Paris. Yes, Paris would be lovely, so lovely to take off in a plane right now and land somewhere familiar, yet far, far away.
It would be cool, because it is September. And God knows there are strikes going on right now. I might be stranded at some café, ordering kir if I feel particularly fancy, or maybe just une demi-bouteille de n’importe quoi. Because it’s just that kind of a day, don’t you know?
It’s just the kind of day when it would feel grand to flirt in a language that is not my own. It would be grand to be outrageous and feel no undue attachment, because it is not my land, not my place..
And yet it is my life. I could talk, walk, float through the grey skies and smell the bread, the diesel fuel, the coffee. I could walk, hear the honking horns, the far-off music in a taxi, footsteps, voices I understand, and yet I could detach. It would be so grand not to feel too much but the fleeting sensations I encounter.
Of course, after a while, it would not be like this. I would start conversations, remember people, and the language would all gain a context, a history. Then it would not be the same. But it would be separate from this life. In the long run, I would miss all my love. But right now? The antiseptic of the only vaguely familiar calls to me right now, at least for a little while…