This article is from the original Chicano in Paris recently moved here to its new home.

The other day I posted something I sort of regret. I say sort of because there is always noise in my head shouting me down and it’s embarrassing. But I shared it anyway because I thought, I know this is a thing that does happen and I know there are people of every color and exoticism with cool-funky names that feel they were rejected before they were even let in the door.

The noise in my head that kept me awake: we didn’t get the apartment even though we make more than enough $$, exceed every single qualification, and offered to pay the first year upfront.

My head: did the owner see my name (Rudolfo Martinez) and decide, ‘too ethnic, hell no’?

Me: No way. It’s a sellers market and they’re just going a differenr route.

My head: right.

Me: right.

My head: right?

Me: fucking hell if I know.

It turns out it was just noise. The owner is away in India living the joie de vivre that Parisians are famous for (and one of the most appealing things about the entire Parisian experience) and has not gotten back to our agency. The rejection came from the property manager as a proxy so our agent went above them because they have a soft spot for (TGB) because she is such a sweetheart and a badass. True story.

So, the world is not always a bad place and I just let the stupid shit in my head win a minor battle for a short time. I figured, if nothing else, by sharing this with you you might feel a sense of relief that you’re not the only one who sometimes spins in a mindfuck of your own creating.

Yesterday we spent the day looking at apartments. The first one was in the 3rd arrondissement - which is my first choice of arrondissements. So we walked from our airbnb in the 11th down to the third through all of the wonder that is Paris Fashion Week. It was drizzling and overcast so when I saw a woman in big sunglasses walking towards me it struck me as a bit odd. Then it hit me. I looked at her lips to be sure I wasn’t crazy. Those gorgeous, full lips confirmed it just as I walked past on the narrow sidewalk, brushing arms. I just brushed arms with Anne Hathaway. Whatever happened the rest of the day, this day was already a win.

We made it to the apartment and waited for Melissa, our Mila Kunis clone of a relocation manager.

Anne Hathaway is on my list, you know.

Yeah. She’s on MY list too.

Melissa arrived. The apartment was modern, quiet, and tucked away. It was perfect to me. To me. Boys and girls, I don’t make it a habit of dispensing relationship advice, but here is one thing I will tell you: when you move to a new city with the person you love, make sure the place you pick to live feels like home to the twos of yous. If you love it and your partner doesn’t, you won’t love it for very long. It has to feel like home for both of you.

After some time looking at this place I loved, we went and had lunch with a cat.

The first hour at lunch this little girl came and sat at my feet and ignored literally everyone else. Then I send a couple photos to the insta and she’s all, deuces, dis my new person. So, yeah, that was a self-esteem crusher.

At lunch our relocation team sent us two more apartments so we hopped on the tube and headed to the 16th. That line from The Police song comes to mind when I think about that ride on the tube: packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes...

Anyway, we made it to the 16th. The apartment is across the street from a bistro and a massive hospital. It’s a block away from a massive square, but far enough back to be so very quiet. It is not far from where they’ll be doing a lot of Olympic activities. It’s modern and swanky overlooking a street that is old timey and very Parisian. I wish this was in the 3rd, I thought but did not say.

TGB loved it. I liked it a lot.

We walked the neighborhood and I realized I have already become very familiar with this arrondissement. In fact, my tendency to just walk with no real destination in mind has made me really learn a lot of layout of Paris already. And then it hit me, I can be in the 3rd in 20 minutes on the tube.I can be in the 7th in 20 minutes by foot. This town is all so close.

That apartment was pretty fucking cool, I thought.

Our relocation team wanted to know if we wanted to submit our dossier.

You don’t love it.

I didn’t say that.

I don’t want you to just accept it because I love it.

I would never do that. I can hop on the tube and be anywhere in this city in minutes. It’s quiet. Dexter has a nice size deck and cannot see or fall onto the street. We have everything we need walking distance from home.

Should we?

So we did.

And now we wait.

I have been writing, just not here. It’s nothing personal, I just haven’t felt like I have anything to say in the long form that hasn’t already been said better by any number of more talented writers.

