Day 175: The God in Small Things

Paris, Day 4. So, I was just writing my friend an email about how weird it felt not having existential crises every five minutes and apparently that was like hand-painting a giant target on my back because BOOM I woke up this morning after three hours of sleep feeling like a cannon had blown a hole right through my faith in things.

I've been asking the kinds of questions that a person shouldn't be asking. The kinds of questions that have no answers, that can make the swirling rabbit hole of oblivion shriek open in front of you, that are all too common when surrounded by unfathomable amounts of history. Questions like: Who am I?

Questions of that ilk are for when you're teenager and lost, expecting some kind of pithy response to come down from the sky. Something like, "YOU ARE A POET LAUREATE WHO WEARS RED SHOES." As though a person can be summed up in a sentence. As though God has enough spare time to call you up and tell you that.

But for whatever reason, that was the question rattling around in my brain and hauling me from sleep at 3 am. WHO AM I? It's the kind of thing that can ruin your day, so the only sensible reaction is a very long walk.

When you are being tortured by epic questions, however, the last thing you need is epic architecture. Marble-crusted palaces or gratuitously gold-plated statues are really not going to help when you're already feeling small and slightly messed up. If anything Paris can alienate the shit out of you on a day like today.

So my strategy instead was to find little things that made me happy. And also water. Water calms me when not much else will. ("YOU ARE A PERSON WHO LIKES WATER.") I went to the Seine and on my way there, I started collecting these small things. Fresh peas. The kind you have to shell yourself. The funny round trees lining Jardin des Tuileries. The gentleman sleeping outside in the chair, head thrown back, mouth wide open.

The boats moored to the side of the river: one named Andrea. The little bathtub rowboat dangling off the side of the Zephyr, half full with water. The old woman limping along the top of the Jean Bart, wearing pale blue leggings, silver shoes and a mint green dress. Barges: Anna, Mutualiste, Mexicale, Mustang and Aubepine.

Her pink coat and matching pink nose. His white teeth and brown skin. Two teenage girls with identical frizzy hair, identical sunglasses and identical scowls. Seeing the Samaritaine department store sign just as I was beginning to feel stupid for giving the Kenyan guy money to "help out in Darfur."

The old man on the bicycle: grey trenchcoat streaming behind him. The Asian man with the long, black cape. A shop called Aux Paradis des Oiseaux (Paradise of the Birds) with tall bird cages, tiny bird houses and two open-mouthed alligators made of bronze.

Graffiti: Othershit, Hello My Name is Real.

Smells: macaroni near the Grand Palais, the lady's perfume by Jardin des Tuileries, the man with the moustache's cigar, the fresh green smell of the flower stores on rue Aube.


The cute old couple opening their stand near Pont Neuf. The garden stores along Quai de la Megisserie. The beautiful couple kissing near the Chatelet Metro.

The man walking through Notre Dame hand-in-hand with his young son, looking UTTERLY unimpressed. 'This is it?!' his face seemed to say. Sitting in the cathedral, looking up and feeling closer to something. The way the ceiling curves. A fresh crepe so hot I could barely eat it. The drunks fighting the park. The pigeons fighting in the park...or maybe mating, I wasn't sure which. Coming home. Talking to you.