An average evening, in fact a below average one - with an initial misunderstanding about tasty Indian food in a crummy little Indian restaurant versus a fancy mediterranean place on the waterfront. Not hard to imagine we ended up at a crummy little Indian joint. Then a fumbling walk by trapped sea water in Foster City and eventually by the bay in San Mateo. A little later, while I sat down staring at the bay and she preferred to sit in car, the evening wasn’t looking up either.
But then we roll into this desserts place which sells super high calorie sweets but absolutely delicious if I may add. This place is just by the movie hall and I say, “So do you want to catch a movie.” One thing to the other and we end up at the movie hall. Midnight in Paris is the only one we can watch. Woody Allen and set in Paris, I think twice and then she buys the tickets. Least I could do was to get the popcorns. (They are extremely high priced but I refrained from commenting and am glad that I did. Because I know, perhaps you do too, where that would have gone)
Walk into a completely empty movie hall as if it were a personal screening. I can’t decided if I am happy that a few more folks walked in before the movie started or I would rather have it other way round.
This is a movie set in Paris, where a successful Hollywood script writer begins to search for his inspiration to complete his novel while he is out freeloading with her fiancée’s family. .The family is there on a business visit. He has a poetic aspiration of living in a French attic with sunlight glazing through the roof top and she wants a Malibu mansion.
Every night the protagonist (Own Wilson) slips into his illusional golden era of Paris, where he spends time with Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Picasso. He meets a woman in his figments of imagination – Adriana, who one day travels to even older Paris… one that existed in 1890’s. In search of a more surreal, and poetically beautiful Paris.
That is where perhaps I realized, Romanticism flirts with the denial. At times in my mind, denial always takes my romanticism to the bed. Only to wake up next morning for that walk of shame….some times just until the door, sometimes until that phone call, a blog post or a long hard stare at the horizon.
Sitting in this tiny little, ill ventilated studio of mine, in one of the vibrant cities in the world, I think of my time in Paris and my depreciating capital of memories…. And I wonder
Oh well. This is life. It is a bit dissatisfying and probably because it is now and it is a present. My Present, a choice that I make or perhaps made…
I don’t want to look back on my time too quick too soon
Neo
