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A Journalist In Paris
Copyright 2016 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
N/A
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
Paris, November 2015.
ABOUT THE DRAFTS
Number three:
Nothing yet
One of the perks of a newspaper job that I had years ago: The bin that was full of free books.
This was pointed out to me in an almost apathetic manner: as if books worth hundreds of dollars, free to anyone who cared to look through them, were an every day thing.
I looked through the books now and then. Took a few from time to time.
Then, one day, I found a treasure: "Remembrance Of Things Paris," edited by Ruth Reichl. It was a hardback anthology of nonfiction essays about food, business, arts, fashion and culture during various eras in Paris.
Inside, tiny print promised many hours of exploring the city of Paris.
I looked over the first story, read it quickly, then read it again slowly.
And then I felt jealous ...very jealous actually ... at Irene Corbally Kuhn’s essay “Paris In The Twenties.” She wrote about working as a reporter in Paris just after World War I, and how the city came back to life after wartime.
I wanted to be her. I wanted an experience like that. Not necessarily during or just after wartime but I would not turn down that opportunity.
Eventually, and slowly, I read the other essays. When I finished, I put the bookmark at the front of the book and started over.
Every time I read Ms. Kuhn’s essay I had the same thought: I wish it could be me.
Life went on. I continued to survive and engaged in the usual activities of existing on this planet.
In the middle of surviving and engaging, there came a day when I felt an intense desire to go to Paris. The desire grew only stronger, not weaker, as time went by.
I wanted to go in order to see if it would be fun enough to do more than once. Or twice. Or several times. Or more than that. I also needed first-hand experience for many scenes in several writing projects. Worst-case scenario: It would be unpleasant. Best case: It would be fun, and grounds for a return visit, either temporary or permanent.
While thinking about these things I'd have this dialogue with myself:
You gotta go.
Yeah but when?
Just go.
It's not a good time.
Don't wait for a good time. Just go.
Then I would run sample budgets:
The "just go" budget, which focused only on plane tickets and hope.
The "comfortable" budget which contained some things needed for a decent vacation, minus metro tickets and snacks and tips. And fancy meals. And most attractions.
The "ideal" budget which would mean traveling in style and comfort and truly experiencing the place.
I’d sit and laugh at the pros and cons of all three budgets, then return to reality.
I continued to live and learn and explore and love. I met and then lost the love of my life, which made surviving quite difficult. I was on auto-pilot for a long time, and in some ways I still am.
Despite all of that, the internal dialogue continued to nag me:
You've got to go.
I know but I'm waiting for the perfect time.
There will never be a perfect time. Just go.
When?
Just pick a time and go.
I don’t know. There’s too much to do at home. And I’m still too sad.
Just go. The first time will be the most difficult. The next time, you’ll know what to do differently if the first time is not to your liking..
After a while I ran the budgets again.
After some thought I settled somewhere in the vicinity of “comfortable.” The final result was "slightly upscale ungrateful American” budget which focused on plane tickets, skimpy meals and tips, a lot of walking and no metro tickets, and a fervent hope that the remainder of the budget was at or under my estimations.
At this point I’m going to say that not all of this was fun or joyful or pleasant. Not all of it.
It was not all fun because from the minute I began preliminary research, to the arrival back home and reluctantly going inside, forever changed, I was very sad yet functioning at an extreme capacity. That was not quite fun. That felt like work. Work can be fun. But no matter how fun it can be at times, work is still work.
There was a lot of walking and a lot of hunger. There was barely enough hydration and one day I thought I might drop from weakness. I had a place to sleep at night but not enough euros for the main attractions - and it was only by the grace of an observant clerk and a surprisingly generous set of rules that I was able to tour the Louvre for free. I did not starve; it was a matter of not planning well, and getting caught up in experiencing instead of replenishing, which meant feeling rather uncomfortable most of the time.
There was also the presence of death.
Death was present because Paris had been attacked by terrorists only a few days before my arrival. On a Friday night, while dining and enjoying music and going about their lives, more than 130 people died in a series of mass murders up and down the east side of the city. Those claiming responsibility said this was in retaliation for ongoing decisions and actions made by the French government. This was the worst act of terrorism in Paris since the end of World War II.
I was not afraid. Instead, I was ready for anything, which can be somewhat bittersweet: I hoped for everything to turn out well, but anticipated the possibility of more violence.
Because of this, quite seriously -- my heart was not fully in the moments of admiring Paris or cherishing any beauty for long. There were moments of great interest, and moments of satisfaction, but my heart was heavy with the reality of life: we are all competing with death, no matter how lovely our surroundings.
Death was also on my mind because of the loss of My Love, who is forever in my heart, and who was on my mind throughout my entire trip. The trip would have been heaven had he been there to share it with me, in person, at my side.
As I wandered the streets of Paris and watched the sun go down one evening I thought ...
I have been here before, in many ways.
I have seen this before.
There is nothing new about death being nearby, or far away, or up close, or being imminent.
The sun is going down in glorious colors as this city mourns.
In a different city I once saw the sun setting just as beautifully as a boy lay in pool of blood ...
I have already seen death up close frequently in this life ...
And escaped death several times so far ...
I have been caught in the crossfire more than once and lived another day, and another ...
I once thought I was about to meet my maker on a sunny day in high school ...
I looked around ... at Paris all around me ... at the memorials, at the historical buildings, at the Parisians going about their lives. They refused to be afraid, and were intent on living and enjoying this world.
In the middle of all that, there were infinite possibilities: a great vacation; a not-so-great vacation; a vacation interrupted by more violence. I resolved to face the possibility of death as I have faced life: with curiosity and with courage. It was important to be courageous, and it was silly to be afraid. Why? The entire world was searching for a young man with the following description: mid-twenties, smooth skin, well-dressed, attractive. He could disguise himself, for sure. But unless he were a fantastic actor, something would give him away. In the meantime, that description applied to a lot of men I knew or didn’t know who were roughly over the age of fifteen. Should I be afraid of everyone? No. Cautious and exercising common sense, but not afraid.
As I considered these things and moved about Paris, I felt my training and my craft moving to the forefront. I decided to learn and absorb and create and share for as long as I am able.
I watched everything ... listened ... followed .... backtracked ... observed ... tasted ... cried a bit ... touched ... and then started dividing up the material into projects: This would be an article . That would be a book. That would be a great writing exercise. This would be material for several items on my site, not for profit. That would go toward a special collection--
Then ...
Suddenly ...
With a great, startling, triumphant jolt I realized ...
... I was a journalist during wartime ...
... In Paris.
I considered that for a few long delicious moments.
Then I went back to work.
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