18th Arrondissement
Many people become somewhat surprised when I tell them I live up in the 18th arrondissement. They get a weird look on their faces, like they’re expecting it to be horrible. Like they’re feeling sorry for me. The 18th doesn’t have the best reputation I guess, the streets are perhaps a bit more unpolished than the one in the center but I think a big chunk of why people find it iffy, is the way it is exotic. Then I mean the people of course. Many here have origins in former French colonies, French citizens with a meltingpot of a cultural background. And I love it.
The markets are overflowing with food and vegetables at affordable prices, people are generally smiling and friendly and it’s not as expensive to live here than the rest of Paris (I think, without being an expert).
(Ps. to the side, unrelated to the 18th in a way is one of my favorite French songs of all times).
I feel like I’ve written about the 18th before. I’m therefore going to take a step in the other way and just write about something else. Truth is I started writing this post a couple of days ago and now I feel I cant continue it without mentioning the Notre Dame burning. I was always going to and take a look inside “at some other time” - but this teaches me that this time might be as good as any, and things might not be there tomorrow. I’ll admit that I became quite sad when I saw the news, the cathedral was historically and culturally rooted in the hearts of les Parisiens. Iconic.
On the side though, I’ll admit that some anthropologic thoughts did come to mind, while pondering about this event.
Why do we put such an emphasis on old buildings, when we could be thankful that no lives were lost.
Today is also the anniversary of my father’s passing away. I didn’t intend on writing anything about it, but I feel it’s something to get off my chest too. I try to look at the day as the day that he got liberated from the prison that was cancer and went to see his mother, brother and father again. It’s a positive mindset, but I do miss him terribly.
A watercolor painting I did recently. I wanted to do the metro during rush hour but in the end only did the people but not the train carriage.
Quite often I feel like he’s here with me in Paris. And I’m pretty sure I’ve written about this before. Maybe I keep thinking it or saying it, but I probably wrote it too somewhere.
Sometimes I see old middle-eastern men in the metro who have the same skin color, same old hands and big earlobes like he had. Maybe it sounds weird to remember a person by these details but in my mind, everything that reminds me of him is a gift that I need to take and work with. In that way he comes to my mind regularly.
Anyway, having said that. Right now I’m lying in my sofa-bed, in my tiny apartment, under a duvet with no cover and my toes are cold.
I’m probably feeling cold because I’m being a bit optimistic about the weather sometimes - and I dress according to how I think it is (or should be), rather according to what it actually is.
The duvet cover is missing from my duvet because I was planning on going to the laundromat straight after work, but then I got caught up with eating and watching the Notre Dame burn and by the time I realised I had planned on doing laundry, the place was already closed. So, that adventure will have to wait until tomorrow.
I do have a spare duvet actually, so it’s no stress. There was one in my apartment and I brought one with me from Iceland. The greatest, warmest, down duvet that Svavar gave me for Christmas.
Anyway, think this is about it.