on paris: literature

This picture represents the most moving, personal & intimate part of our time in Paris. The plaque above me reads, "In this house, in 1922 Mlle Sylvia Beach published 'Ulysses' by James Joyce." I get goosebumps from retyping it. Standing below that sign, I felt at home in Paris. I felt religious, on some sort of pilgrimage. I felt like we were exactly where we were meant to be.

Joe & I were running around being tourists in Paris all week, but outside of the museums & the monuments, we wanted to take time to make the visit more personal. Both of us are avid readers & writers; both of us are passionate about the history of the stories we read, the world that created them & how it affects what we're able to write today.

Before we left, we did some research on the expatriate circle between the wars–looking at Hemingway, one of the first authors we read together; Stein, one of the first poets Joe told me about; Joyce, an author I admit I haven't had a chance to read yet... and on & on. Their footsteps cover Paris & take us back to a time when people weren't only reading more, but talking about what they were reading more.

When we stepped out of the tourist hot spots, we slowed down & stepped into the Latin Quarter, an existential & literary center for ages. We walked the Luxembourg Garden & down rue Decartes (first home of Hemingway & last home of Verlaine), beneath trees that were there before even these literary greats. We walked through the islands of the Seine & across to Shakespeare & Company.

Though this English bookstore has changed locations since Sylvia Beach opened it in the early 1900s, The atmosphere is the same: dusty shelves bending under the weight of thousands of books, eclectic customers speaking all languages, mismatched chairs adding a comfortable at-home feel, an air of dedication to Telling The Story.

When we walked into Les Deux Magots, a favorite café of Picasso, Stein, Hemingway, Joyce (the list is endless really, & each has their picture hanging on the wall), it felt the most real. We sipped our café court (espresso, really) & nibbled our hazelnut chocolates while glancing at the walls in disbelief. What stories had been written here? What stories are still being written, & whose pictures will be added to these walls?

Today, we start our apartment hunting. (As I type this, Joe is waiting on my so that we can walk out the door.) We are anxious to find a place to live so that we can start our own writing & see what stories France can pull from us.

If you are reading this, we miss you. We love you. Thanks for reading. The adventure is really starting now.