The whole of Paris, every fiber of its age-old being, seems to be eternally crumbling.

Europe, Paris especially, is in a constant state of decomposition and renovation these days. Given that some cities have supported a flowering culture for more than a few millennia, I suppose it makes sense. The effort for the upkeep is incredible, and citizens of the city are victims to closed roads and bizarre scaffolding just as much, if not more, than Chicagoans during the half-year construction season.

However, the citizens, while yelling beautiful curse words to each other in crazy European traffic, take the construction in stride; they almost enjoy it. It is a lot like penance. Sure, they are inconvenienced, but it is in order to keep their city one of the most beautiful and full of history in the world.

Really, the ancient churches casually littering the Parisian streets give the city almost a sarcastic aura.

For example, a tiny and dirty panini shop may be all that separates two huge, gothic churches that have a constant flow of gorgeous wedding parties dressed in the peak of fashion, walking past bitter homeless men that make every church stoop their home, or their sanctuary. The elegance of the churches, the manpower demanded for their construction, the devotion imbedded in every brick laid by one thousand artisan hands. It cannot be rivaled even by the most Mod-Chic and couture clothing shop, the kind that are as abundant in Paris as hot dog stands in Chicago.

The eternal struggle is that casual life must go on, even in the midst of such ancient grandeur, and it does. For example, here I am living and reveling in the combined effort of hundreds of generations of artists and architects. Breathing among it and beside it, cleaning my laundry and buying my groceries awkwardly in the thick of it.

Paris, with the Louvre and hundreds of towering churches, inflicts on its visitors a massive feeling of inadequacy. It almost challenges the tourist: “Okay, this is good right? Yeah, well, what have you done? You just spent two hours at the Laundromat, where‘s your contribution to the world?”

Well, I want to give back. I want to add to it, just my brick to add, that’s all. It is a feeling like wanting to spell your name in wet cement or scratch your name on a subway door; even though it’s wrong, I would just like to fight the feeling I have not had any impact on a city or the world that has so much to offer.

So, sadistically, I too enjoy the construction. Paris is not invincible. It still needs to be helped along too; it cannot exist alone. In fact, sometimes, I think it is pretty fragile — not just the buildings but the people too. I think those living in Paris feel a little bit like the tourists and that is why they have to keep up the grand tradition of important. That is why they have that air of “better than thou.” If they don’t, it may seem like they are slipping, like they are not the center of the cultured world.

Not that I’d like to see Paris, my new home, flashing its wounds and exposing its flaws, it is comforting being around anything or anyone not ashamed to show its scars. Paris, even in its constant state of repair and disrepair, holds its head high, bearing the pain with that little, sardonic grin. But it is nice to know that it is not yet so callous as to deny an American to poke the wounds.

Au revoir,

David

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