Also, I am just tired. The world is such shit right now. It feels so much like the bad guys are winning. It’s even worse when people who tell you they love you are supporting the very bad guys that would demean you for who you love, the color of your skin, your gender, your faith - or absence of it. I know love is not always a simple, or even an easy thing, but I do believe that love is NOT siding with those who make it okay to dehumanize those you profess to love.

So I’ve been stuck. Is this world even worth fighting for?

Then as I was organizing my photos after spending the weekend out and about snapping shots around Paris I stumbled across an old meme I’d saved.

That first sentence carries so much, don’t you think? Seems I have forgotten lately that I don’t have to fix the world. It’s arrogant to think I can. Sure, I can make my small part of it better, but anymore that feels akin to shoveling water off the Titanic with a shot glass.

So I sat there staring at this image. Reading it. Then reading it again. Then hearing that voice in my head remind me that, yes, I have read this in the past countless times and forgot. And I will likely forget again.

But for now it is that gentle reminder that I need. This is my life and, while the world has decided to lose it’s goddamn mind, I still owe it to myself - and to Joan - to live it. My end is much closer than my beginning so I really should get back to it.

The world being a huge blue ball of suck is not an excuse.

It’s late in Paris and today was a hot one. Triple digits according to my Frameo. But now it’s back to the 70s and people are outside at the bistrot across the street enjoying the respite from the ungodly heat. I can hear the laughter from the patrons outside and the music from within.

I kept Dexter inside most of the day except for incredibly short walks to do his business so tonight we’ll be taking a midnight stroll through this magnificent city.

Then… I will sit in front of this MacBook Pro of mine and type up some words for a story I have been working on for quite some time… in my head mostly, but still.

Here’s a few of my favorite photos from this weekend.

Thank you so much for bothering to read my nonsense.

Paris in June

It’s a strange thing about some sports fans - their need to destroy things when expressing what should be joy. I am a sports fan. But I have never been prone to destroying things when my teams win.

The Chargers have never won, Rudy.

Look, asshole, the Chargers are not the only team I cheer for.

I always thought it was a uniquely American attribute with some exception for English hooliganism. As the only real soccer played in the United States is played by women their fans aren’t the drunk, testosterone-fueled dickheads overcompensating for something else.

My own experience with football in Paris has been nothing but fun and celebratory whether it’s Paris-St. Germaine, the French National Team, or the Olympics. The most raucous thing I have ever experienced was Brazil fans shutting down Blvd. Murat and turning it into one of the best parties of my life.

Seriously, if you ever get a chance to go to a Brazil National sporting event - do it. Their fans are loud, fun, warm, and possibly the most beautiful humans I have ever encountered. And holy fuckballs can they party.

I’m getting off track. Sorry about that.

I live a three minute walk to Parc Des Princes which happens to be the home stadium of PSG Football Club. For those of you who are not sports fans, the PSG FC just won the biggest game in Europe - UEFA Champions League.

The entire city was a party in the days leading up to the match. I quite expected the country of joie de vivre would celebrate, win or lose, with their usual panache and irreverence; fireworks and singing all around!

But there were clues along the way.

Fireworks everywhere. Shops closing early. Businesses boarding up storefronts.

Clues. Everywhere.

I watched the match in my living room, but I could hear the crowds outside. In fact, there was a group of young men and boys across the street watching through a window who seemed to have the game stream a few seconds ahead of what was on my television. They let me know when PSG scored before I saw it. At halftime I went out to my second story balcony (3rd story in the US) to have a smoke and watch this guy shoot off fireworks.

Just after I snapped this photo the group of young men and boys left their viewing party and started walking towards fireworks man and chased him off. I thought it was odd. Later it occurred to me that what those boys were doing was self-policing. I would see it a lot that night.

The second half of the match was a blowout. I could hear the celebration from the stadium and the streets. I was ebullient and needed to get out with the crowd and share this joy with others who were feeling the same. I expected it would feel like the Olympics - two weeks of strangers treating each other like best friends. There were no losers, only cultural exchange and a united humanity.

In hindsight I think that expectation is what lead to my crushing disappointment and subsequent melancholy over what happened next.

What happened next was that I grabbed my camera and headed out into the maddening crowd. And therein lies my mistake.

