These are the last of our Parisian days. Last week was apartment hunting in Aberdeen, Scotland, where my husband will start an MA in Ethnology and Folklore in September. I will have to sort out just what to do with myself. I am waiting for a visa, so we'll both be able to work. I still have to tell most people I know that I will be leaving, I find these things hard to say... that's why this is my second attempt at a post about this. It will be lovely to live near the sea again, I think. And I am looking forward to foggy northerness.
View from inside the laundromat
Now that we are leaving, I live only in strings of tableaux. Playing the good Breton wife, making a stack of galettes for my husband and his auntie. Walking past the little wheel of devil-horned Sarkozy heads stencilled on the sidewalk. Scraping old, neglected paint off the ceramic tiles I use instead of a proper palette. Walking to the metro, playing concertina on a hard chair, scrubbing the floor on hands and knees (there are no mops in France). For everything I ask myself if it will be the last time. There is no work in Paris in August and so every day is a long and bizarre weekend.
We will have to start sorting and packing things, maybe today, I suppose. All the dull, familiar things we've looked on for the past three years will soon turn forgotten and foreign and strange again... and by then the granite, shrieking, cloudy place by the North Sea will seem homey and common. Because the world is full of magical transformations, and everything is for the last time.