Sounds Like You Live Here


Well, that brought it home.

I do live here.

I was chatting with a gentleman this evening on the stairs to the American Church getting ready to walk along the river and cross the bridge from the Left Bank back to the Right Bank.

I live on the Right Bank.

He had some questions about Burning Man.

I rather love that.

“When is it again?”  He asked, “I really want to go.”

“Labor Day weekend in the states, end of August, first few days in September,”  I replied.  Then I told him of where would be some good places for him to camp and some things that he might be interested in checking out, the kind of community that is out there that not everyone is aware of.

“That sounds amazing!”

He smiled.

I smiled.

“You’ll be around, so we will talk more, get home, have your dinner,”  he patted my arm and I headed toward Metro Alma-Merceau.

I will be here.

Still not sure how, but I am beginning to feel more and more at home here.  I do not know what it is, I do not really care.  But his words travelled in my ears as I walked over the bridge and looked at the skyline.

Note to self the first Sunday of the month, literally, I said it out loud as I went over the bridge, “note to self, it is the first Sunday of the month, this Sunday, time to go to the D’Orsay.”

First Sunday of the month is free at all the museums.  They are all packed and the lines are long, but this is the best time of year to be inside a museum, warm and cozy and crushed between others staring at art.

Besides, if I get an early enough start, the lines won’t be long.

Hmmmm…. maybe I will ride my bike to the museum.

Oh, yes, that does sound like a plan.

Brisk ride along the quite Sunday streets, then an afternoon in the museum.  The D’Orsay is my favorite, well, at least for the moment, I have not done a lot of museums yet.  I have gotten, of course to the Pompidou, that was my first Sunday here.

Yes, that’s right!

I am coming up on a month of living here.

I live here.

“It doesn’t sound like you are visiting or on vacation,” he said, “it sounds like you live here.”

I do.

I am just going to keep repeating that, I live in Paris.



I live on the Right Bank of this river in the 9th Arrondisement.

My address is 36 Rue Bellefond, Paris, France, 75009.

In case you wanted to send me a postcard.

Just kidding, I am heading into my second round of sending out postcards.

There were a few kind, generous, anonymous, folks that threw a few Euro my way.  Enough to help me live here a few more days, absolutely.  I will be sending out holiday postcards.  Who doesn’t want a Christmas postcard from Paris?

Come on now.

I was actually invited to London for Christmas, and I thought, wow, that sounds lovely.

But I live in Paris.  I want to spend my first Christmas here.  I am not entirely sure what I will do.  I have a few ideas. Just as I am not completely sure what I will do for my birthday, but again, I have a few ideas.

One of which is to go take a ferris wheel ride at Place de la Concorde.  At sunset.

Now that would be spectacular.  Perhaps a day of walking through the Louvre.  Dinner at a cafe some where, I was instructed to get a shellfish dinner and something pretty.

I will be doing just that.  Although, I admit here and now that I spent those Euros already.  However, I have been holding to myself that I will spend the Euros that I was given as a birthday present on a birthday present.

Regardless of what my situation is.

They were given as a gift and I will be sending her a photograph or five of what I do that day.  I may walk through the Jardin de Luxembourg as well, really take a long walk about.

I passed on the Christmas invitation and he said, “of course, I didn’t really think you would be anywhere else but in Paris for Christmas, but the offer is there.”

My room-mate is sweet.

Christmas though, in Paris.

Insert slight homesick or as I should honestly call it, heartsick moment.

I miss the Mister.

This is not where I am going to write about it either.  At least not yet.

And now moving on to the rest of the I live here in Paris blog I am writing.

Today in the life of Carmen I got up and wrote four pages long hand, had some oatmeal with sliced banana and nutmeg and cinnamon, a large house made cafe au lait, some reading, some French home work, hot shower.  Meditation, stretch, small walk about, then editing book for a while.

Break for lunch at the house.  Roast chicken with garlic potatoes and small tossed salad with tomate.  Another cafe au lait, why, because, why not, they taste damn skippy good.

Off to French class.  Ride Metro to Crimee stop.  French class two hours.  Walk in the rain.  Metro line 7 to LaFayette, transfer to Line 9 headed to Pont Sevres, stop at Alma-Merceau (having batted through another couple of chapters in “A Moveable Feast”).

Then a walk along the Seine to the Eiffel Tower.

Eiffel Tower

Eiffel Tower

I walked around the tower for about an hour.

The rain had stopped, but the streets were still slick and the light lovely.

Wet Street

Wet Street

I took it in.

I smelled the wet pavement.

I peered at the sky, bluish gray, thick strewn with the passing storm clouds.

I watched the crows fly in and out of the base of the tower.

I discovered a small garden that I had no idea was anywhere near the tower.  The other times I have gone there have just been too many people there for me to enjoy walking around it, I usually just want to get out as soon as I am there, or not go in the first place.

The park was empty, a small little lake, a water fall, old trees shedding yellow and brown edged leaves into the pond.  The quiet was so quiet I could hear birds nesting down for the night.



I skirted the pond and walked out the other side to the statues flanking the bridge.  The two sides capped by stone horses.



Riding right alongside the carousel they carried me forth into the night as the tower lit up behind me, ushering me forward and onward to a cafe creme at Le Cafe de L’Universite.

Night Riding

Night Riding





I met with a new lady bug.

I went to the American Church and talked about the adventures I have gotten to have–Burning Man, the Aids LifeCycle Ride, moving to Paris.

Living in Paris.

“You live in Paris, now,” he said with finality.

I realized he was right.  I feel at home here.  I feel that I am doing a good job here.

Despite not having a job.

Living in city does not actually have all that much to do with work.  No, that is not how I want to think of it.  I do work here.

I am an artist, a photographer, a writer.  I write everyday, I read every day, I study French, and I show up where I am supposed to be and sit where I am supposed to sit, every day.

I live here.

In Paris.

I am not trying to be here.



I am here.






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