I headed up Michel-Ange and could see the revelry from a hundred meters away. Fireworks, chanting, horns blaring. It was, from a distance, joyous, boisterous, and nothing unexpected. Fireworks and dancing. I thought, that’s whassup and picked up my pace. By the time I got to Place de la Porte Saint-Cloud I was almost floating.

Everyone seemed so fucking happy!

Then I saw it.

My gut said, go take a photo and get the fuck out. I should have just stayed home.

I rounded the circle and crossed at Blvd. Murat to the front of Sainte Jeanne de Chantal church where the cars were burning.

I took my video and some photos when all of a sudden there was a stampede. It was not my first stampede so I stepped up onto the stairs of the church, behind a pillar and waited for the crowd to be gone. I was about to keep walking towards the stadium when three boys asked me to take a photo of them with my camera so I snapped those off, gathered the kid’s email, and promised to send them to him.

Please, do not @ me with your indignation. A teenage boy who did not set the fire is not the enemy here. He was a dumb kid with his friends out and about wanting a high resolution capture of this moment for himself and his friends. Frankly, I was impressed at his mental acuity. I offered to take it with my phone and text it to him, but he wanted the real thing.

In the time it took to snap a few shots and get an email address there came another stampede. This one was different than the first in scope. My path to the church steps was impeded by hundreds of people running so I found a tree and ducked. My eyes started to burn.

Fuck.

A young man confirmed it. GAZ! and pointed for me to run. I stayed to the side, walking briskly with my shirt over my face. I knew it didn’t help, but I wasn’t thinking. I made it to a quieter stretch and saw people helping one another flush their eyes with water. That was my cue—it was time to go home.

The streets in Paris all have amazing stories. They are named after famous people, or cool places. The little side street that completes the circle of my block is named after a retired General who joined the French Resistance until he was captured by the Nazis and killed at Dachau. I think about that story every time I walk Dexter down Rue du General Delestraint. I was thinking about it now. It was a safe place, a way to get out of this sudden shitstorm.

There were scores of cops blocking it. Shit.

If I stay on Murat I would be with the masses in their stampede and I would be getting closer to the stadium which, by now was the last place I wanted to be. I saw a lone cop - the only one unmolested - and said in my broken french, j’habite a Michel-Ange. He looked me up and down nodded and let me through.

All told I was gone maybe twenty minutes, half-hour tops. I was glad I left Dexter at home. I rinsed my face and went to my balcony a little heartbroken. I lit a smoke and some hooligans set off fireworks that caught some trash bins on fire. A battalion of motorcycle cops showed up.

The police in Paris were not unnecessarily violent (looking at you, United States). People on the streets celebrating, or walking to the metro, or just existing were left largely alone. Even asshats throwing bottles at them didn’t provoke violence. Sure, setting cars on fire will get the tear gas out, but c’mon, even I have to side with the cops on that one.

In the end I had to wait til four in the morning to take Dexter out for his nightly bedtime bathroom break. He’s a good boy. As I drifted off to sleep I found myself thinking, so Paris isn’t perfect after all.

And that made me sad for a bit, honestly.

Then I remembered Boston after the Red Sox won their first World Series. Or Los Angeles when cops who beat a black man senseless are acquitted. Or Detroit… or Philadelphia…or… and I love those cities. So yeah, Paris had a bad weekend and a lot of people did a lot of stupid shit. But you know what?

The good so far outweighs the bad that it isn’t even close.

Bad things happen in big cities.

Anyone who has ever lived in a big city knows that.

But so few big cities have so much magic.

I never needed Paris to be perfect. She has grace enough to let me be imperfect I suppose I can do the same for her.

I never knew what seasonal depression was until I spent six long years living in Northeast Ohio. The sky was a drab grey for over 200 days a year in Akron. And the gray sat so low in the sky as to suffocate whatever life was left in you. Since my great escape from Drabistan I find myself falling to melancholy after too many grey days in a row.

This is all to say that I have been in a funk lately. Most of the year the weather in Paris covers every season at least once for at least an hour at some point everyday. Except for winter. Winter is cold, sure. But the sky is a concrete slab in winter. Heavy, and miserable, and … it’s kept me inside the last several weeks except to walk to Dexter and he’ll tell you this is some bullshit, too, because his walkies are decidedly shorter.

