The First Two Weeks: A Story in Quotes

George Santayana, as quoted by Pico Iyer: “[We] need sometimes to escape into open solitudes, into aimlessness, into the moral holiday of running some pure hazard, in order to sharpen the edge of life, to taste hardship, and to be compelled to work desperately for a moment at no matter what."

i. escape into open solitudes, into aimlessness

Being lost, and being lost for long stretches of time, is something I’ve gotten used to in Paris. With all the tiny streets zigzagging in a completely ungridlike pattern, changing names, and unexpectedly converging (and terminating) in squares and circles, it’s virtually impossible to keep a map in one’s head. This appears to be a problem for Parisians, as well as tourists: pick out a person confidently walking down the sidewalk, and nine times out of ten they still don’t know how to find the street you’re looking for. My (already feeble) sense of direction doesn’t even help, because the angle of the streets is inconsistent. Quite simply, you must get comfortable walking until some small saving grace—a large landmark you remember, or an intersection that gets you oriented, perhaps—presents itself to you. Ahh, but how sweet the thought of uptown, downtown, and numbered streets can feel sometimes!

ii. moral holiday of running some pure hazard

Before my departure, it was often hard to justify leaving for almost four months, at this point in my life. I had just happily moved in with my boyfriend. Several of my closest friends had just arrived home after their own semesters abroad. My first paychecks for freelance writing were still in the mail. And yet, even at my most torn, I knew I wasn’t going to change my plan. On some level, I just knew the life I had built, as precious and delicate as it felt, would be there when I returned. I knew leaving wouldn’t be any easier a few months later, or a few months after that. And I knew, although it seemed remote, that living in the utter “otherness” of a foreign country was essential to who I am becoming as a writer and a person. That element of “hazard,” that subjecting of one’s self to the less-than-comfortable and possibly painful, is an element of travel that impacts, ineffably, life at home. The sense of competence that comes from building an existence out of nothing—and out of an atmosphere that may not always feel hospitable—makes the struggles of one’s “real” life feel all the more manageable. I decided, this time, to choose hazard over safety, and to see what I got back in return.

iii. sharpen the edge of life

This phrase has been tossing around my head since I read Iyers’ essay. The words seem playful to me, and at the same time, challenging. How does one know if life, a trusty blade, needs sharpening? My life in New York, to be sure, did not feel dull. But a testing out—a visit to someone else’s kitchen?—may be the only way to judge such a fine thing as sharpness. I’m not sure yet if time abroad will lead me to see flaws in my own life. I do know that I’m open to the test.

iv. taste hardship

My first night in Paris. As I began to fill the (few) empty spaces of my tiny room with my own things, I came upon the linens left behind from the former roommate. “Crusty” was my first impression. “Atrocious” was my second, and “possibly diseased.” The towels, as I unfolded them, reeked of mildew: they must have been folded without hanging to dry, or else left in the dryer, wet, for days on end. The sheets, some folded and some still on the bed, had someone’s long black hairs strewn across them, and worn-in spots where a body had formerly slept. “Furnished apartment,” I thought, “complete with human hair and skin cells.” Later that night, utterly spent, I lay on the stripped mattress (plaid casing, dense foam interior, circa 1960). I searched myself for traces of that usual, post-arrival feeling, that delirious disbelief: “Can you believe you’re in Paris?!” For the time being, there was none. All I could hear was the frantic little voice saying, “You need to go buy sheets. As soon as possible.”

v. work desperately for a moment

The courtyard of the Louvre. 9pm on a Friday night. Practically empty (comparatively speaking). Lit facades creating a warm square in the cool night, the glass pyramids glowing an ethereal white. Tuning my ears to the delicate lapping of the fountain pools, I didn’t need to go inside. The art, the moment, was out here.