Apparently, Albert Einstein never said, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results,” but it seems an apt quote to preface our latest decision, so I’m going with it. We took back our Paris apartment for the third time, and yes, I’ll willfully plead insanity.

I arrived September 22nd; Pat joined me in early October. Life has clicked back into place. Pat plays pétanque most afternoons. I take long walks and buy roasted chicken at the corner butcher for Sunday lunch. Once again, we marvel at the perfection of the French baguette and the sheer joy I get walking down Oberkampf, our nearby market street, as I construct our next meal piece by piece.

Yet all hasn’t been perfect. Yesterday, we shut the windows to keep out the noxious smell as a near constant rat-tat-tat of tear gas explosions were periodically interrupted by the boom of a water cannon and the roar of the crowd. 

I tried to walk after dinner but turned around at the corner near our boulangerie. Oberkampf looked like this:

A crowd of protesters gathered, watching in a silence reminiscent of my own childhood when I wrestled with my sister until we heard my great grandmother’s crystal vase crash to the floor. Immediately we lapsed into that type of absolute silence which acknowledges that perhaps things had progressed a bit too far and bedroom confinement was a forgone conclusion. I can only hope that this complete absence of noise is the silence of contrition.

This morning, I left our apartment at 6:30 to assess the damage, unsure what, if anything, would open after a day of protests unlike any we’ve experienced. Store windows and bus stop enclosures are shattered and glass shards are strewn across the sidewalk and streets. Bikes, scooters, and the occasional truck are reduced to ash.

As I think of how much I love this city, I muster the will not to cry. Pat will later tell me that shop owners wept openly in the street.

I grapple with the possibility that my repetitive need to return to Paris may not be insanity but rather an unconditional love. It’s the same life force that tethers me to my family, dearest friends, or even my home country. All are at times fraught with imperfections, yet I make a choice not to surrender. For now, I extend this to Paris.

At 6:55, my walk continues up Oberkampf. The butcher is loading the rotisserie with bright yellow chickens, the produce vendor is meticulously testing every single fig for over-ripeness, and people are setting up a mishmash of junk (I use that word lovingly) into a neighborhood flea market. Amidst broken glass and piles of ash, Paris is awakening. 

I enter the boulangerie and am greeted by all the usual workers, albeit with noticeably less cheerfulness. Boss Lady—in the absence of names, Pat and I have bestowed monikers to each employee—is somber. She says the street looks like après la guerre (after the war). 

Sweetie Pie voices her frustration with the current government. Treatie Pie races through the door apologizing for being late. All of them know my daily order. Even though chairs are still flipped onto table tops in an uncharacteristic unpreparedness, this awaits me: 

It will not be a peaceful winter. Fleeing is the easy option. Yet there is optimism in a freshly baked croissant and the presence of good people. I cling to this as I sit in my usual place, sip my coffee, pull out my book, and start to read.

Categories: Ruminations