For those not entirely in the know, I am leaving for Paris in four days. On the 15th. Two weeks from today, which is not so far away, I will be returning.
Surely from reading an entry or two, or even my profile, you know what a francophile I am. And I've been itching for an excuse to go to Paris for a couple years now. Out of nowhere, three excuses appeared: my friend Rachel, from New Zealand, has been on a research grant there all year, my friend Emma is visiting her mother, who has been teaching a course at the Sorbonne all spring, and when I got my tax refund it covered airfare during peak times such as this week. It seems to be in the stars (dans les etoiles, si vous préférez).
What's been on my mind recently is this: Why is everybody telling me that about the love I will find there when I say I'm going to Paris? Even my mother and her boyfriend are telling me to be careful with those French boys. As if I can speak enough French to talk about more than the weather, to begin with. I told my mother that, and she said she's not worried about me speaking. I got an email today from a friend that had love as the subject line and closed with "love awaits - bring a good camera!" And naturally I will bring my most useful camera, if not my best, but... Honestly, a publisher rep who I know and like, but don't know well enough that his saying this would be normal, told me he hopes I fall in love and can stay forever.
Who wouldn't want to stay forever?
As much as I would love for an easy way to French citizenship (in spite of this Sarko nonsense), acquiring it by means of anything romantic - or by any other means - really hasn't been a part of my thoughts in the four months I've been planning this trip. It's an impossibility - MY FRENCH SUCKS.
In the meantime, my clothes are all over the floor, my passport's over here, my ticket is over there, who knows where I put my Paris Moleskine last, and I've had a little wine and am more than a little tired. I hope I make it on the plane in one piece.