the paris diaries

where my mind goes when i don't give it instruction

You can read the paris diaries part 2 here.

camouflage

My face seems to blend into many places. I often get approached as though I am from where I am visiting. People speak to me in their native tongue expecting a casual response, only to raise their eyebrows in surprise when I open my mouth to reveal my highly unexotic Canadian accent timidly spewing English at them.

Maybe there’s a paradox there: that in my alleged home I was always perceived to be a foreigner, and in the places I’m actually foreign to, I seem to fit right in. It makes sense to me, though: I never really felt like I fit in where I was from. Not in an “I was an outcast” way, but just in the sense that I always felt like I was shaving down my most interesting edges to make fitting in easier, to make my personality more amicable. To make it feel like that was home, like I belonged there. Now that I’ve left the city I was born in, though, I see that it wasn’t necessarily the place I was most “cut out” for. In fact, the shape I happen to be cut out as never seemed to fit in anywhere until recently. Until I realized that I fit in lots of places—it’s merely up to me to find them. Maybe that’s why I’m here. 

*

enjoyment

I sit alone in the back of a wine bar in Paris. All the locals sit outside—they knew exactly when to come to get the good seats. I study my surroundings, quietly typing and sipping champagne for no good reason at all except that every day is a good reason to celebrate (is this the French culture osmosing into me?). I seem to be the only person opting for an indoor seat at what must be peak people watching hour. At around 6pm, the city floods into its cafés and restaurants to sit on the patios at every corner and watch the evening unravel. They face the street. They watch other people instead of each other. They talk, they drink, they eat, they smoke. It’s a pretty special thing to see people more focused on the life they put into their years, or even more granularly: their days, their hours, their minutes, than the duration of their life, though I’m not sure I particularly agree with that way of living. But it is entertaining to observe, and even more entertaining to flirt with myself.

*

slowness

People make fun of the French for being slow, but I think it might be one of the best qualities of their culture. They savour what is in front of them. They seize the day in a way that is very different from the North American version of carpe diem, which would most likely look more like a long to-do list than a glass of wine and a pack of cigarettes at 6pm.

They don’t wait to enjoy themselves here. You can feel it in the way they look at you, talk to you, engage with life. It doesn’t feel overly indulgent to me, though. It just feels like they are present. There is life behind their eyes—a sense of “I’m with you”, a sense of potency I often felt was missing where I grew up. As if people were waiting for someone to give them permission to live their lives. Of course, no one will ever do that. Only we can do that for ourselves. The French don’t seem to wait for permission to live. I like that about them.

*

beauty

Everything here is beautiful. Unbelievably so. People are dressed as if today is the most important day of their lives. Not in an obnoxious way, but in the way that if they died tomorrow, they would be satisfied with the last outfit they wore. Their reverence for beauty transcends vanity. That’s rare: to see beauty for the sake of beauty—for the sake of art, expression, awe, reverence. John O’Donohue, an Irish poet and philosopher who wrote extensively about beauty, said:

“In modern times, beauty is reduced to glamour, which it’s not. Once you’ve got the upfront hit from glamour, you’ll usually find little or nothing behind it, whereas beauty has a far more sophisticated, subtle and really substantial kind of presence.”

Paris doesn’t seem to have gotten beauty and glamour confused—they are devoted to preserving the real thing. That devotion begets a certain sacredness to the beauty here—an attention to detail I haven’t found in many other places. As I walk along the streets, every corner feels more beautiful than the next. That is no small feat: to make every street of a city strikingly beautiful. I walk out of doorways and feel my jaw loosen, tempted to drop at the aesthetics my eyes instantly feast on. 

I tip my hat to beautiful cities, because I think they are hard to pull off. Cities are hubs of utility: economic activity, functions, jobs, action, chaos. To preserve beauty in an environment like that—one that has the potential to evolve faster than culture can really keep up with—must mean they prioritize beauty over scale, subtlety over speed. That the present means something to them, maybe even more than the future.

There are flaws to this, of course, as there are with any philosophy or culture. Nonetheless, it’s cool to me that you can find people all over the world living in so many different ways. I can come here and sip on espresso at 6pm, staring out into a street full of people on their way to do the same, while across the world someone is staring at a screen, working in a building full of people stacked on top of each other, staying late into the night in hopes they might climb to the top of one of those buildings some day. 

*

climbing

It’s cool to me that if you’re sufficiently persistent, thoughtful and creative, you can choose what hill you want to climb and actually begin ascending. I don’t think most people realize that you can choose which hill you climb—that you’re not limited to only staring up at the one you were born at the bottom of, but that you can survey the area around you, choose a different one if it calls to you. The farther I go from home, the more hills I realize there are to climb.

