Bordeaux and Palmiers

I often feel as though I’m caught halfway between being a tourist and a local.

Tonight, I was sitting on the metro on the way home from the movies when a huge tour group of Canadian students  got on board. They sat down and talked, loudly. Like Americans. I spent most of the ride pretending to be French, pretending not to listen to them talk about their lives: what one got her niece for Christmas, what perfume a boy got for his girlfriend and the exorbitant price he paid for it. When they suddenly realized that they didn’t know which stop they were supposed to get off at, I finally shed my disguise and asked them where they were headed and got off at the next stop. I don’t know what they thought of me: I know they knew my accent was American, but I also knew exactly where they were headed.

When I walk down the streets in Paris, I doubt anyone points at me and thinks to themselves, “She’s American. She doesn’t belong here.”

And yet, when I see little things like this, I’m still struck with the desire to stand awhile. To look. To smile. Even to take a picture, for the benefit of anyone who reads this blog. And I know that this doesn’t make me a local.

But sometimes I wonder if I will ever be a local. If I will ever be able to walk my usual walk down the boulevard St. Germain, see this wall, and not smile. Not appreciate it. Not adore being in Paris.

Somehow, I doubt it.

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