How do I… explain Paris at all?
Never have I ever had such a crazy, unstable, hysterical, sensual, heartwarming, painful, and yet so, so memorable trip. The least I can say (which was well, I have to admit the most memorable about Paris) is that it truly is the city of love, and it might be simply impossible to resist it. Usually cold and distant me was offered to take a kiss after randomly dining with a cute brazilian garçon Alex, and god was it not hard to say no? Usually so reserved and uninterested and romantic love me was slowly (and slightly, but you have to take it easy on me and consider the absence of any prior experience in that regard) melting under the brief brush on the hand, shoulder, hip… oh god, was it not hard to say No?
As much as I have discovered such unmatched and unexpected sensuality in myself, the Parisian “make love” with conveniently omitted “not war” that usually sits afterwards, offered me yet another take on life. Although the look of a pissing right in my direction bum (or a highly intelligent and culturally developed Parisian, you never can tell for sure) in Latin Quarter will sadly never leave my mind, somehow all the little faire la bise’s or perhaps slightly more advanced rouler une pelle’s I’ve encountered all over the city… and we are not to leave out all the passionate hugs, goodbye and hello pecks, interlaced hands, making out’s in the Tuileries Garden, Jardin du Luxembourg, promenades, and so on and so forth! We are not to forget about those either, as I have never felt that romantic touch can be so common, so normal, so needed just as breathing. And maybe that substance of little love plays hovering in the air, reminding me that I’m a woman, making me think what a woman is, what woman do I want to be?
Though museums allow me to gather some well-needed evidence to answer these questions (nonetheless, I still won’t be able to say precisely why did I say No?). The Picasso, oh, my beloved Picasso, how can your women be like that? How is that possible that your women’s gaze is so terrifying, how come you are so afraid of them, yet trying to neglect, to belittle? Oh my Picasso, how can your women be a monument of power, a wild cat staring deep in your soul (was Nietzsche’s abyss exactly the woman’s gaze?), be so hidden in their nudity? The naked body was supposed to humiliate, to make them humble, oh those distorted bodies, black eyes, broken limbs. But how is that ritual of downgrading the object turns into your own humiliation, oh my dear Picasso? How is that in your attempt to show how well you understand us, women, how simple, cruel, dirty we are, how come that the attempt to show pure unrevelment of this impure, dump bodies, how come you could only show how little you understand, how scared you are? Picasso’s women inspire, they taught me that even those great Hommes bragging about complete understanding of our minds, how terrified they are discovering that they, in fact, cannot comprehend this abyss of a woman’s soul, the abyss between a Hommo and Femme.
Renoir, in the meantime, taught me that this unmatched power of a female can be enveloped in a liquid, pliant flesh. She must be held in those arms, felling a scorching hand on her waist, a thirsty gasp on her neck, and she’s there, melting down in his arms, spreading out on his tuxedo, having her existence do the drip-drip in the dancing flow, smiling soft, pink bright alluring inviting mouth, drip-drip, she’s melting down, she’s like a rose, a lily, a sunflower, a forget-me-not, she’s the most beautiful flower you can find and he exists to hold her in his arms, to gasp into her neck, to squeeze her in his arms, to squeeze into her, to never let her go, never allow her abandon him, to make her always dance with him here, in that park, only two of them, but oh no, is it not her dancing with another man?
Renoir showed me this silent power of a women over men, her murderous softness and pliability, that, too bad for men, might simply be the sole reason of their being—to suffer trying to grasp her in his arms and never let her go while blindly—and I have to add innocently—assuming that they are superior, controlling, the ones with talent, the ones impossible to comprehend and explain. Of my friends, Renoir really does say that in his works! How fondly does he give this presumed power of holding the flower to the man, how subtle his smile is on making men to think that the woman—is simply the flower to be held, how cruel is his little joke! But I, a woman, I see that Renoir’s woman, she’s not fully there, she’s a liquid, she’s a cat that only allows to hold herself in these specific arms, but also she is required to find her сосуд that would shape her, that would allow her to gather herself, to really exist, she cannot not have it, she can’t be on her own.
And Renoir’s man can’t live without his flower either.
How can I still think about my No? Why did I not let it slide? Why me, not a romantic soul at its clearest, how could have I resisted “can I give you a kiss?” when the kiss in question is the first one, in Paris, and when the heart beats fast-fast-fast, badum-badum-badum, and I see the lips, and inside I burn so slowly and arisen?
Maybe the pain in my feet, maybe the stress, maybe the fear of giving up on my first kiss that easily? Maybe the actual awkwardness of not knowing how to, to seem stupid and weird, to have to say “this is my first kiss?”. Too much of a honour for the little cute garçon Alexandro, for the stupid little Alexandro that took my phone number and never called me back.
So what is Paris after all? What was Paris for me? Now, in the stupid expensive Eurostar, am I not thinking about Paris with a little sorrow in my heart? How come that the lovely Rouen that lied on my way didn’t leave me agitated, excited, seething?
Oh stupid little garçon Alexandro, what did you do to my heart?
The Paris wasn’t the architecture around me; wasn’t the food, wasn’t the art in itself all as much; Paris wasn’t what all the other cities were for me. Paris wasn’t people, finally people, and my heart not crying of pain of loneliness but the physical cry of helplessness I felt in Montparnasse, in Versailles on my bed, whining to my parents of my fears, tieing myself in knots there, in a room too small to move. But my heart wasn’t bleeding, even when deciding to give up on Etretat, oh, what a decision really! And try to imagine, my cute little garçon appeared in my life exactly on the night when I was supposed to boil in a train back to Le Havre, after a lovely hike in Monet’s pretty Flandrian spot. The cliffs, rising high and proud, will remain a pure matter of imagination, a simple photo I see on my phone, not even the painting. But my heart, my hip that felt the touch, my waist that pleading for a hand, my eyes locked on another’s, my desire to stay and watch the game (maybe it’s time to admit I did so only to prolong that meeting even a little more? But then, I will also have to admit that I felt that the 94 minutes lasted way too short, not enough for my heart to get the hang of it, way to little for me to satiate).
But yes, the people. The dirty swearings, tuttings and shushings, almost a rule to be as close to others as you possibly can, the fast pass of your steps, the absence of rules, and bright presence of movement due to the feeling. For me, Paris was that far from being fresh gasp of air that had to finally happen for me to learn how to breathe. If not for Paris, how would I have known I might be desired?
“Maria, can I give you a kiss?”
Now still, on my way to the Netherlands. Ah, do I not wish that this dream could roll forward! Do I not plan to stay delusional, wait for a message, for a single message reminding me to root for Brazil? Will I not forget the face, but remember the slightly crazy light eyes, and accidental brush of hands, the offered kiss? Ah, will I not be thinking what if we just accidentally met again?
But Cortázar already explained it all to me. The pure power of accident, of it not happening no matter how badly we wish for it, and only that being the chaste reason for us not to dream anymore? If Oliviera doesn’t bump into Maga on Des-Ar bridge on a December evening, then it is simply not meant to be. But he does, and they are ment to meet, while I’m not.
To summarise, the four days might’ve been the most eventful time in my entire life. Who would have thought that my scepticism on Paris being the capital of love would spit right at my face with all of that? Yet, how pliable my body feels, and how much have I learned, how much can I do now, after learning? Maybe my first French kiss won’t happen in Paris, but now I can accept the fact that the chance of it happening at all is slightly above zero.