I had the realization I wanted to take writing truly seriously almost exactly one year ago while climbing mountains in the Dolomites. The consecutive days of non-stop climbing were hard, but so beautiful—so worth it. It made me wonder why I didn’t have more confidence in myself to climb mountains of greater heights and less certainty in my professional life—or rather, in my life in general. It made me wonder why I assumed the life I really wanted wasn’t possible for me to create. If I can do this, surely I can do other hard things, I thought. And I was right: it turns out that most things you think you can’t do are imagined limits. Harnessing agency liberates our power. But this will all just feel like words flying by you until you do something yourself to prove that this is true. Until you do something that you thought you couldn’t.

Our own blindness keeps us in the container we were born into. Our mind traps us, though of course circumstances play a major role as well. I guess I’m just interrogating the assumption that life needs to unfold the way we expect it to when we’re growing up and think there is one way to do it, you know? No one really tells us that you can open your eyes, look around, gaze at other mountains, talk to people who have climbed them, decide if they suit you better, train for those ones instead. We’re not always born at the bottom of the mountain we’re meant to climb. But only we can find one better suited for us.

*

grounded

There’s a big difference between life in the sky and life on the ground. One thing that strikes me about Paris is how grounded it is. There aren’t a lot of rooftops or patios where you can look down on the city. The patios are rooted firmly on the street, at eye level with the scene they gaze out at. I think that speaks to the culture here: as beautiful and elegant as it is, it feels grounded. People are open. They level with you. They don’t act above you, they don’t feel pretentious. They don’t go out of their way to emphasize status or class. They all sit on the same café chairs: the ones with wooden frames and woven seats. They are here to live, to watch, to notice, to laugh, to enjoy, to savour, to observe. I think that is a beautiful way to be: in the moment.

*

mirrors

I noticed something peculiar about the gym I’ve been going to here: there isn’t a single mirror in the place, aside from a sliver of one hanging over some shelving in the change room. None in front of the weight machines, cardio machines, free weights, stretching areas. Nothing. Maybe this is normal to Europeans (is it?), but every gym I have ever been to in North America is covered floor to ceiling with mirrors. You couldn’t avoid your reflection if you tried. And here, you can’t even see it if you wanted it to. It’s subtle, but I do feel like it is indicative of a greater theme I’m noticing here: that people do things for themselves. While there is so much beauty and a deep well of taste expressed all around you, it doesn’t feel performative. It feels like it comes from within. They work out because they want to. They dress nicely because it’s fun. They sip cappuccinos and watch the people passing by, because life is beautiful and fuck it: why not? The culture feels more centered around personal taste than collective status games, as though people are not posturing to be perceived a certain way. They do things because it’s what they want. I get the feeling that people live for themselves here. It’s refreshing.

People can say a lot of things about a lot of places, but I’ll say that people seem to be happy here. I walk around and see joy on the streets, radiating from the tables. Laughter around me. Joy behind the eyes of the servers in cafés. They seem to be genuinely having fun—something that has become a rarity somewhere along the way to modern times. I hear myself audibly release soft moans of awe when I walk into stores to simply peruse what is inside. It’s like they figured out the perfect formula for enjoyment and pollenated it through an entire city. It really is as magical as they say. At least it is for me.

*

games

I saw this graph posted on Twitter today comparing American GDP to European GDP, claiming that Europe was going to soon be left in the dust. It struck me that perhaps Europe is playing a different game: not one of dollars generated per head but one of moments lived per head. Or said even more simply: perhaps they’re not playing a game at all. Not in a state of daily competition. They are living, unapologetically, for the moment. And is it possible that America is so absorbed in its own game that it doesn’t even realize there might be a different game to pay attention to? That massive leaps in GDP might be coming at the cost of something else? That maybe there is a reason most of them take their vacations in these countries that are scrutinized for “falling behind”? That perhaps there is something we can learn from them? That haste and growth over slowness and beauty has its own hidden cost? I’m not suggesting that one is right and one is wrong—I’m more interested in what all cultures can learn from each other. I’m interested in interrogating the assumption that any one of them is totally Right, and that the other ones should be shamed for not following that Right way of being. But what do I know? I’m just some girl with a laptop who likes to speak her mind.

