I’ve never been terribly intellectual. I prefer reading chick flicks to reading classic literature. I’ll shop for hours, but can only handle museums for so long. And I’d much rather devour People magazine than read the New Yorker.
It’s rather surprising that I’ve made it as far as I have in the academic world.
Paris, however, is changing my mind.
I call it the “Midnight in Paris” disease. You know that Woody Allen film where the main character likes to walk in the rain in Paris and then gets taken back in time to talk to Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald and other deep thinkers from Paris in the 1920’s.
I find myself wanting to read famous works, not only for enjoyment but to analyze and delve deep into the texts. I find myself painting, something I’ve never really taken to before but am suddenly enjoying. I find myself going to museums (and yes, I will admit that I do still spend most of my time in the museum shop, purchasing post cards) and picking my favorite artists. I find myself questioning things I’ve always thought were true.
Maybe it will wear off. But for now, I’m enjoying experiencing a new side of myself.
(This isn’t to say that I no longer love to shop, watch rom coms, and read gossip magazines. I don’t think I could ever give those things up.) (And as another side note, this isn’t to say that doing such things makes a person unintellectual or shallow, because it most certainly does not.)
So, you have been warned. When I come home from Paris, I will most likely wear black turtle necks with black skinny pants, drink espresso shots, and insist that my name is spelled “Lili.” Blame it on Paris.
Reading Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast” at le jardin de Tuileries.