Alive in Paris

I have a story about Paris. Well, really, it's a story about love, but isn't that just a story about Paris?

Seven years ago, I was in Paris for ten hours, less than half a day. I was nineteen years old and looking for a boy who wasn't looking for me and, in my blurry search for him and wifi (pronounced "wee-fee"), I found a bridge covered in locks with names of lovers written in permanent ink on each one. The keys had presumably been thrown into the Seine—a symbol of thousands (perhaps hundreds of thousands) of couples' eternal, unbreakable love.

Back then, I was voracious and optimistic, especially when it came to matters of the heart. Unfortunately, this bridge was a cruel reminder of how some people have marvelous love stories, and on that day, I wasn't one of them. I thought, how ruthless of you, Paris, to bring me to this disgustingly romantic bridge on a day where my life has proven to be deeply unromantic. I was with two friends, Martha and Abby, who were saying things like, "maybe he didn't see your message" and "are you sure it went through?" They were kind, generous, patient friends. However, the only one brave enough to tell me the truth on that late June afternoon was Paris. That day, Paris was scathingly honest about what love was and wasn't. Martha later said to me: "Lydia, you're in love with the idea of love." 

Shortly after discovering what I now know is the Love Lock Bridge, I had to board a bus and then, later, a ferry back to England. On the bus, I binged on Toblerone chocolate and listened to angsty pop folk music as I leaned my head on the window and watched green and brown French landscapes elapse for eight hours. When I finally got off, I left a grease smudge where my head had rested on the glass.

After a while, I forgot about the boy. Well, I didn't forget about him. Rather, I forgot why he was once so important to me. Now, when I recall this story—of my ten hours in Paris—I don't feel heartbreak or scathing rejection, but rather nostalgia for a city I so fleetingly experienced, a city that put its love stories on public display.