Paris is the center of gravity for bohemians: artists, poets, writers. They all flock to it, for it is another character in itself. Paris has its own personality. And if only it can talk, oh what stories it can tell. I have read somewhere that Paris can have an effect on writers much more than they have an effect on it.
Many artists have gone for days with lack of victuals, walking the streets of Montparnasse , sustained only by their passion for beauty, and angst for love during those hungry years.
To see myself in sepia posing, backdropped by the Eiffel Tower, as if I myself am part of that colony of writers, that is my heart’s yearning. I would love the cliché of having an old beaten Royal typewriter by my side while I write on my Mac. I would write as if I have something important to say. I would write my book.
I would love the image of me lounging in Le Deux Magots where I would stretch my booted feet and look lazily and longingly at people while I try to concentrate on a book I promised to read in this city of Gertrude Stein, Van Gogh and Coco Chanel.
I would love to linger at a hawker’s stall in Montmartre and hunt for trinkets, perhaps a tiny bracelet with a miniature Eiffel tower. I would love to shriek in delight when I unearth a poem in ink by T.S. Eliot or a sketch of Collette perhaps, reproductions of course but who cares.
I would love to say Merci! and curl my tongue and sound nasal while I haggle for a brown rusty copy of Zelda Fitzgerald’s love letter to Scott.
I would try hard not to look giddy but bored and chic in my sleek jacket and walk the streets of Montparnasse while Edith Piaf sings in my head “Cest sibon…lalalala..” . Isn’t this the place where Frieda Kahlo let go of her painter and made love to a girl instead?
I would love to try the crepe sold on a sidewalk food stall and feel the morning sun on my cheeks while olive oil dribbles on my chin.
And if I cannot have my bestseller, I would settle for the next best thing. I would have my romance with gay Pareeh’…