"Paris, je t'aime"


Someone once taught my sister that every city is a woman and that most can be grouped into one of four categories; hooker, lover, mother or wife.

Paris, from which I have just come back, is not a whore; a whore takes your money, yes, but gives you what you pay for. There is an honesty, a humility to this that Paris doesn't even pretend to have, much less aspires.

Paris is not a lover; nobody loves Paris in secret and shadows. Nobody could. Like so many before you, you have to scream it to the wind and write it down and publish it a thousand times: je t'aime, Paris.

Paris is not a mother; it does not look out for you, it is not tender or soft and its bony, perfumed arms are not warm. Besides, Paris would never ruin her figure for a child.

Paris is a wife, I think, a "woman of my life" sort of wife, in the tradition of Zelda Fitzgerald. Paris likes to show off and party and dance and drink, drives you insane, kicks you when you're down, insults you, throws away months of your work but it is for her, because of her, that you try so damn hard to write something worth reading. (This isn't it.)