But I woke up Thursday and the sky c’est azur magnifique! My spirits began to lift and Dexter got the kind of walk that left his little legs wobbly from exhaustion. Seriously, I walked him almost six miles. It was glorious and made for a much less annoying afternoon.

I came home and opened the curtains in every room. I put on my Songs I Never Skip playlist and danced like my neighbors weren’t watching. It’s amazing how much my mood change impacted everything from my productivity to my creativity.

Suddenly, the demise of the Great Experiment didn’t seem so serious. The strife in Palestine and Ukraine seemed surmountable. Dexter dragging his ass across the rug was less … no, that is still gross and annoying.

So today I grabbed the camera, left the dog at home, and let myself wander.

Out and about in the 16eme today

In the coming days I will be spending more time outside… wandering. It’s good for my soul and my mental health. With the world being complete shit lately, I really do need to go lost in my city.

I was walking my little furball thinking about Taylor Swift just now when I saw a little girl and her au pair shining like a couple of diamonds.

Don’t worry, I’ll explain it all to you in the next few words.

You see, this morning as I was laying in bed trying to find the motivation to kick my legs over the side and start my day, I was scrolling through my social media trying my best to avoid anything to do with the downfall of America. I came across a few posts about Tay-Tay and the Grammies. Apparently, people have opinions about her… expressing joy? Or maybe they were just assholes who like to complain because she had the audacity to dance? I dunno. It seems anytime she breathes someone has to bitch about it.

But then I saw someone respond with a clip of an interview where she states that she is acutely aware that people will whine about her dancing. She, in an absolute astute moment of badassery, quipped about being tall and lanky and looking like a baby giraffe when she dances. I wanted to hug the kid, honestly.

She then goes on to say that as she wrote Shake It Off she knew the video she wanted to make was going to be her dancing like, well, Taylor Swift. I have to admit dear reader that in my fifty-two years I’d never actually watched the video.

So I watched it. And I caught myself smiling the kind of smile that hurts your face because your face is not big enough to hold the joy. You know that feeling? Here was this kid who was constantly ridiculed for nothing more than having joy and instead of it dimming her spirit she shined even brighter.

Anyway, that was what I was thinking about as I walked Dexter just a little bit ago.

Then as we turned off of Exelmans for the last big stretch home we ended up behind a little auburn haired diva and her au pair. They weren’t walking down the Paris streets, they weren’t even strutting; they were fucking dancing. Like Broadway musical, the world is our stage and you are all privileged to be here watching kind of dancing. For a quarter of a mile or so I walked slower than usual because the truth is there really was only an audience of two and the show was sublime. Auburn hair would dance some over the top number, au pair would shake it like all the best supporting cast members do, then they would grab hands and do something together.

This went on over and over and over and … all I could do was smile and be grateful to be right here,right now.

And then it happened. In the midst of all of her … gesticulating, she saw Dexter. Her eyes got HUGE and she bowed a huge exaggerated bow to her audience of one (I am more than happy to be chopped liver in this scenario) before twirling back around continuing with the show.

We crossed Rue de Varize and they went one way while Dexter and turned towards home.

I will likely never see her again and I am not the type to take photos of children out in the wild. But this kid will stay with me for awhile. I hope she never lets the world dim her shine. If ever the world tries to dim her shine I hope she decides to… well, shakes it off… and then decides to shine brighter.

I woke up this morning and laid in bed contemplating whether I truly wanted to leave my cozy-comfy bed and start my day, or just lay there forever living out my days blissfully unconcerned with anything in the world save my need to pee. I couldn’t decide so I grabbed my phone and logged into Bluesky.

I left Twitter about a month after Elon bought it and my tens of followers were devestated so I know how difficult it is for those of us with a following to actually leave. When I read Paris Mayor Anne Hidalgo’s post about Paris leaving Twitter I was pleasantly surprised. Very pleasantly. And I as I Deepl translated the entirety of her post I realized that she had left the platform a full year earlier.

A year ago was the run-up to the Olympics. Here. In Paris. The city she runs. And she had the chutzpah to tell Leon Trump to fuck off. She left a platform that would have potentially made her life easier - communicating with an entire city in a timely manner is challenging enough, but leaving a platform that fascillates that communication is either crazy, dumb, or ballsy.

