Coming to Paris was like being inducted into a cult. It started with sleep deprivation — an all nighter on a plane with the only sustenance being a trashy novel, a month of old New Yorkers, and cellophane-wrapped portions of food on a plastic tray. The captain (is it the same captain for every flight? I swear they all sound the same) announced it was 5 degrees in Paris and sunny. At last, the plane pierced a fluffy layer of clouds and we touched ground. I was grateful to leave the dry, cramped quarters of an Airbus to join the river of cranky travelers streaming for the metro.
The train clicked into town, braying a familiar tone when its doors closed. First we passed parking lots and industrial buildings covered in graffiti, then Soviet-style high rise housing complexes. A 19th-century building with a duvet spilling out the window to freshen in the sun and the red diamond of a tabac down the street hinted at the Paris to come. Billboard-sized ads for movies, cheap clothing, and, strangely, for a Paul Auster novel plastered the train stations. Then the train dipped below the city’s surface into the sulfurous air of the Gare du Nord.
Exhausted, hungry, but thrumming with the excitement of having arrived, I emerged from the metro at Pont Royal to motorcycles, students dodging traffic, glorious architecture, and fresh spring wind blowing my hair in my eyes. I had the feeling of having crossed over from real life into a movie…
