Happiness is a Solitary Pursuit

It was a Friday night and everybody in Paris had plans. At least, that’s what it felt like when I found out that my own coup de vin had been postponed.

On any other night, the cancellation would have been welcome news – a chance to binge-watch Money Heist, or read, or scour The Real Real for some mid-00’s Chloe. (You know those dresses that Nicky Hilton danced on tables in? I’m into that.) But that night was different. Due to an unprecedented heat wave, the entire city seemed to be out – together, in groups – cooling off by Canal Saint Martin with their Carrefour picnics, flirting over apéros, polluting the air with puffy clouds of cigarette smoke, one terrace at a time.

I scrolled through Instagram to confirm that all my 3^rddegree acquaintances were, indeed, living far cooler lives than myself. I stalked a girl I haven’t been friends with for a decade, but still like to regularly compare myself to. I considered ambushing my boyfriend from 400 miles away, but, in a rare moment of self-control, resisted.

Frustrated with humanity and even more so with myself, I put on my running gear and left my tiny Airbnb rental. Bypassing the herds of younglings TGIF-ing it up by the canal, I began running. I got to Rue Sain-Maur and made my way down, watching the immigrant enclave metamorphose into a bona fide hipster haven, flooded with bio restaurants and Jeanne Damas lookalikes. A new exhibition space called Atelier des Lumières was holding a nocturne, so I spent the next thirty minutes taking in what can only be described as a Klimt-inspired acid trip while piecing together reflections on tech and art, past and future.

When I left the exhibition, it was still light out. With Gainsbourg singing La Chanson de Prévert in my ear, I walked over to Square Maurice Gardette, the Parisian answer to Gramercy Park. Tall Haussmann buildings surrounded the square, their mansard rooftops waxing poetry to the pink-blue sky. (An ex of mine used to call Paris “a stale cake,” and I can’t help but laugh whenever I remember this.) Looking up, I suddenly experienced an overwhelming sense of euphoria, mixed with gratitude. At some point, I opened up the Notes app on my phone and typed the following sentence:

“The best moments I’ve had have probably been alone.”

It was an odd thing to write, especially for somebody who had just been on the edge of reason because she’d had nobody to drink Sancerre with. I just suddenly recognized that some of my most powerful experiences had been similar to that one –  instances of serenity and appreciation, catalyzed by a city I love. They were the moments when my values suddenly seemed to be in place and I genuinely recognized everything that life had given me – no less, no more. They were honest, they were cathartic, they were borderline religious, if I dare.

Although I’d had similar experiences in other cities (New York being one of them), Paris clocked in the vast majority. When I first moved there as a grad school student in 2012, gyms were far and few between. And so, I started running, mostly at night, allowing me to see a different version of the city. On weekends, these runs would turn into long, aimless walks. Paris was the leader and I merely the follower – allowing it to whisk me through its winding streets, occasionally stopping to get a cheese sample at a fromagerie, or to window shop, or to shop-shop while repulsing local salespeople with my activewear.

Even after I made friends, I would still bury my problems, particularly my dating tribulations, in these soul-cleansing adventures. I may have been shit at love, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t happy, elated, euphoric – the emotional equivalent of being in love. The ability to resurrect this feeling, like I did on that humid Friday night, is reassuring, like a superpower that belongs to me alone.

Which leads me to the point I’m trying to make here – because there is a point, other than to show you the pith of my inner turmoil. If there is something I have learned in thirty-one years, it is that you need to find your own joys and build your own coping mechanisms. Whether it’s meditation, reading, or trekking through Timbuktu, you must have something that brings you a happiness that is not contingent on others. Something that can pull you out of moments of darkness and carry you over to the other side. For me, it’s an adventure with a city – the sense of following its rhythm, of disappearing within its folds, of connecting with the world while living predominantly in my head. Perfect, unabridged freedom.

If you look at my Instagram, it occasionally feels more like a travel blog, or a postcard start-up. For awhile, I attributed this to laziness, a reluctance to “think strategically” and go out there looking for “relevant content.” But, perhaps, subconsciously, I was always trying to relay this message: that there is more to focus on that just dating, or work, or the grunt of the day-to-day. There is so much more that can make us happy. We just have to open our eyes and look.

See what I mean?! For more cityscapes, follow me HERE!