This reminds me of a scene I just saw while watching the Mask of Zorro—a movie decades old with timeless themes. In it, the corrupt Governor of California’s daughter speaks up with a strikingly potent take around how nobility is just as much an illusion as heroism. It is not the most popular take at a table full of nobles. Her dad dismisses her, embarrassed at her sharpness, saying: “ah, a woman’s view on politics!” She flinches at his statement. I do, too. I think many of us have felt that before: like our external identity was being used against us to dismiss the validity of what we’ve said—especially when what we said is powerful enough to change the minds of others. Maybe that’s why I like writing. It’s my small act of rebellion: an opportunity for unadulterated self-expression. No one can stop me from saying anything, except myself. And I’m generally not very good at stopping myself from saying what I think. You get to decide if you want to listen or not. No one is making you. But my words stand alone on the screen independent of my physical form, and there’s something powerful about that. That my ideas can behave as an entity independent from me. That you get a taste of what I think before you’ve gotten a taste of who I am.

*

interactions

I stumble out of a vintage store, nearly colliding with an older French lady wearing a beautiful orange dress. She stops in her tracks and compliments me in French. Unaware of how confused I look, she rolls her eyes and immediately repeats in English, “You have beautiful hair!” and keeps walking. I say thank you sheepishly, tucking my hair behind my ears as she struts away. I walk further down the street, tucking myself into a table next to the entrance on the patio of a cafe. The waitor asks me what I want. I ask for an espresso in French. He takes my order and without blinking asks where I am from, stripping away any hopes that my French accent had improved. Toronto, I say. The LEAFS! He exclaims, and goes on to talk about how he’s a fan. He even cites the last time we won the cup: 1967. I nod and laugh. We go back and forth about hockey for a little while. He walks away. I pay and wander into a clothing store, walking through it thoroughly before shuffling to the change room with a few items I don’t end up getting. As I pull the curtain away to see what I’ve tried on, I meet an older French lady who walks out of her change room in a flattering pink dress that buttons diagonally across the front. She appears to be in her mid sixties. She looks amazing. She wonders out loud if the dress is too short. I insist that it isn’t. She compliments the jeans I’m trying on. I claim they’re too long. We start talking. She tells me that she teaches drama and acting at one of the most famous acting schools in the world, here in Paris. I ask her if she acted before she taught. She says: yes, plenty. She wants to start acting again soon - that’s why I need the dress! She says. I laugh and agree. I walk out empty-handed, hoping she gets the dress. 

*

embodiment

Everyone kisses each other’s cheeks here. It’s an endearing ritual—a way to physically connect before they attempt to intellectually connect over drinks or dinner. I think we underestimate the power of physical connection, especially before we engage the mind. I saw something on Twitter the other day about how all therapy in the future will involve a somatic element, how purely talk-therapy will soon be outdated. Perhaps, I thought. We live in a world so focused on the mind, it would be fun to see a collective shift to viewing the body as equally important. When mind and body connect, much more is possible than when we’re just engaging the mind. I wonder what that belief would look like at scale. What we would all be capable of if we believed in fusing body and mind, instead of just workshopping and nurturing one at a time. My best writing comes through when I forget myself, when I am not in my mind but in my body, when I am not even controlling—consciously thinking up—the words that spill onto the page. There’s something there, I think: about what we can access inside ourselves when we give our body the chance to speak to us. When we take care of our physical vessel. When we tune in to our inner signal

*

senses

There are times when I want to hear nothing when I’m writing. When I put my headphones on and block out the world, allowing my favourite songs to lull me into a flowy trance. Other times, I savour the sweet, gentle noises of being in a cafe alone. The water glass landing back on the table after I sip it. The muffled music coming from one corner of the room. Indistinguishable chatter from the tables surrounding mine. The slicing of a complimentary baguette behind the counter for a table of five that just sat down. The pouring of more wine at the table next to me. Tout est bien, madame? aimed at me, from the man behind the counter. The server’s footsteps, his pace shifting depending on whether he is returning from the table or going towards it. The sound of empty wine bottles being recycled into a pile behind the bar. The espresso machine rumbling as milk is poured into a steaming pitcher next to it. The pen scribbling on the notepad as the server takes their order. The corking of a bottle across the room. The sound of my laptop keys typing as I write this.

*

champagne

I feel a mild buzz percolate into my mind as I finish writing this mini memoir of my day in Paris. I finish the last sip in my glass of champagne. It’s funny: there was a time where I thought I would never drink alcohol again. I cut it out for nearly a year as an experiment when I decided to take my writing seriously. I wanted the continuity and clarity of consciousness you can only get from a clean mind. I enjoyed that. Now I might occasionally have a drink, which I enjoy as well. It is more sacred now: a ritual, an active pause, a conscious choice. It’s hard to overdo something you’ve made sacred. I don’t know if I needed to eliminate alcohol completely, I just think it was the only choice that made sense in a culture that bastardized it—that de-sacrilized the ritual of “having a drink.” The way I was introduced to alcohol when I was young was: drink to get drunk or don’t drink at all. Which, in hindsight, feels so clearly broken that it’s hard to believe I didn’t question it more at the time.

