Ive been in contact with Rach since she left our flat & spontaniously took off globe trotting to satisfy a bad case of itchy feet. She writes beautifully on every eventful and non eventful situation life throws at her and i always find her stories so facinating and inspiring to read.
“My lasting impression of Paris I think will be that everyone is lost, Parisians and foreigners alike, not figuratively, but physically. Nonetheless, I do like to ask myself, what exactly it means to be lost, because this implies not being able to find what you are looking for or unfulfilled aim or desire and excludes any positive connotations.
I guess everything comes down to the means/ends debate. If you are not really aiming to get somewhere, does getting lost lose all significance? Is the means an ends in itself?
A couple of weeks ago Gibbo and I spent several hours looking for the favourite Parisian street to have a beer, and upon arrival only decided may as well have a beer given we had been looking for so long. Although I can’t speak for Gibbo, for me, the enjoyment of having a beer and looking for a beer were pretty much equal, and so the question is, were we really lost?
I thought this feeling might merely have been the result of the overwhelming “old(ness), big(ness), and cool(ness)” (Gibbo, pont something, 200
of Paris, but meeting Bran and subsequently Kathleen and Duncan, confirmed that yes, we were little fish in a big grey pond, and that getting lost, but not lost, is perhaps the defining characteristic of Paris.
Despite this, or maybe as a result, I have been able to create a picture upon this grey Parisian canvas. I like to call it “Melancholy and the Infinite Happiness”, and it goes something like this: No matter how lost you feel, physically or figuratively, friendship and solidarity are the magnetic north of life that sandpaper away the rough edges, and create a pastel blue background upon which the greys lose their power.
I went out in the world to get lost, and I think rather than travelling round, I should have cut straight to Paris, where, according to one drunk, bet-up, and amnesic Peruvian, it is naïve to try one’s luck.
Trying one’s luck clashes with the light blue. When we are completely content with the melancholy, is there any point trying to strike it lucky?, because, luck may just be misfortune.“