Crafted beauty #8: Paris, initially
A lyrical retrospective of my first few months (with audio)
I moved to Paris two years ago, almost to the day. I got on a train on the 28th of August 2022, shifting my life across the Channel tunnel. I did this because I was excited by what the city might offer me. And despite the worthy life I have built here (the inspiration, the friends, what I’ve found in myself), my early months were not easy.
In honour of this two-year anniversary, I collated some pieces I wrote in this initial period, when my journal was where I went for comfort. These pieces are about the loneliness, the anxiety that came with going to a new place where I didn’t know anyone. I wanted to give space to the complexity of emotions I have felt in my journey till now, as it is so easy, so tempting, to romanticise this experience.
In a post I shared last year, called “is Paris magical?” I wrote about my complicated view of Paris, including the many things to love (and not) about it.
But the pieces below are less about the city itself, and more about how I first navigated it.
I would love to know if anything resonates with your own journey! And as a special treat, you can listen to the audio version of this post.
I. It’s strange how a simple geographical move from one place to the next — a short train ride away, can change so much in a person. I arrive here, replicating my birth, coming into this place alone, and I feel, for the first time in a long time, lonely. Not so much feeling loneliness already, but anticipating what it would feel like. Like the void after a break-up, when one feels small, rejected, uneasy. And that’s where I find myself now.
II. Can I tell you that I’m scared? There is excitement, yes. And some days, there is even what feels like ease. But underneath it all, there is fear. Fear to find home somewhere new, For the first time in half my life. Fear to walk away from who and what I know, On some loosely held belief that it might be worth it here. “Yes”, I shout, “I’m excited!” I widen my eyes and I smile, But also, also, I must admit, I’m scared. Can these two things exist at once? Does it sound strange to say?
III. I will fix my tongue to speak in this new tongue, I promise you will understand me, And we won’t have to resort to silences Loaded with all the things we could have said, With smiles that are made more potent because they are unaccompanied by words, I promise we will have those too, I will throw myself into these new contortions, And I will savour the tangling that comes before ease. It might take me a moment, But I’ve prepared myself for this, To exist in a world of new ways to say everything I already know. In other words, to grow.
IV. How strange it is to be in a new place, and to consider yourself — your old body, your old ways, and to wonder what parts of you are inherently difficult to consume there, simply as a matter of fact, or culture. And what parts might depend on the taste of certain individuals. You look at yourself, outside yourself, with all the anxiety that entails, and you judge, the way you feel you might be judged. Anticipating what you think must come — the approval or disapproval of the ones you approach, hoping to get friendship from. It’s difficult.
V. How do I say this? I’m starving, here. Yes, I know my face has grown rounder, And the scale is crying out under my weight, I know that I reach for the taste of sugar, And press the soft bread like marshmallow, The croissants, chocolates, fruits and wine, It all abounds here. Everything is just so full. And yet, I am starving here. How does a place where flavour, pleasure, taste abound, Leave you so, very, empty?
VI. I can hear it now — the silence. I ran from it, chasing sound at lightning speed, Hoping to have experiences at startling volume, To find people to say my name, To remind me that I’m here, that I’m not alone. And it’s scary to try to outrun something That has already arrived. That is waiting for the right time to express itself, Waiting for you to recognise it for what it is — The void. It becomes something to speak to, the emptiness, And I say my name just to hear it bounce back, The echo sounding hollow, louder, Like maybe someone else said it. And that brings me comfort. So, I sit in the silence till it takes form, Till it becomes a shawl that caresses me, Till I find that here, in these desolate walls, I have more space to hear myself.
VII. I just hope that I have a truly wonderful time here. I hope I make great friends. I hope I continue to be open to people and opportunities. I hope I write viciously— lyrically and sentimentally. I hope I read, I hope I take many photos. I hope I’m surrounded by love.
On the Home 2 here podcast, I spoke about my journey, including the breadth of my Paris experience. You can watch or listen to it here:
Prompt:
When have you felt lonely? Write about it and share it with me (by sending it on instagram, or replying by email if you’re a subscriber) in the next week, and it will go up on the Instagram page.