11: Packing Up My Brief Life in Paris

A failed emigrée prefers to nest.

If I could have closed the book on my failed attempt to emigrate to France without returning to Paris, I would have done so. Instead, here I am, boxing up the few clothes I left behind, adding to them the few I brought, and filling the now empty space in my suitcase with vinegars, tins of olive oil, a few antique stoneware bowls, and a de Buyer crepe pan. Back in December, when I learned no private health insurance company would cover my minimal medical needs, I decided in a fit of pique that I didn’t want to live here anyway. Nyah!

Before my flight back to Paris, I wondered whether I would feel the same once I walked into my apartment in the 17th arrondissement. As soon as I entered the building three days ago, took the telephone booth-sized elevator up to the fifth floor, and let myself into the light-filled, comfortable apartment, I knew immediately that this was not and would never be my home, no matter what the visa authorities ruled. I do not want to live in Paris. The feeling was strong if not entirely comprehensible to myself. I’ve been thinking about why since I arrived.

You’d think I’d at least feel conflicted. I went out to shop for groceries an hour after I set my bags down. I walked straight down Avenue Villiers to Rue Levi to shop at Terroir d’Avenir, the co-op with produce from small producers. I bought lovely chicories with pale pink, burgundy, and speckled green colors leaves. I also put in my basket jars of Corsican clementine and Reine Claude plum preserves, a smoked half duck breast, and a bottle of good apple cider vinegar. Then I walked to the cheesemonger. The proprietor scooped out two big spoonfuls of gorgonzola dolce into a little container.¹ On the way back, on rue de Tocqueville, I stopped at a butcher’s to buy half a fresh duck breast, which the butcher trimmed without my asking him to. I took a long route back to the apartment, passing through the markets on rue Poncelet to rue Bayen and, further on, the Marché des Ternes, where I stopped at the Moroccan food stall. The woman behind the counter wrapped up two little chicken bastillas for me. And, of course, I stopped in at a local cave for wine. I should have bought some oysters. Who wouldn’t want to live in a food lover’s paradise?

Of course, I want to live where good food is readily available. France has it in abundance, if you know where to look for it. Oysters and game birds are relatively easy to find in markets on a seasonal basis. The cheese — I could go on. You get the idea.

But, to repeat, I don’t want to live in Paris. Why? It occurred to me to wonder if there was a difference between being cosmopolitan and being metropolitan. Cosmopolitans travel to encounter the peoples of the world and partake of their cultures; metropolitans want the world to come to them. Maybe, fundamentally, I’m a metropolitan. Rather than travel, I want to live in a place with Asian, Middle Eastern, Latin American, African, Scandinavian, Central Asian populations and their food products all living side-by-side (not, I stress, that they don’t suffer from income inequality). I am a metropolitan, with an emphasis more on the metro and less on the poleis (Greek for city) and strong cosmopolitan leanings.²

Yeah, I’m overthinking it. I’m just getting tired of traveling, but I miss the foods and the sights of the places I travel. I don’t want to live in a big city. I miss my burgeoning group of friends in Hudson, New York, a gorgeous part of the world. I miss stepping out on to the stoop and knowing there are two good restaurants to the left, a good prepared food store around the corner, and even better places to eat and shop in the other direction. I feel a nesting urge coming on and so I will eventually settle in Hudson. That will entail setting up a new house, a process I very much look forward to. I do not regret relinquishing 98% of my possessions when I left Davis, except for my round dining table. Nothing comes to mind when I consider which of those things I regret giving away. They are all in better hands. I do, however, look forward to creating a snug home for myself with a minimum of new things carefully chosen. I miss cooking for others. Most of all, I miss serving dinner to relaxed friends at a round table, which, by its shape, pulls together the give-and-take of unfettered conversation over food and libations. Or, as T.S. Eliot did not mean,

Quick now, here, now, always--
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

That, my friends, is a description of a satisfying dinner party.

1. Recipe for radicchio de Treviso (or any chicory leaves) salad: mash about 2 tablespoons gorgonzola dolce (soft) in a bowl. Splash some really good apple cider vinegar on the cheese and whip with a fork to make creamy. The better, brighter the apple vinegar, the more it will sing. Add in olive oil, pinch of salt, and beat with fork, adding water to thin. Taste to judge whether it needs more vinegar, oil, or water. Keep tasting and adjusting. Toast walnuts in skillet for a few minutes. Keep your eye on them; make sure they don’t burn. Chop radicchio crosswise in one-inch slices. Pour gorgonzola dressing over radicchio. Toss well. Crumble walnuts over the salad. This is not a French or Italian salad dressing. It’s a recreation of a salad I had at The Maker Hotel restaurant in Hudson, NY last fall. It’s a keeper.

2. Want to go down this rabbit hole? See Kwame Anthony Appiah, Cosmopolitism: Ethics in a World of Strangers.