But that’s what it’s like to be young. You don’t question most of what you learn until you’re old enough to realize that you can. Now, I question almost everything. But I try not to let that make me cynical. Some people think I question things too much, that I entertain outlandish theories too readily. Maybe that’s the curse of endless curiosity: it doesn’t have bounds. But I’ve always thought that entertaining more ideas than you’ll end up believing is better than entertaining so few that you don’t realize you have a say in what you believe.

*

seduction

Paris is one of the most feminine cities I’ve ever been to. I don’t think I realized cities could be feminine because all of the cities I had ever interacted with growing up were so incredibly masculine. All about doing, executing, expanding, growing. Telling you that you needed to have more, do more, be more. Never really letting you pause. You needed to decide to do that independently. Fast-paced, competitive, action-oriented. Logically laid out, with streets arranged in grids—directions always simple and clear. Paris, on the other hand, has streets tangled up in every possible direction, out, in, across and towards each other. It moves slowly and encourages you to do the same. It seduces you with its beauty, invites you to linger in every moment. To savour it. It sells itself to you in the gentlest, most uninvolved way. Like it doesn’t need you, but if you want to hang out—you’re welcome to join the flow. It’s refreshing: to feel welcome but not yanked at. I like that it allows you to add layers to yourself without requiring you to strip any away in order to enter. Other cities can be harder, more brutal, more demanding: they tell you who to be and how to be it. Paris isn’t like that. It’s a place that allows you to be yourself (as long as you make an effort to look beautiful, that is).

i liked this window: masculin. feminin. opposite sides of the window. a visual display of polarity. plus: great font.

*

feelings

The human condition is so malleable, it’s truly amazing. This day started out painful and confusing. I felt like I had a weak grip on my well-being, like I wasn’t in control of my emotional state. Easily bothered, more irritable than usual. Feelings I haven’t had in a while. But I picked myself up, worked out, ate something, went to a new area, had some tea, went to a café, had an espresso, went to a little bar, had a glass of champagne. Wrote 3,000 words. Realized I was getting my period. Gave myself some grace. Felt a lot better.

Sometimes it’s just a matter of space. Time for yourself. Openness. Surrendering to your emotions. A willingness to be alone with your thoughts. A willingness to write them out. A willingness to find the joy in where you are. To expand into it. To embrace that every breath you take is a gift: a sacred sign of life, of your presence in this moment, one worth cherishing. Sometimes returning to baseline is simply a matter of letting yourself feel your feelings, letting yourself be where you are while simultaneously letting yourself zoom out. Realizing that this too shall pass. That you’re allowed to be upset for no reason. That if you listen to your emotions with an attentive ear, they might just tell you why they’re there. Sometimes feeling better is a matter of just allowing yourself to be. Trusting that you are safe to let the emotion pass through you. That what you are feeling is only temporary. That your track record for hard days so far is 100%!

It’s amazing what is possible when we let go of the need to control everything, even for a moment. It’s like releasing a deep, guttural exhale. The kind that ricochets through your whole body, releasing tension you didn’t even know you were holding onto. That’s what it’s like to let your feelings move through you. By no longer resisting them, they can actually be released. By surrendering to what you are afraid of, you become free. There is a certain irony to that, isn’t there? That what we do to keep ourselves from suffering is what ultimately creates our suffering. That suffering comes from resisting what is. That by making ourselves more fluid, we can be in the moment, instead of tied up in our mind, fixated on what this moment “should be”. That by collapsing our expectations about how we should feel, we can finally relax—we can be like the French!

*

Fin

---

Do you resonate with what I write about? Maybe we should work together: If you resonate with the ideas I write about and want to cultivate a life you genuinely enjoy living, where you align your actions with your values, move towards the changes you know you need to make, and consciously harvest the self-knowledge that emerges through that process, send an email to isabel@mindmine.school or DM me on Twitter to explore what working together 1-1 would look like.

---

Let me know what you think of this stream of consciousness style writing—I’m toying with the idea of doing more narrative work like this. If you like it, I’ll keep practicing on here. If you prefer the longer, topic-focused pieces, let me know as well. Hope all is well in your world and sending you LOVE (and espresso! and champagne!).

Semi-related posts: a stream of consciousness on love, why i write, intensity, feel your feelings. Also: say hi on Twitter if you enjoyed this :)