Having lived through the Paris Olympics and seeing first hand how smooth the Cité ran, how wonderful the entire experience was, how Paris became not only the center of the world for awhile, but a reflection of all that is best in us I would say Mayor Hidalgo was neither crazy, nor dumb.

She missed Twitter the way I miss Florida. Not at all and is annoyed that it is still a thing.

So when I saw that the Cité itself has now left Twitter I may have smirked a little. Then, around mid-smirk I saw that the Pasteur Institute has followed suite and also left Leon Elon’s playground.

For my American readers: Pasteur is the guy who was boiling raw milk before it was cool.

Anyway, in the words of my Mayor: “…sortez-en, lisez, écrivez, débattez, c’est la démocratie!”

I’m trying, Madame, I am trying.

Yesterday’s walk around town.

I am a night owl. Always have been. That is not to say I prefer to be out partying all hours of the night, it is more that I just prefer the wee hours of the early morning as my bedtime. Late night is the best time for me to just sit and exist with myself without the noise and anxiety of the daytime. Less people helps. This, unfortunately for my dog, means walks at 0300 before bed and noon walks for breakfast. He is not a night owl.

When I woke this morning just before noon I started my day with a hot cup of coffee. Shout out to The Gorgeous Blonde for always having one ready when she hears me stirring. As I sit there, cup in hand, pondering what I did to be forced to exist on this ungodly plane for another day Dexter usually goes to his bowl of food, let’s out a huff of disappointment, and then spends the rest of the morning trying to bore a hole into my head with his death stare. Eventually, the bean juice does its magic and I remember that life is good and I am surrounded by a beautiful wife and an adorable dog in a breath-taking city so maybe I should stop being a little bitch and go put on my pants.

At this point Dexter does his happy dance because he knows what’s coming. I get dressed for the day, strap on his harness, grab some poop bags, and off we go.

Side note: yesterday I did all of this but off I went without him. I almost had the door closed behind me before I realized I didn’t have a dog to walk on this particular dog walk. This is why coffee first is a must.

Anyway, we head out, down the stairs, and leave the building. I always let Dexter decide which direction we head once we are outside. We can go right, down Rue Michel Ange; left down Rue Varize, or straight ahead past La Garçonierre.

This morning he chose straight so we headed onwards towards his favorite park in Auteil. Once we get to the park his step always quickens. He really has learned this city - or at least, his part of this city.

So we meandered through the park and met all the other dogs, sniffed all the smelly things and soaked in the sun.

We left the park and, under protest from Dexter, we headed towards my favorite bridge in the city: Pont Mirabeau. I cannot explain why I love this bridge so much more than all the others. It’s not necessarily the most beautiful, or the most historically relevant. It doesn’t have the best view of all the bridges either. It just… it’s the most me bridge of all the bridges. You’ll just have to take my word for it.

I don’t think Dexter has a favorite bridge. I know he hates being on any of them when it is particularly windy. Fortunately, today was mild so he was able to enjoy sniffing all the doggy marked spots along the bridge. And, oh my god, there are a lot.

Did you know that the Montgolfier brothers took to flight in a hot air balloon over 200 years before the Wright brothers ever lifted off at Kittyhawk? Dexter was unimpressed with the balloon as we passed it on our way back home along the Seine. If it does not fit in his mouth it is not a ball worth his time, apparently.

How many of you said, “that’s what she said?’“

As we crossed back over the Seine on Pont Garigliano - the bridge closest to our apartment - I met an elderly lady who asked for help taking a photo. She spoke no English and I still speak embarrassingly little French, but I was able to surmise that she was arthritic and couldn’t get the photo off the bridge that she wanted so I took it for her. She seemed pleased and I was happy to help.

We meandered the rest of the way home for another twenty minutes or so. Once we got home Dexter drank up lots of water, curled up on the couch, and is now dreaming of, well, probably walking around in Paris.

Postscript - in the midst of slapping this together on my keyboard my wife got up to make herself a little something for a late lunch. “Did you finish the bread (baguette)?” I did. So I got up and walked to the boulangerie (bakery) and got two more. Walking back I did that most French of things and nibbled off a bit at the end of one of the baguettes. There really is nothing tastier than fresh made baguette while walking in Paris.

