Paris problems

Dear Paris,

Why is it that I look out the window to see a very sunny, hot day and say to myself ” ooh i’ll do a ton of laundry, hang it in the sun and it will dry really fast”… and then it decides to rain?
Thanks Paris, thanks a lot.

A+EmilieinParis

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About Emilie

I'm a small girl with big ambitions and very little common sense it seems. I decided after I graduated from college that I would move from my little city of Lafayette Louisiana to the raging monster city that is Paris. In 4 months of planning I have now uprooted everything I had in an amazing town to live in a truly wild place where I have no idea WHAT I am going to do. But isn't that the fun of it all. So here is cheers to getting lost, breaking hearts, starving, and many wonderful adventures that come along with finding yourself.
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3 Responses to Paris problems

  1. Christian says:

    Il y a soixante-dix ans, un autre Américain à Paris, Henry Miller, écrivait un très beau texte sur l’atmosphère de Paris. C’était observé avec beaucoup de sensibilité. Et si Paris a beaucoup changé depuis, le ciel et la douceur des couleurs sont toujours là. Alors, pour alimenter cette chronique météorologique parisienne, voici :

    As I write, night is falling and people are going to dinner. It’s been a grey day, such as one often sees in Paris. Walking around the block to air my thoughts, I couldn’t help but think of the tremendous contrast between the two cities (New York and Paris). It is the same hour, the same sort of day, and yet even the word grey, which brought about the association, has little in common with that gris which, to the ears of a Frenchman, is capable of evoking a world of thought and feeling. Long ago, walking the streets of Paris, studying the watercolours on exhibit in the shop windows, I was aware of the singular absence of what is known as Payne’s grey. I mention it because Paris, as everyone knows, is pre-eminently a grey city. I mention it because, in the realm of watercolour, American painters use this made-to-order grey excessively and obsessively. In France the range of greys is seemingly infinite; here the very effect of grey is lost. I was thinking of this immense world of grey which I knew in Paris because at this hour, when ordinarily I would be strolling towards the boulevards, I find myself eager to return home and write: a complete reversal of my normal habits. There my day would be over, and I would instinctively set out to mingle with the crowd. Here the crowd, empty of all colour, all nuance, all distinction, drives me in on myself, drives me back to my room, to seek in my imagination those elements of a now missing life which, when blended and assimilated, may again produce the soft natural greys so necessary to the creation of a sustained, harmonious existence. Looking towards the Sacré-Cœur from any point along the Rue Laffitte on a day like this, an hour like this, would be sufficient to put me in ecstasy. It has had that effect upon me even when I was hungry and had no place to sleep. Here, even if I had a thousand dollars in my pocket, I know of no sight which could arouse in me the feeling of ecstasy…
    ([i]Quiet Days in Clichy[/i])

    • Emilie says:

      Ah Christian: oui TRES jolie passage, une de mes préfères de Miller. Merci d’avoir partager et je suis flatté que mon blog vous avez fait pensé a une verse tant que celui-la.

      A+ EmilieinParis

  2. Christian says:

    Voir sa ville par des yeux venus d’ailleurs est toujours intéressant.
    Mais maintenant une partie de toi est devenue parisienne, cela se voit. Tu ne pourras plus en guérir, c’est trop tard… 😉

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