Everyone deserves a nice romantic or passionate story taking place in Paris (not Hilton, please). No, I stand corrected: Everyone should be entitled to one. Mine was and is still fabulous, it went beyond my first visit to Paris. We are friends. With benefits, obviously, but friends. We show up when we want to, we send messages to the other without even knowing what’s going on with our lives, and we sporadically meet and have lots of fun. It is truly authentic. When he is not around, I don’t mind, wonder, or get hard feelings; he doesn’t either when I’m not there. Still, at some point, we start talking and it is always like we have never stopped being in touch.
Exactly four years ago (during the 2010 football World Cup) I was still living at Buenos Aires, and saving up to travel to Paris to see my best friend. For that purpose, with another friend, and my quintessential partner in crime, we had a wonderful idea: We would start bringing people from hostels to a club of a dude we knew, get paid for that and drink for free. Obviously, just the last part worked, the second night we were supposed to take the tourists to the club, we just felt like going to another, and to hell with the „cool job“.
So we started at a hostel, three blocks away from my real job. We chatted with the receptionists, and we just walked in and took an amazing girl, Naomi, to a party with us. Naomi had so much fun that she told everyone at the hostel, and the next night, two guys were added to the group. One of them, a French dude, was in Buenos Aires for three months, and was going back to Paris exactly a week before my flight was departing. Nothing happened that night, we just talked about music and bullshit, and went clubbing. I added him to Facebook and we agreed on meeting the following Friday to go partying again, the whole group. Next Friday arrived, and they were there. We went to the club and eventually hooked up. We had great chemistry, but in my mind I was such a huge slut for hooking up so soon, that he wouldn’t call again, so I just parted in the morning, and did not expect anything. In the afternoon, I was at a friend’s, and to my surprise, I received a message from him, to meet that night. After that, I just moved to the hostel. We didn’t talk about it, but we wanted to spend all our free time together: 3 blocks away from my job, I gave up lunch to visit at noon, by night we went to bars, by day I showed off my best hangovers at the office. Ah, and because of his utter frenchness, it was all compliments, nice things, passion and intensity. It was just perfect. Then he went back to Paris on a Tuesday, but no biggie, the following Tuesday I was landing for the first time there (Same flight, just 7 days of difference. We did not plan that either, both flights were booked a long time ago, when none of us knew the other existed). The coincidence that brought us together, was now going to make us have an amazing time in the city of love. Oh how cliché María, give us all a fucking break.
But it was no cliché, he was a great tour guide, and we were having a blast. We were very young, very horny, and very intense, and of course, that brings up fuckery, like the day I sprinted through the river Seine bank in 12cm heels crying because I was overwhelmed. But it also brought some great moments, that we both totally plan on telling next generations (and wonder if there is actual footage from street cams), like getting it on hiding in an alley where you had a great view of the Eiffel Tower. Ha. Then the holiday ended. I think I may have cried my brains out in the middle of Gare de Lyon, poor guy, such a drama queen to put up with.
As he was 20, he started uni a few months after, in the other corner of the world, and we lost contact for a bit. But one night, outta nowhere, we started chatting and he asked me if I was thinking of going back to Europe. I was. So we planned to meet, but because of some circumstances evolving during my trip, I had to cancel that part. I made the wrong choice, it would have been a better call to see him. But I won’t go analyzing the shit there. Everything was cool, because we both have a philosophy to not take anything personal, and to let it flow, and the next year, I packed my bags, moved to Berlin, and told him he should come visit. He did, and after 3 years of not seeing each other, it was fantastic again. Through the years, from the meat loving party boy that I met, he had transformed into this lovely spiritual vegan freak; from a party girl in Buenos Aires, I started a really strange but good career and some more personality adjustments, but the chemistry was still there. And the friendship too.
A few weeks ago, I woke up and saw a message from him. It was one of those simple lovely things that brighten up your day, just because. Then again by chance, the day before I had received instructions that I was flying to Paris in two weeks for work, but did not say anything in the moment, I told him when I received his message. That’s as authentic as it can get. Without knowing, he contacted me at the right moment, crazy, wonderful coincidence.
So today I came back from Paris. It has been exactly four years since we first met. We are still friends, we always need to catch up with massive amounts of new things and projects, and we like to think that we don’t really know each other that well. Although we do. On Thursday I was having a rough day, and a scooter ride around the city, some gin tonics and some acid jokes made everything different, just what I needed. We waved each other goodbye again this morning, with a huge hug, and absolutely no promise of a next time. It’s been four years of spontaneity and authenticity, and a very pure relationship: no bullshit, no scenes, no labels, a whole lot of smiles, only casual nice messages, nice talks, and a few but great and memorable re-encounters. I think this is one of those things that you will always remember with a smile on your face and no regrets at all, ’cause you can’t regret what’s pure.
I’ll always have Paris, and that’s as good as it can get.