Ode

"There is never any ending to Paris, and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other."
- Ernest Hemingway

As some of the more astute might have surmised, I actually rather like this city. Not too many cities can claim that from me. Small as it is compared to the metropolitan behemoths, never in my weeks in this city have I stopped discovering more about the city. Even today, I found a lovely little bistro, with fantastic food and a wonderful view. I walked past it a million times without venturing in, and on my last day, I find that it is brilliant.

What is it about Paris that makes it such a fulfilment of its own image? After all, it seems almost impossible that any one place can encompass so much. Yet it does. Perhaps it is how personal it is. Paris can be anything you want it to be. It can be the city of Haussman, with immense, straight boulevards, glittering monuments marking the junctions, gorgeous landscaping in gardens scattered all over the city. This version of the city is overwhelming. A person can spend days simply marvelling at the perfection of the city. Nowhere else have I seen a city that is designed to be so beautiful on such an immense scale.

Or perhaps you prefer the Paris of intense debauchery. Clubs and bars of every description abound, catering to any and all tastes in a way that would shock the most jaded traveller. Ten restaurants in Paris hold the coveted three Michelin stars, and even if you find those to be somewhat out of your wallet's reach, great little bistros and brasseries abound, with good food to be found at almost any price level. Of course, more money never hurts, and some of the lushest hotels in the world are here. I must say that the Four Seasons in Paris is the nicest one I have seen yet. The way it fires so far over the top is quite endearing. Wine is cheap and plentiful, but you can always find the finest tipples in the world, at a premium, of course. An evening at a wine bar is one of the best you can hope to have.

There is, of course, also the Paris of history and culture. There must be dozens of monuments in this city, each telling a stirring tale of bravado, ideals or the immensity of history. Museums are everywhere, many of them truly excellent. It is hardly possible that a human being cannot find something of interest in the myriad exhibitions in Paris. Better yet, observe the streets and see history reflected in every twist, every straight avenue, every snaking pathway. Operas, concerts, independent artists, fashion designers, Paris hosts them all in style. What's not to love?

What then is my Paris? Almost impossible to answer, that question is. If every person's Paris is different, then no trite words of mine can make a reader understand what I see. Still, I shall try. My Paris is what I experience when I sit in a cafe on a lazy afternoon, coffee before me, facing the street, watching individuals impossible to typecast as Parisians, but equally impossible to describe as anything else, walk past, as my newspaper lies forgotten in my hand. It is what I see when I sit in the parvis of Notre-Dame at night, feeling the cool breeze as an old man plays the guitar beside me. It is the four piece band that sets up on a bridge on Sundays to play some excellent music for pennies. It is the waiter taking immense pleasure from my compliment on a fantastic meal in a tiny bistro. It is idling by the river on a sunny day, feeling the light penetrate me. It is the dog under the bar counter yelping as I accidentally step on a paw. It is grabbing a beer to go and sitting on a bench just because. It is all of these things and more, everything I have seen, done, experienced in this city. My Paris, as surely as it is anyone else's Paris.

And now, as I pack my clothes, I cannot help but wonder how my Paris will change as I return over the years. Living here, even for a short few weeks, is so different from being a tourist. I want to stay. That is a rare emotion for me. I have so little attachment to places. But I want to stay, and keep discovering Paris.

As Hemingway so aptly puts it, there is never any ending to Paris. Except there is for me. And it comes in 13 hours.