Mon Ami Departé

My friend Toni left about a half hour ago—on her way back to California. My little apartment seems suddenly empty. It was perfect timing to have a friend here for the middle of my stay. It was fun. I gave me an opportunity to go out into Paris to dinner and to the theatre and to travel south all with companionship. That's very nice and quite different than doing all those kinds of things alone.

It was especially wonderful to have gone to the South of France for a few days. I noticed it yesterday, again, that we had been there, that I had been away from Paris and now was back. It made me see Paris just a little differently. As is the case at home, things move differently in the country than they do in the city and traveling south gave me a tiny window into seeing that difference.

Paris is, well.... Paris. What can one say? It's rather wild and woolly here, a little aggressive, a little rushed, a little impressed with itself. How could it be otherwise? It's one of the most important urban centers on the planet and has been for centuries. Style. Paris has style.

We spent yesterday afternoon in the Latin Quarter near Place Saint-Michel. We walked all the little alleyways that make up the area and ate dinner in a delightful little restaurant that we stumbled upon. We chose it because it had an interesting menu and looked good with its traditional red and white checked table cloths and intimate ambiance. The food was excellent, some of the best I've had since arriving. I had salmon. But it was earlier in the afternoon when we'd stopped for a coffee that I felt Paris sort of settling around me.

We were sitting outside under outdoor heaters. That's how they do it here now that it's getting colder—they have roll-out canvas and plastic roofs and sometimes even siding, and they have  heaters that look sort of like street lamps, so people can still sit outside. We had one of those tables where you are side-by-side, looking out toward the street.

We weren't far from Shakespeare and Company, which is near the Seine. Lots of young people and lots of smoking. You can't smoke indoors so the smokers do tend to congregate. And the maitre d was just a little rude and pushy to people and it was very busy. And I liked it all. I know that sounds overly romantic, but—you know—that's my schtick, I am overly romantic about these things. To me, it's all pretty much a big adventure.

I just want to take it in. I want to see the color of the water in the mud puddle not just worry about the fact I stepped in it. I'm trying to look without judging what is "right" and what is "wrong." I don't mean to sound naive or simplistic, and I don't think that's what I'm promoting, either. I'm talking about something else.

I believe to succeed as a writer, I have to succeed first as an observer. I have to see the world around me as it is and seek to understand what's actually going on. I don't think anyone can do that when they're busy with a lot of judgment about how it ought to be.

Bottom line: I really want to understand Paris, both in the present and in the past. It's impossible, of course, especially in the time I have, but I can get somewhere. Indeed, I've learned a great deal in the six weeks I've been here. And my affection for Paris seems more grounded these days, based in first-hand experience.

What disturbs me is the realization that my stay is more than half over. I don't feel at all ready for it to end. I'm just now getting my sea legs, I think. I take the Metro mostly with ease these days. I don't look at the map nearly as often. I'm going back now, to places I've been and even when its new, I have a better sense of where I am. What can I say? I like it here—more each day, actually.

Toni's departure signals another change in focus. I went back to school yesterday and in the next few weeks I have three papers to write. One on Delacroix, one on Gericault and one on Romanticism in Paris. I'm looking forward to the task. Each paper is small, only about five pages. I see it as an opportunity to kind of organize my thinking and kind of summarize for myself what I've learned.

It's not the same as writing fiction. And, believe me, that's always on my mind. I'm still working with all the thoughts I've mentioned of late... about the narrator and whether I'm going to give that over to the fortune teller and if so, who she's talking to and how it's all going to work in and out of time. These are huge questions for me, but I've learned the best way to solve those kind of things is to "sit" with them, let them percolate until something surfaces. Things surface in the most unexpected moments, triggered by unexpected things. I'm confident that it will fall into place. I even think the academic writing will help it along. So, to make a long story short, I'm happy this morning and ready for whatever is next.

Oh, and I haven't forgotten Stendhal. I'm about 100 pages into The Red and The Black and it's so good—so much information about the times and the thinking and relationships and humor. It's absolutely excellent and will inform my paper on Romanticism and ultimately, my novel. Haven't forgotten Hugo either. If I wrote about everything that's on my mind, we'd be here until next year.