My Parisienne life is typically most enticing by night and my days are spent generally eating, writing, dancing around an empty house. To get out of the house before noon is a statement. And yesterday it was. To Musee d'Orsay, where I further proved my distaste for the Impressionists, neo-Impressionism, and particularly Van Gogh. I listened as pretentious English speakers waxed poetic about what each Van Gogh portait meant... Such shit. Instead, I was enthralled by turn of the century furniture, paintings of scantily clad women, the stunning salle de réception, and the model of l'Opera. (An American boy stood next me and exclaimed, "This reminds me of Inception!") To my immense delight an exhibition titled Beauté, morale et volupté was simply my favourite V&A exhibition of this year, The Cult of Beauty, revamped and retitled! It marked the third time I had seen it. Wandering around the museum itself was enough to give me that Paris feeling - wistful and grateful of what a thrilling time I've had, now and generally. To then be transported into the alluring world of the Pre-Raphaelites was all too much. I hugged my fur coat and was gloriously overwhelmed. By all of it. I live in Paris. Sometimes you forget. I feel so disengaged from the general idea of what Paris is. Its certainly not berets, baguettes, and la Tour Eiffel. (The latter mostly just serving as a reminder that I live in Paris!) Paris is about meeting a million strangers a night, exchanging numbers and mutually promising to see each other very soon, but never calling. Its about entering a city and not knowing a soul, yet enjoying the company of many. Staying up late, waking up early, and being totally inspired every time you walk out your door. To live in Paris makes you illustriously thick-skinned, impervious to what might normally get you. The city itself is all you need. Only now am I beginning to realise that, like London, I will have a continuous and prosperous relationship with this city. As I stood in that museum, all I could think was, I can't wait to get home and write.

 

Viewing the art itself was like visiting an old friend, as I knew each masterwork that awaited me. Notably absent were the recreation of Rossetti's Tudor House front room and The Beguiling of Merlin by Burne-Jones, but unlike the V&A, the exhibition was free (with museum entry)! Funnily I had rushed to see the exhibition a second time before leaving London, not knowing when I'd ever get to see such wonders gathered again. Now here we both are in Paris. All too good. From there, I was unleashed onto the 7eme, walking along the Seine, dipping into the many antique shops that line that particular quarter. Past l'Institut de France and into Saint-Michel, with le Depart Saint-Michel aglow with holiday lights. Seeing that, I went across Petit Pont to see if, perhaps, the Notre Dame tree was up yet. My timing couldn't have been better. As I approached I saw the tree, and the man decorating it! Up and down he went, manually hanging each ornament. The queue for the cathedral itself was remarkably short, so I strolled through. From there, down rue Saint-Jacques to admire the men who loiter around Sorbonne, before my dizzying morning was met with the reality of ligne dix.

It was just one day of many, but each seems to be thrilling in some way. Could one ever grow tired of Paris?