Though I would have loved to stay there and follow the footsteps of Hemingway or Stein, it didn’t feel right for me.
Maybe because I’m not white. Maybe because I haven’t been through a war. Maybe because I don’t know whether I could write enough stories to support myself the way Hemingway did.
Maybe I’m more Bukowski than Hemingway. Maybe the romance of Los Angeles is more seductive than the easy beauty of Paris. Maybe Paris would look more like Los Angeles if not for the architectural tyranny of Baron Haussman so long ago.
Los Angeles is young. Los Angeles is hungry. Los Angeles is chaos.
But I’ve only spent a week in Paris. Hardly enough time to truly know anything about it.
Ah. There– there is the difference.
I’m not sure I want to make Paris mine. It would be beautiful, but somehow inorganic.
Los Angeles pulls me close, claims me, marks me, pushes me away, encourages me to love another city…
dares me to leave, challenges me to return.