Bipolar Love Affair

Cliché be damned, Paris is your lover! Albeit, Paris is bipolar. This is not bipolar where the ups make the downs gentler, but where the downs make the ups euphoric.

Starting life in Paris is a measure of your patience. One minute, you are struggling to understand why you need you need a skull x-ray for your metro pass, and the next you discover a 17th century gorgeous statue by merely picking a direction and wandering five feet. Paris is full of surprises, both good and bad.

Take my cell phone experience. The first cell phone attempt made the second look tame. Only three hours to find out that all I needed after my passport, proof of residency, bank account information that dates to the Knights Templar, and my “Carte Bleue”, was to make a withdraw from the ATM. Easy, non?

Now, this could be a case of the foolish American. Most likely this is, and as it is written here, the system does seem to have order and logic. However, as you are experiencing Paris, it is manic, frustrating, and you are continually aware of your hopes and dreams and how easily they can be smashed. For you have no idea the process, and no one else seems to either. It is like the city erases your memory as you complete your tasks. You have a cell phone, but you are not quite sure how you actually got it.

And maybe this is too melodramatic, but it seems that every foreigner has at least eight similar horror stories. There is an air here of ambivalence to some higher power; a god of red-tape and bureaucracy that stalks foreigners and feeds on their accumulating rage. This god is your lover, and it giggles with euphoria as it torments you in ways you never thought possible.

And then there is the other god that is your same lover; the one of love and harmony and bliss that makes you think you have stepped into heaven without the hassle of St. Peter’s gates. You are walking in the Luxembourg gardens, full of 100’s of tourists, encircled by noisy busses and motorcycles, and yet the only sound you can here is running water. You are in the shade, you admire the 16th century fountain, the temperature is perfect, and there is an empty chair waiting for you. You sit, you relax, and you forget. You enjoy the afternoon.

This is Paris. One moment you question your sanity for ever coming to this place, and the next your question your reasoning for ever doubting why you came.