Photo by Virginia Jones
I am living every Parisian's dream, i.e., I am living in New York. After over a year in Paris and a few months in Montreal, I am back where I began, albeit with a much different perspective on just about everything. Since getting back, I've been delighted to find that you can't go too far in New York without hearing some French. I find myself aggressively eavesdropping on French conversations I hear in the subway and lingering a little longer on corners where French people are chatting, just in case they need my input on the matter at hand.
Part of me expects that they will see me and just sense that I've been in Paris and that, therefore, I get it--whatever it might be. I was stopped in the subway the other day by a French woman who wanted to take a photo of my book (Save the Cat) for her friend, Cat. I obliged with delight.
Friday night, I attended Le Fooding d'Amour at P.S.1 with Lizzie, an American whom I met in Paris. At a certain point, we were both overcome with a familiar feeling: uncoolness. Even on this side of the Atlantic, Parisians have the ability to make me feel totally maladroit, and for this, they have my undying respect.