A Stroll Through Paris

art by loulia Lymperopoulou.

by Lorena Sellin 

As I was walking back to my overpriced but charming hotel– how Parisian, right?- the air was thick with a subtle undertone of late summer blossoming’s, mingling with muffled sounds of gastronomes closing for the night; bins rattling, and stray cats prowling. The polluted city air had given way to the softness of this summer night, and amidst it all, there was a hint of something I immediately recognized- “Thousand Kisses from Paris “, the latest perfume everyone was talking about. What a stupid name for a perfume. She wore the same.

 

Vive la France! A sentence my friend likes to use. At this point it became polysemous- a phrase with elastic meaning. You can say it in the most random situations:

You like somebody’s outfit? Vive la France.

Your espresso martini has just the perfect relation of vodka and coffee notes? Vive la France.

Your booty looks especially juicy in those lace tangas you bought to impress the beautiful stranger you hooked up with last Sunday? Guess what, Vive la France.

My evening had been a blur of pleated fabrics and silk, laughter that sparkled like the little Moët bottles they cooled in a bathtub full of ice- and conversations that felt as artificial as the eyelashes worn by the guests, trying to fit in, trying to belong… Yes, maybe even trying to grasp the joy of the waiter they had just tipped 20 euros. The show had been a success- at least that’s what everyone said.

A strange emptiness crept in, settling into the silence left by beautiful strangers.

Oh, so many beautiful strangers:

I wondered if she was still there, waiting. Honestly, I didn’t know whether I even wanted her to. I didn’t know whether I liked the thought of her tangled in my bedsheets. I only knew I liked the illusion of strangers becoming more.

Hush, listen- random words fading into conversations…

Here, where fabric breathes gentle arrogance,
Lost touches found echoing through cobblestoned alleys,
Brushing my hand, fleeting… one kiss?

 

I looked to my right; I was alone.

 

I took a turn: A quiet street, like curtains dimming chaos behind facades.

I mean I could have said “like curtains hiding “but that’s the thing, it’s quite obvious if you pay just enough attention. You will see the chaos shining through no matter how hard someone is trying to hide it.

Chaos, maybe the essence of beauty. Like that broken streetlight these imperfections left behind, the careless elegance of a city not trying too hard for a moment.

My heels clicked against the stone, the sound somehow amplifying the silence around me while the Seine and its dark waters mirrored the city, chasing reflections.

Did they ever feel lonely, too?- Lights, forever reaching out, but never quite touching.

Frustration or sanctum; maybe the strangest comfort Paris offered the lonely.

Unlike Berlin, Parisian buildings tend to be mid-rise, not as tall.

 

I looked to my left; I was alone.

 

Heels on stone,
Stones around necks.
Hands on silk,
Silk on silhouettes.

 

I kept on stumbling home- some may call it dancing… I dance, but I’m not a good dancer. Nothing compared to the ballet boys- they move so effortlessly between the art and fashion elite. In one hand a glass of Veuve Clicquot in the other a hand-rolled cigarette- what you let them see and what you really are- a body, perhaps just someone’s shell.

God- this city, huh. It really draws me in. Yet even as I revelled in it, an undeniable solitude clung to me, a disconnection that grew louder and louder; yes, it even screamed, while the night wore on unbothered.

I longed for something real, more than just skin-deep, more than just skin on skin, more than just borrowed personas.

 

When this tower stops shining,

Loneliness wraps around you and me, like a blanket at night.
Do you find me in someone’s dreams, or do you borrow someone else’s body?

 

It was like watching a dream dissolve into reality, the fantasy of the evening slipping away, leaving me with nothing but- What would it be like to feel beneath all the layers of silk and pretense, to know there was something genuine after all?

 

Paris, where fashion strides with grace,
But beneath the elegance, there’s a quiet yearning.
In this rhythm of desire, where authenticity is elusive

Here, I search for you, for me, for something tangible.

 

Back in my apartment, the quiet was overwhelming. I sat at my desk, pulling out a stack of postcards.

A habit I’d picked up over the years: Doesn’t matter if I like you, if you’re interesting enough, I will write you a postcard.

How romantic, right?… Writing to loved ones from the city that promises everything- except, perhaps, connection. The postcards were already addressed; all that was left, was for me to fill them with words. But what could I say?

The truth, that despite the beauty and the glamour, I often felt more alone than ever?

Or the lie, that everything was perfect? Perfect Paris. Perfect People. That Paris had given me everything I could ever want?

The city murmured and the Seine continued to reflect the night,
Here in the quiet, I wonder– are you there?

Paris, a labyrinth or myth?

 

I put pen to paper and began to write. “Paris is as beautiful as ever,” I started. “…A dream, city lights dazzling…”. The words felt hollow, EMPTY. Crafting an image as if I were just one of the girls, not telling the truth. Oh, look how different I am. I hesitated, then added, “But sometimes, even in this city of love and light, I find myself searching for something more. A connection, a touch, something real in a place that often feels like a mirage.”

I signed off each postcard with the same phrase, half a smile on my lips every time I wrote: ‘Thousand kisses from Paris.’, Ironic, indeed.

Intoxicating.

The scent of her perfume still lingered in the air. I stood by the window, hours later, where she had once stood. The city fell quiet beneath me, with flickers of a broken streetlight fading away.

 

Maybe Paris really is a labyrinth, a maze of emotions and desires that pull you in, only to leave you lost. Or perhaps a myth, a story we tell ourselves again and again to keep the illusion alive.

Maybe Paris is polysemous too- a phrase with elastic meaning.

Either way, tonight I felt the weight of it all. It felt like an empty theatre after the curtain falls, applause faded, a stage left bare. Oh Paris, who had I come here looking for, anyway? And if I found her, would she even know my name?

 

So, when the last bins stop rattling, the last stray cats stop prowling and the tower stops shining, I wonder, are you listening too? I know, a little cheesy, a little cliché, but tonight, it felt right.

Tonight, I kissed a thousand strangers.

 

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