I Live in Paris

When I went home for the holidays, there was a party in store. It was a purported anniversary celebration for the Memphis Current, but in practice it became a seven-year high school reunion. To impress the old friends appearing from all sides, my life condensed into four words: “I live in Paris!” Christmas—a time for dishonesty.

It was a well-timed party. I’d arrived in Memphis on the 18th to then spend three days with family and all their kids under six years old. So an open bar on the 22nd beckoned. My parents were kind enough to leave my clothes behind when they converted the bright teal walls of my bedroom into a sensible beige guest room, so I was able to cobble together a look from a thrift store summer dress and my mother’s tights, shoes, and makeup.

Did I feel a certain pride in sucking in my stomach to the extent of indigestion in order to wear this early-college dress? Unfortunately, absolutely. And I’d do it again. But that’s another post.

A long-time friend who drove us to the party, knew, in detail, what I’ve been up to. She, like my family, had the time that week to hear me dive into my job description, the transport strikes, and everything that takes the exclamation point out of I live in Paris... My aunt even declared my employer an abuser for assigning me the sole responsibility of English instruction in 28 classes, knowing I’m a young, inexperienced, and foreign teacher. 

It was satisfying to nod solemnly and spread my palms as though to say well what can you do...it’s for the kids.

When given some sympathy, take a martyrdom.

As my friend and I approached the event, we discussed how we’d go about connecting with everyone from our past. “My life sounds so boring,” she said, “A consultant in Boston… Paris seems more exciting.” I agreed. Just as I’d switched my backpack for a black clutch, at this party I was ready to go from Joan of Arc to Amélie.

Before so much as stepping into the ballroom, we ran into the first of our high-school connections. An old mock-trial friend was manning the ticket desk, someone on whom I’d had a constant, simmering crush back in the day. That flame died before being lit, but I still chirped “I live in Paris!” when my moment came.

What “I live in Paris” communicates is this: admire me! Envy me! I speak French and bite the ends off my bakery-fresh baguettes!

However, coming right out with it was too much, too soon. There was nowhere to go after name-dropping Paris, meaning I’d have to mention my job, which wasn’t as easy to glamorize. The tactic after that was to lead with “I live in France,” anticipating a follow-up question. This felt humble, accessible, much like the tactic of Harvard students who claim they simply go to school in Boston to avoid the word ‘Harvard.’ I refused to take a hint from friend Margaret Grace, who mentioned her current studies at Harvard without fanfare. An honest response to an honest question.

Meanwhile I was playing Oprah, inviting every friend, enemy, and acquaintance to vacation with me in Paris. You get a city guide! You get a city guide! You get a city guide! Oh, and my boyfriend could help. Yeah, my 6’7 Parisian film-student boyfriend--I didn’t mention him? How silly of me. Quelle bêtise!

Oh, I also didn’t mention that the rent we’re paying for our one-bedroom apartment could score us a house in Memphis? I’ve been ready to come home for months, where I can drive on easy streets instead of cramming myself into the métro line 13—I didn’t talk about that either? What about how my niece learned to walk and talk in my absence, and that I worry my elderly relatives will get sick while I’m too far away to visit? Or how au-pairing and teaching have left me burned out and unsure of where else to find a work visa with a living salary?

I didn’t say that? How silly of me.

I doubt I’m alone in glossing up my life to some extent, as much as I’d glossed up my lips. Besides, “I live in Paris” isn’t a direct lie, just a lie by omission. Party-goers were free to make their own conclusions. It was Christmas! A time to be merry, drink, and enjoy the season with old friends, each as successful as we are able to present it.

So, then. I’ve since shaken the dust of that crummy little town off my feet and returned to ma vie à Paris. I mean, the culture in this city, the history around every corner, and the food! You really can’t beat it.

And of course, you’re all invited to come stay with me. I’d be honored to be your city guide.

Thanks y’all,