I am finally back home in Paris. After a 36ish hour travel day (and-a-half) I got in late the other night. It is cold, overcast, and miserable. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Fun fact: plugs for electronics in Europe are different than outlets in the United States. Other fun fact: my dumbass forgot my adapter. My beard is that of a psycho college professor intent on doing harm. Once I post this I plan on shaving it down with a hacksaw so I can pass as slightly less feral.

My hair on the other hand. Whew, it is glorious. It is longer than it has been since high school when I rocked a glam mullet. Now, I am so grateful to have a full head of gorgeous, wavy hair at the age of 52, but… my hair does not get long, it gets big. So it had to get through the pompadour Elvis phase before it could get to the Michael Sheen stage. It is wavy all around, borderline curly on top. My wife says she likes it, but she’s painfully polite (midwestern girls, ammirite) so I don’t know if she really likes it, or thinks I like it and wants to placate me.

I won’t ask you assholes because I am not in the mood for a roast. My aunt is going to read this and have big head jokes anyway. I am still traumatized by that nickname from my childhood. Yeah, they really called me that.

Hey, Big Head… I need to cry.

I’ll be back.

It’s not so much that my head was big as it was that the rest of me was so small. It’s like trimming the bushes to make the … building look bigger. It’s not really bigger, it just looks that way. That was the problem with my head.

Point is, my mop is at a precarious stage. I could easily get it all butchered off if I screw up the translation when I head to my usual dude. Or, I could just let it grow some more. Or I could screw my dude over and go find an English speaking stylist. But I can’t do the latter because I love my dude. So I have to risk that my French is going to carry the day and get me trimmed up just right.

Ugh, I was not expecting to have to deal with these sorts of life decisions or relive this childhood trauma when I came home!

One of my favorite things about our apartment in Paris is the bistro across the street. Not just because they make delicious food, but mostly because every time I come out to my balcony to smoke one of my Galoises Blondes Blancs I get a show.

I sat here this afternoon watching a beautiful interaction between a little girl and her daddy whilst they had a delicious lunch (every meal at La Garçonniere is delicious). She was an adorable little ginger, hair in a ponytail speaking as much with her hands as her mouth while dad sat there, gorgeous crop of hair atop his distinguished head, scarf dangling loosely off his neck. They were sat inside so I couldn’t hear them. Not that my French is so good I would have understood them anyway.

Dad laughed and answered with the same animation as his progeny and she sat there sometimes laughing and interjecting. At one point he leaned forward, chin in hand, elbows firmly in place on the table, smiling.

These are the little snippets I live for. Even now as I am sitting outside having one last smoke before bed there is a group of women sitting outside sipping on wine. One of them just got up and ran a circle around her friends and collapsed into her chair laughing her ass off.

Always there are people living.

On match night we get massive crowds there pregaming before a Paris Saint Germaine match, or an UEFA International match.

We actually were there one night after a match between France and Ireland. A somewhat intoxicated French fan asked if we were American and I answered in the French affirmative. He chuckled because, yes, even my oui sounds American AF. He tried to engage in conversation, but between his slurred French and my butchered Frenglish, he finally gave up. He seemed annoyed, honestly.

Until we were leaving I tapped him on his shoulder, pointed to his flag and shouted vive la France! That’s all it took and he hit me with the biggest smile and repeated with far more enthusiasm, VIVE LA FRANCE!

I threw my fist in the air and gave it back to him one last time before my wife and I crossed the street and headed back to our apartment.

If you ever find yourself in the 16th arrondissement you should head over to La Garçonnierre and have a croque monsieur and look up. It’s the perfect comfort food and I might wave hello. (And no, I do not get paid for saying any of that. I just genuinely love the place.)

We needed stuff for our airbnb - some cheese, some toiletries, some wine. Obviously.

Let’s go meander.

OkayI

So we headed two blocks east to the Seine and walked along site of the Eiffel Tower. It did not suck. Along the way, we crossed a blissful and beautiful couple in wedding gear. I snapped a quick shot as the walked past us and up the stairs to cross to the Seine.

We were starving so we hit a tourist trap and overpaid for okayish food. But the view was great and, well, we’re in fucking Paris!

