Lost in Translation

My memories of Paris involve dancing.  Sitting in a dark jazz club in the heart of Paris, an assembly of 17 and 18 year old inexperienced voyeurs were blooming, facing raw culture in the eye, and feeling the elements of gypsy jazz in their souls.  A coming of age story of sorts.

The 18 year old version of me for the first time wasn’t looking around for approval or trying to avoid judgment.  I felt the music; I began to move my feet until my whole body was engulfed with an insurmountable energy.  Miles Davis all of a sudden became a Frenchman.

Now, when I say the name Paris it is often in song.  I hear a beautiful French songstress on a record player.  Edith Piaf’s self-assurance radiates.  She’s dressed in all black, which contrasts with the light in her eyes and her voice.  A heavy pour of red wine is in my hand and Coq au Vin sizzling on the stove.  The music, the dance has me twirling in my ankle length skirt and heels.  I’m alive.

The mornings in Paris are the most underrated.  I wake up and bounce out of bed.  I order a Café au Lait outside of a Café. I read the newspaper, while taking large bites out of a croissant or baguette without counting calories.  I leave the Café on my toes, as every moment connects to the next in a musical phrase.

Paris is music. Paris is exuberance.  Paris is intellect.  Paris is poetry.  I began my life of travel in Paris, and I understood brotherhood and sisterhood quite differently.  The world became universal, and the differences gave it color.

I’m taking my Paris back.  I’m smiling.  I’m dancing.  I’m choosing to love again.  I might be lost, but I want to be lost in translation with you.