Down and out in Paris

Here's a poem I wrote recently, still in fairly raw form.
   

    Itchy Feet

My sister asks 'where are you?'

'Writing,
under the awesome shadow

of the Sacre Coeur',
I lie.

'And your plans?'

'A single espresso on a terrace in the sun.'

I procrastinate

Surveyed by bo-bos. 

Under the impression
They are not I. 

I rest my legs

Bend to scratch my heels

My itchy, itchy feet.

Feet that trod half the world around

Past buildings smaller
Past people shorter

Past cups of pleasureless watery coffee,

Till I reached this cup,
Its muddy slosh

Lacking an anthem to boost my heart.

I imagine Amelia

Sinking 10,000 miles forward

Never glancing back

Whilst I recline
Too comfortably

On native tongue luck. 

I fly forward to no glory.

No temptation

To part this wicker chair.

Only the restless twitching,

Of my itchy, itchy feet.

I arrived in France two months ago. The envy of my friends I am now, living the bohemian dream in Paris. I cannot inform a single person of my current status as 'resident of Paris' without being confronted with a chorus of 'ooh, how romantic'.

Paris is undeniable. Gorgeous sandstone tenements accompanied by cute iron balconies, galleries and museums housing some of the greatest artistic treasures in the world, and all the sugar and carbs you can imagine glistening impatiently in the windows of too many boulangeries. Yes, Paris is a beautiful city. Particularly in Autumn when the summer heat has released cool breeze into the city, tugging at scarves and berets in the process. Yet for me, there's something very wrong. It feels like I'm living on a theater set. I don't interact with anyone who I'm not pre-destined to. Paris, like Venice, is stuck. Marbled in time, it is a testament to the will of people. We imposed our imagery on Paris, created it as a place of wonder. Paris has little life of its own, fuelled mainly by romance tourism.

I looked once for the artists in Paris and found a sorry sight, what the French call the 'bo-bo'. The Bohemian Bourgois. The artists fled Paris long ago it seems, extradited by the super inflated cost of living. A tiny studio apartment not more than 11m squared will cost upwards of 550euros per month. Just you try painting in that. Now the only artists left are those with parents willing to spare the change from their pockets. In come the bo-bos. Flooding Paris with pretense, I have met few genuine people since I arrived and I wonder at times, whether I am one of them. 

I think it may be time to leave this town.