After lunch it was time to adult. So we hit Monprix and got what we needed, including a bag to carry it all home. Of course, the Mexican set off the alarm on the way out because self-checkout doesn’t allow for the removal of theft deterrent devices upon purchase. I walked back in wondering how to say, I’m a dumbass in French.

Je suis un imbécile.

After we dropped the victuals back at the apartment we... smoked. And did nothing. And checked in on the news back in the States. But I promised no more politics, so I won’t write about Congressman Owen Fourteen McCarthy.

Let’s head west this time.

Okay.

So we walked along some French sounding streets that had less tourists and more happy hours. Cheese and wine was consumed, which is all The Gorgeous Blonde has ever wanted.

So, some people on the internet have asked ‘why the 16th’ and I only know that it was an arrondissement you were interested in.

It’s safe, it’s up and coming, and it’s posh. Mostly the posh thing.

So there you have it. I may or may not have embellished her answer a little.

We meandered about some more after our meal. The moon was out and glorious.

Honestly, the bulk of the night was spent holding hands, looking at real estate listings, and laughing. A lot.

The jetlag is fading and we have things we want to see and do here in the 16th. Mostly, we want to settle in for awhile to get a real feel for what it is to live here. I am hoping that today will be less touristy and more nitty-gritty and getting into the real Paris.

This article is from the original Chicano in Paris recently moved here to its new home.

The One In Which I Try To Answer the Obvious Questions.

The first question we usually get is, why Paris? The Gorgeous Blonde (my wife) usually responds with a quick, why not? Most people laugh, but eventually they come back around and give us a, no, but really, why Paris?

There really is no one reason. TGB and I came to the same conclusion - Paris - via very different routes. I grew up loving Hemingway and Audrey Hepburn. Both of those roads lead inevitably to Paris. Before joining the Air Force I considered going to work for the Big Mouse at Eurodisney. I still have the packet of paperwork in a box in California.

TGB went away on a school trip in High School. I am loathe to tell anyone else’s story, so I will leave it at - that trip seemed to plant a seed.

Fast forward to 2019 and a trip to Paris together and something big took hold of us. Long talks about the wonder of this city. Longer talks about love of country and service and the seeming demise of that same country at the hands of an orange troglodyte and, voila! The question we were faced with was, why are we staying in the States?

It may seem silly to inject politics into a conversation about a magical city like Paris, but it was a big part of the process for us - for me. This city wrapped it’s arms around black US Servicemen in WWI and WWII while our country treated them as second class citizens. This country has enshrined bodily autonomy for women into their constitution while ours, well, you know. And then there’s Florida.

You know Ron DeSantis is probably gonna be POTUS.

Ugh, yeah, fuck that guy.

You bet your ass politics played a role.

So we came up with a plan to move in the future. It was vague and mostly a romanticized ideal that I wasn’t sure was serious. Until TGB came home one day and said, let’s do it.

Okay. So we started our research and came up with an honest to goodness five year plan. Bought a five year calendar and everything. Nerds, we.

In January of ‘22 I started my own little tech company and got to work. Year one of Five Year Plan under way!

Then in February she asked the most innocuous seeming question: why are we waiting?

Because... five year plan.

...

Because... yeah, that’s all I got.

And then my beautiful bride laid out her reasons for leaving sooner rather than later. In short, politics (see above). We have absolutely nothing tying us to FloRiDuH - no family or obligations. We are still young and vibrant enough to really lean in and enjoy Paris. And, well, IT’S FUCKING PARIS!

So the five year plan was turned into an as soon as we sell the house for an obscene profit plan.

Paris is a magical city. It is huge and diverse, it is romantic and idealized to a fault, it is amazing fucking food and inexpensive wine, it is art and grit, it is noisy as it sexy, and she is our home now.

So, I promise to tell you all about this adventure in the coming weeks with none of the politics and a lot more of the hyperbole.

I don’t know how long we will be in Paris. Maybe a year, maybe three, maybe forever. I am fairly confident that France will be home for the duration of this sweet life of ours though.

Now I am going to take my third coffee outside, light up and delicious cancer stick, and enjoy watching and listening to this gorgeous dame wake up this morning.