11. After effects

and lingering after thoughts

It’s 23:05 and I am just starting this draft which means only one thing – I procrastinated so hard today. Okay, that’s not entirely true.

I went to a yoga class with a friend, grabbed coffee with her after, walked back home and then welcomed Aunty Flo who considerately waited till I got home to arrive. Thank the Period Lords.

I had written my last newsletter a few hours before our flight to Paris. I was travelling with my friend, Aly, who was also a part of my stay in the city last time. We had embarked on that adventure precisely two years ago. And this was a throwback. Only not through photos and videos but by actually living it all again.

It was immaculate. Paris did not disappoint.

Right from the weather to the food to the billowing sense of liberation in my chest made me feel like I belonged. And having the cash money really did help. 😉

We roamed downtown looking for cheese, pastries and wine, stood in line for hours at the Bouillon Chartier, drank sangria from tiny tea cups and sat by the Seine, picnicking and waving at people on tourist boats and falling in love with the city all over again.

What I enjoyed the most, however, were the moments of solitude I experienced in the city. They filled me with a certain kind of happiness that I couldn’t possibly experience anywhere else in the world.

Least of all, in Hamburg. Every corner here represented the drudgery of daily life. Even the parts that brought me happiness in some way didn’t spark this amount of awe and admiration.

In Paris, I walked from one part of the city to another, crossing arrondissement after arrondissement, feeling the cool river breeze on my face, legs aching and heart full.

I stood in front of gorgeous paintings in L’Orangerie and Petit Palais. I saw an imposing church and entered it instinctively only to be entranced by its stunning stained-glass windows. I breathed in the beauty of artwork that I admittedly often did not understand. I took copious amounts of photos of everything from the bridges to the buildings to the pigeons playing in the sun. I splurged on postcards and expensive handcream at the museum gift shops. I sat down at busy cafés for overpriced pastry and lime-flavoured sparkling water.

Whether I took the metro or walked along the boulevard of Jardin de Tuileries or sat in a room looking at Monet’s Water Lillies, I felt inspired in Paris. I felt my mind quiet down. I felt a certain hunger to write. I wasn’t held back by the thoughts of chores or appointments or even the urge to scroll on my phone. I whipped out my notebook from my 15-euro Uniqlo bag in unlikely places. And I wrote.

I wrote sitting down at the café adjoining the Shakespeare and Company bookstore. I wrote in Catherine’s living room. I wrote in Tuileries while I watched people go about their busy Monday routines. I even wrote on the flight back home.

It made me realise, that if I ever were to take my writing seriously, I must be like an upper-class Victorian lady and spend my summers in Paris.

However, since in our post-capitalist world, this wish is absolutely impractical, I must visit Paris, crash on Catherine’s couch, discuss politics with her and stand by the shelves of books in the fiction section of Shakespeare and Company and experience ultimate peace every year for at least a singular long weekend.

Until next time living in the afterglow of this trip,

Sanj 🫨