Confessions of a Chick in Paris

Entry #8: Paris--Be Whoever You Want to Be!

Scenario: moving to Paris to write.

Is there a default definition and image in your head when you read that?

There certainly was for me, and it involved: sitting on café terraces, wearing scarves, gradually running out of money because there's something bohemian and romantic about that, and dressing casually all the time.

If I was a writer in New York City however, then perhaps my writer self would be closer to Carrie Bradshaw. But in Paris? Definitely the first description.

But that's stupid!

I've realized the above stupidity after a month in Paris (my four-week anniversary just passed---time flies!).

Initially I tried to maintain the first "writer description" but found it difficult, because I felt like some of my behaviour was conflicting with "bohemi-topia."

Like that time I was taken to a shoe store that specializes specifically in wedge shoes (yes!), and I simply could  not help myself (I would've posted a picture of my feet in the shoes, but I'd prefer not to cater to the foot-fetish readers---and I know you're out there, don't think you can hide with your comment-free lurker blog visits! ). There was also the time I tried on ten-thousand-dollar earrings at Chanel in Place Vendome, because obviously I'm going to need earrings for my next book's launch party in Paris! (I would've posted a picture of that as well, but I didn't want to cater to the readers with an earlobe fetish---and I know you're out there too). And finally, when my new friend and resident Paris expert took me out to Plaza Athenée for fancy cocktails in the form of popsicles, I embraced that too, which meant finding myself next to a couple who snobbily brought their dog to this swanky hotel bar, only for their snobbery to be validated by a neatly-dressed waiter who arrived with a steel bowl of water (to satiate the canine's thirst).

And all of the above was so much fun!

Despite my joy, I regarded the events as a shameful secret. I tried to hide my shopping bags when I attended an open mic later that night, and I didn't dare speak of the exorbitantly-priced cocktails to my writer pals.

So who was I then? A material girl only posing as a writer?

Well no...because I also write in Paris. I have an outline for book three pinned up as a long row of Post-It notes on my closet, and I've been writing this blog twice a week, which is already inspiring the fiction (may the names be changed and the events somewhat altered, haha!). I also started putting down pages for the book's first draft. Best of all, I read some brand new material for an audience at "Spoken Word Paris" on Monday night, and I can't even describe how exhilarating it was to share my work (not to mention watching so many other talented writers read their stuff).

So then...is it bohemian wordsmith or Carrie Bradshaw? Which is it dammit?!

Neither, or both...or who the hell cares?

The great thing about Paris is that so many other dreamers are here to make their own stuff happen, that no one gives a crap how you get your stuff done, or what you do for fun in-between, because there really are no labels beyond the thing you do; and for me, I write. Whatever else, no one cares. And I love that. It's also highly possible that no one cared about these things back home, but since I spent so many years, hours, and days with the default professional label of "corporate rat" (which ultimately described how I dressed and what coffee I drank), I accidentally packed some stereotypes into my luggage on the way to Paris.

Oops.

So now for the truth: I like basement bars and seeing writers perform their work, and I also like shoes. That's perfectly fine, there's a place for me in Paris, and there's really no need to categorize it any further.

There's also no need to assign any labels to people, since labels only belong on clothes I can't afford (but will still try on...because it's fun).

Bisous (kisses!),

Romi