The Perfect Dialogue

Recently I have kept bumping shoulders with the idea of the Perfect. Rarely does a word become so important to me for an entire week. It began at a strangely Fitzgeraldian dinner party. An ensemble of mainly expatriate dwellers of Paris trickled together to celebrate the laziness of Sundays. Well, not so lazy for the brilliant hostess of course whose culinary skills were a definite testament to the hours spent in the kitchen. I was introduced piece by piece to the party. One of them had his hair slicked back in a quiff, and was wearing a striking black and white dress suit. Generally my palate cannot really handle the obnoxious, yet the drawling managed to ignite my interest. An interest which was very nearly revoked when he called me 'kid', but I let it slip since I couldn't remember his name.

'So, what are you doing in Paris?' he finally asked. I always find this difficult to answer. The simple answer is that I am an English teacher but that occupation only costs a fraction of my time with my mind boggling 13 hour work load. As I sit writing about my travels, occasionally editing photographs which I have taken and munching unenthusiastically on day twelve of the pastry challenge, I know I'm not just here to teach. Of course, I don't want to impose my neurosis on my new acquaintance straight away, so I reply simply, 'I'm a hobo.' Strictly speaking, this is not a lie . I don't have a permanent address, nor have I since July this year. I currently live on my friend's sofa. In the bedroom he rents, from the true contract wielding occupants of the apartment. My companion's reason was a little more noble. He had arrived lately to edit his doctorate research paper and was currently occupying the lucky position awaiting results.
'Why Paris?' I asked.
'Why not?' he reminded me. 'Paris is perfect.'

Generally I would treat a statement like that with caution and dismay. But I had faith in the intelligence of the gentleman and so I didn't immediately shit on his response. But when I asked him to explain what he meant, he couldn't. At very least, didn't. He stated that Paris is perfect according to the Cartesian notion of perfection. I felt a little cheated then, and I wonder now if the reality is that he was not keen to dissect the city he loves. I am beginning to love living in Paris, as I always learn to do, in the final moments before leaving a place. Yet I would never describe the city as being perfect. It has millions of facets, of which thousands are brilliant. Paris has an enviable good to bad ratio. But I could never give in to sentiment and state outright that it is perfect.

Some friends came to visit me from Russia this week. I met a crazy trio in Yekaterinburg and I had been looking forward to the Parisian leg of their Europe trip ever since. When I finally found them, I asked one how he felt about Paris. Quickly, the previous Sunday's comment reared its head. Soon we found ourselves debating the existence and definition of the Perfect, and then swiftly rearranged the statement into the much more satisfactory question; 'is Paris ideal?'

My friend is not disappointed with Paris exactly yet it seems he is underwhelmed by it. He gazes at Paris with eyes I recognise, eyes I wore once too. Paris is mismatched with the expectation he had developed from celluloid.

The next day, on meeting them after their trip to the Louvre, I reiterated the question. Paris was no better for him on the second day. In fact a little worsened by their visit to the Louvre. (They tell me the organisation of the museum is horrible. I was worried before, and rather comforted now to know this) I felt a little sad that, even as a tourist, my friend was not enjoying Paris to a great degree. I said that there were some brilliant things I wanted to show him but he replied honestly that he didn't want my view of Paris. He wanted to discover Paris for himself. I respect that. In fact, I was pleased. I wouldn't have to drag him on mundane excursions to the three most scenic spots of Paris. (There's not even a list, unlike in Japan.)

So instead we hung out with a few beers in Rue Moufftard. Rue Moufftard is a tiny cache of students and pubs hidden behind blocks of tenament buildings, and lit by rows of dazzling fairy lights. Any former student of the University of Glasgow is automatically subject to a tiny wrench to the heart as a memory of Ashton Lane ignites. I was rather impressed with Rue Moufftard, I have been missing oak panel display cabinets displaying emptied whisky bottles. We drank, and nibbled goat saussison, and departed at 2am, less sober than sober.On our dander back to Chatelet along the boulevards of Paris, we jumped the railing, nearly falling into the Seine, into the grounds of the Notre Dame. We drank rosé from the bottle with two Parisian girls we met under the Christmas tree after shouting at them, "ISN'T IT JOYOUS?!" My friend and I exchanged performances. He recited Russian poetry. I love the Slavic languages, the jittery consonantal sound completely opposes the slow balanced melody we have with English. I reciprocated, by song. I have a bad cold at the moment so I chose to rasp my way through Stand By Me. My friend fell silent. When he finally remembered to say something, he announced that it was perfect.

A place in itself cannot be ideal, at least not for me. I need to build interactions which build memories, these souvenirs alone are worthy of being ideal. I will remember Paris as being a beautiful city undoubtedly, but that is irrelevant. The beauty lies with those people I met here, and the things we did when we dandered down the boulevards of Paris.

Today I made Sunday dinner to thank the flatmates of the place I have been living in for the last month. A good old roast chicken, roasties with a raspberry bakewell tart for dessert. From scratch. That was a brave choice, baking pastry for French people.

And afterwords, my friends told me that it was perfect.

Perhaps I agree.