S'wonderful, s'marvelous Paris

Alain de Botton, in The Art of Travel, in not so many words proclaims anticipation as the finest aspect of travel. Most of the time, he explains, our actual travel experiences do not live up to the supreme expectations our illimitable imaginations have set for us. Perhaps, this theory could explain why while our entire school is abuzz with the imminent Paris trip (I have, too often, found myself entering a classroom to witness my kids huddled over the foreign trip brochure, and outside, I cannot ignore that the hallways are adorned with an image that is all too familiar and close to my heart-- La Tour Eiffel), I am surprisingly sane.

Too often have I fantasized about this scenario: the headmaster announces a trip to my beloved Paris, and teacher prefects are necessary. I have, for countless times, pictured myself mustering all the audacity in the world and begging him to let me go. It is therefore very extraordinary that a few days ago, while staring at the Paris trip poster outside the principal's office, I found myself feeling absolutely nothing. And so I wondered about the absence of longing I have harbored for so many years, that seemingly irrepressible desire to pack my sketchpad and black turtlenecks in my bag and- even for a few days- live the life of an expatriate in the city of lights.

Perhaps, after more than a decade of being captive to Paris, I am, after all, not quite ready for the city. The Paris that I know is one that is perfect-- the one that is still home to Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Sartre, where every dish is consumed with a glass of wine and melts like butter in one's mouth, where all girls dress like the models in Sofia Coppola's Miss Dior Cherie TV ad, where Bridget Bardot is perpetually crooning in the background, and where everyone is either a philosopher or an artist (or, perhaps, both). I want to go there to take long leisurely walks in the streets and to linger in its cafes to read Le Figaro and write my novel. If I go there now and experience a Paris not quite like what I have read and imagined, I will inevitably be shattered. That is the difficulty with life-long dreams, I suppose: they become more fantastical and unreachable everyday.

Perhaps, too, I have merely accepted the impossibility of my being chosen for the trip, and am just consoling myself with the thought that not going is my choice. Perhaps. I honestly, honestly do not know.

Look, Paris. Look at what you are doing to me!