Sunday streets to mirrors. Paris seems to reflect everything, on the river that
cuts and connects it, the apartment windows, the rain-drenched streets. When I
first moved here someone told me that ‘the French don’t believe in Sundays’ and
to a certain extent that’s true. Everything stops. The shops close and the traffic
dies. During the rest of the week you’re swept up in it all. You belong to the city
and find yourself rushing past landmarks and into the metro. On a Sunday you
step outside and the city is yours. It’s a day in which you finally reconnect and
open your eyes.
My mental map of Paris continues to grow. Each place is full of memories to
unfold and retrace and the river connects it all. It feels like home: the warm
kingdom of books nestled in the shadows of Notre Dame, late opening at
Musée D’Orsay, feet firmly planted in front of a painting I never thought I’d see,
composed of deepest blue, so beautiful it hurts your heart.
I think it hurts because, in that moment, you are aware that you are giving a
small piece of yourself away.
A part of me will always be stood in front of that painting, taking in its shifting
colours. Part of me still belongs to the black sand beaches and changing seasons
of Iceland. The rain will always take me back to Devon and its winding roads,
lined with ancient hedgerows- to damp school shoes.
As you live you seem to become fragmented, simultaneously hurt and healed.
I never thought you could be composed of so many things.
I won’t ever be able to forget the lights on the Seine at night, walking across the
many bridges, the secret world of the metro.
I will continue to grow and break and heal.
Bio: Rose Alana Frith is a young writer who was born in Dorset, England grew up in Reykjavík, Iceland and northern Scotland and is now living in Paris.http://rosealanafrith.wordpress.com/ @RoseAlana21
Synopsis: Paris- intriguing, romantic, vibrant, a city full of contrast, a myriad of clashes creates points of friction and moments of duality which truly change, challenge and illuminate.