the waiters and the owner's Dalmatian whom I quite got used to, to a yoga studio which does not smell like a mixture of indian food and your neighbours feet (yes, sorry, but it's true), to Luxembourg garden on a sunny day, before everyone else gets there and takes all the chairs (one for the ass, one for the bag, and one per leg of course!). I seems like after years of being treated like an american tourist and being confused myself what my oasis or oases of paradise in this city are, I have finally found them. I have gotten to know all the key characters: the Dalmatian, the yoga instructor, the guy who serves a great brunch near by (and who is open on Sunday!). There is only one wrinkle in the storyline. Since I have discovered them, all these places have become famous: now my facial place requires two months to book an appointment, the brunch place features a line which is becoming less and less reasonable, and today, as a last straw, the yoga class was too full to accept me! "But I discovered it before all these people" I almost screamed in the face of the receptionist who politely offered me to unfold my mat outside the studio. Instead, I just limited myself to a resolute "non".

So, all this drama in my life begs the following question: what does one do when their islands of small and peaceful become invaded? Does one flee to another city or try to find other bubbles of peace? Any advice on this dilemma is welcome. Of course, I could find another brunch place or a smell-less yoga studio, but that would be on the other side of paris, and I would have to take the metro there, which is most definitely not smell-less, particularly on the weekends. In case you didn't know, on the weekends, Parisian men suddenly forget they have toilets at home and start to use the streets as their personal toilets. This may be funny for those of you who don't live in the sixth arrondissement in Paris, but for me, that creates another dilemma: as I decide to have a run around the neighbourhood following being turned away from yoga, I have to treat it as some sort of an obstacle course between (hmm...how shall I say it, number one and number two). The latter usually belongs to dogs, but does not make it any more pleasant for my white adidas running shoes or my nose for that matter. Part of the problem is that I run though the fabulous gallery district and of course I want to be looking around not down! And that brings me to my last thought of the day: Paris maybe the best compromise in the city category, but now it looks like I am going to have to compromise on my bubbles of small and peaceful, sharing them with the invaders, who probably like me, have realised that even here, they need to escape.