Blue Dress Hot Mess

Series: The Paris Diaries: 18/02/25–19/02/25

Notes for the confused reader: Gabriel (Gabe) is a dog, not a child. This is a collection of pieces from my notebook, typed up; as such, some is written in real-time, some with the benefit of hindsight. It is fragmentary, but so is my mind. If something says (FA) in brackets, read: French Accent.

I woke with a radio show in my head. It was a man – with an American voice (of course), speaking in double-speed from one of those crackling transistor radios from the ’50s. “It’s another beautiful sunny day à Paris” (FA, very badly, since is doesn’t mix well with the educated middle aged American accent of the 1950’s radio presenter) he claimed loudly — and so it was. I couldn’t switch him off, so I opened the blind on my skylight and returned to bed where I lay, like a lizard on a rock, blinking and basking in the streaming morning sun. Over the radio show’s prattle – his voice was grating and sharp, but I became accustomed to it quite quickly – I listened to Gabriel attempting to climb the metal spiral staircase to join me in my lizard-state, which caused me to spring out of my golden slumber-haze at the double, since I was certain the poor puppy would fall and kill himself if he got beyond step 4. (The staircase is tricky, even for humans; while it may be pleasurable on the eye for the geometrically-inclined interior designer, it leaves a lot to be desired in terms of practicality, and I dread attempting the flight when drunk). Fortunately, I caught the puppy red-pawed on step 3, and promptly returned him to terra firma (in other words, to the sofa, where he has taken up residence since chewing his travel-cage beyond the ability to confine him).

I am standing under the Eiffel Tower, feeling suddenly like we made it to Paris. Somewhere between the litter and the tourists there is a piece of architecture which defines a nation. I think, in the 1880s, that I would have thought it a monstrosity. I adore it now, of course, but more for what it stands for – baguettes and Camembert, châteaux and champagne – than for what it is; imagine being Monsieur Eiffel. What a legacy to leave one’s nation. 

Gabriel and I are both lying on the sofa, exhausted. Perhaps we’ve overdone it a bit. In my insatiable desire to live, see, and breathe Paris (it rhymes, if you say it in a French accent), I have only now paused to the point of a Stop. It is beautiful sunshine outside, and because it says it won’t be for the next few days I want to be out in it, seeing more. But we are going out tonight, so I must honour my Stop. I have time. I just still can’t quite believe it.

19/02/25:

I did not sleep; I was drunk off whisky and Paris and had the American radio voice refusing to be silenced in my head, crackling in and out of range with snippets of one-sided conversation. I could not sleep; it was almost feverish. I had to get the words out, the thoughts – all jumbled in French and English – out, out, out of my supposed-to-be-sleeping brain. I recorded three voice notes, the first at 4:21am, the last at 5:36. They are mainly about the devil excesses of drink. I went to the bar last night, with my cousin and my French friend. I wanted to drink Ricard, and feel either like Ernest Hemingway or my father. I wanted to watch the water and ice crack as some magical reaction sent licorice fumes into pure, sweet alcohol. The waiter was having none of it, and brought me a double whisky.

(Voice is think, and sounds either doped or underwater): “I thought 14 euros was a bit steep for a night of insomnia and a dull ache between my eyes which spreads to the bridge of my nose”.

“Whisky is one of those drinks which goes straight to my eyes, making the world look like it has been filmed through a smudged lens. I can feel it coursing through my retinas like the first saplings of the next morning’s headache”.

I remember feeling very conscious of my face.

(Later):

My hands are so cold I cannot write. Paris heaves in the cold, like a beast in the field who freezes in her sleep. I am drinking a peanut butter latte, and it is pure, trickling-salty-warm heaven. (I am aware it is not at all French – in fact I’m sure any self-respecting Frenchman (FA) would look down on such a sickly substance as peanut butter, let alone in a coffee, as something better consumed by ‘Les Américains‘ (FA, but uttered in tones of horreur) far far away from their own espressos and cigarettes – but since I have had a large croissant stuffed full of vanilla crème-pat for my breakfast, I feel allowances can be made. Besides, I adore peanut butter. And coffee. The combination is wondrous).

I have wrapped my hands around my mug (which has no handle; I think in their desire to be minimalist, handles got the cut), and Gabriel is sitting at my feet, watching every move made by the handsome barista and willing him with all his puppy-eyed allure to feed him peanuts (which I hope he doesn’t, even if he is rather attractive and has wet hair and a silver hoop earring in his left ear. I have always fancied George Michael. He might be gay; the good, mysterious looking ones often are). I am wearing not a scrap of make up. I feel babyish and bare and perfectly comfortable. Je suis inconnue. Invisibility is the key to my confidence. I can live in my own world, its sole inhabitant (save Gabe), and though people may see me and I certainly see them — I record their every detail in my head and write it down as character analysis for future stories: the girl to my left – who is beautiful, with dark curls tumbling down her back and large clog heels on her feet – is reading a book entitled ‘Why We Have Better Sex Under Socialism’ which she has clearly taken out of a student library. (The reasons for people’s passionate advances under a left-leaning government can’t be very exciting; she is distracted too easily for it to be a real page-turner, as she seems to know the bar staff, and keeps hugging them when they’re not serving up the next PB latte (they do a jelly version)) — I feel wrapped in a cocoon of marshmallow-like protection. Like the foam on top of coffee, I sit in the froth and bob, the chrysalis before the butterfly (or is that too presumptuous?), the cappuccino-art which slips slowly into nothingness. 

I have finished my coffee. I have covered five pages. A man just left, saying “keep it real guys” over his shoulder. Paris is a figment of my imagination. It lives outside the window. And in my head. And on my lips, through croissants and Camembert. It will live in my smiles forever, and on every line in my face (I feel the pollution seeping in, and turn my face to the sun as if to shun it). Paris is too beautiful to worry about one’s own beauty in. I think it is that, which humbles me. Why compete, when the beast sleeps golden and frosted? I am as small as a flea on her coat. I will snuggle closer to her fur.