I have been working on quite a few texts to share with you, however, my dear Readers, it is of utmost importance that I make a stop and talk about all that has been happening in my beautiful and lately not so calm Paris, especially since it has taken me three weeks to share my thoughts and experience.
It was Friday the 13th, for some it means good luck, for others, it is exactly the opposite. For me, it was a day I had circled in my calendar for I was going on a weekend to Scandinavia to meet up with three very good friends with whom I chat all the time and who I had actually never met in person. We were all very excited even though we had had not a lot of time to plan what we were going to do during our “Girls’ Weekend”.
I had planned to finish my activities around 3:00 p.m., go home and take a shower, grab my suitcase, and take the suburban train to the Roissy Airport. I had calculated to leave home at around 5:00 pm in order to have plenty of time and not be neither nervous nor in a rush. In the end, I decided to not take the train, but to take a Uber car and leave at the same time. Someone told me to leave with plenty of time, since there would be a soccer match at the Stade de France –which is on the way to the Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport.
Right on time I requested my private chauffeur service, grabbed my luggage, and went down the stairs. As customary, the service was cordial and the driver and I had a pleasant conversation on the way. We saw the stadium’s surroundings and he reassured me that once we were out of there, he thought there would be no more traffic jams. And so it was. I entered the terminal, printed the label for my luggage, dropped it off, and passed security. I sat down on the gate which had already been assigned for the flight, and thought it would be a good moment to have a chat with my better half as well as with my father. Thank God I did, I think now.
The flight boarded and took off on time. The weekend promised a lot of fun, laughs, and not a lot of sleep, but no one actually cared. We just wanted to have a weekend full of good food, a bit of junk food, chick flicks, you know, kind of a weekend long slumber party. We had agreed that all of us traveling would be meeting up in a Starbucks located by the exit of the Copenhagen airport terminal. Evidently, to notify Lovey and my friends who were supposed to be waiting for me, I immediately logged on the free wifi service offered by the CPH airport. To my astonishment, I started receiving message notifications from every app one could imagine… WhatsApp, Facebook, iMessage, even Twitter. All of them asked me if I was doing alright, if I was safe and sound, but mostly what the effing had happened in Paris. I had been flying for almost two hours, and when I had left the City of Lights, all was calm. So, I answered I had no idea, that I was not in town, and that yes, I was fine. I answered as many messages as I could. Then, someone explained to me through one of these messaging services what had happened, sort of… all, while I was waiting for my luggage. To make the long story short, my evening, even though I was in total safety and very happy to finally meet with my friends, turned bittersweet.
The morning after the attacks I posted this on my social networks: “You know, I am not French, but in any case, I am a Parisian, for Paris has been the place I call home for some years now. Tonight, even when I am completely safe, and even though I know I will leave the city soon, I am crying, I can’t sleep, because my Paris, my home has been hurt once more.” All my friends posted something similar to let their loved ones know they were fine even though Paris looked almost like a ghost town that day. Everything was closed, even the parks. It was almost like a lockdown. The authorities, though not demanding people to stay in, they were strongly suggesting it.
My friends and I participated in the vigil before the French Embassy in Denmark that evening. I had goose bumps; I cried almost silently, and I say it silently because actual tears started to run down my cheeks. We held each other and paid respects.
On Sunday, people started to step out of their homes. They needed the air, but I think mostly they needed to turn off their television sets and connect back with their city. Now, almost a month has passed by, and the bruise still hurts. Nonetheless, life goes on, and Parisians do their lives as normally as possible. People are out having fun in the Christmas Markets already, and terraces all around the city are getting busier and busier every day. We have to, the weather is beautiful. Security checks are much more common and thorough these days. The shopping center I prefer now demands that one opens jackets and coats, just to be sure you’re not a kamikaze and a patrol from the National Police is there, attentive that all of us remain safe while we go look for a book, make up, or just to have a cup of coffee. People look at each other in the metro wagons and on buses. We are being more cautious. We need to be.
The first piece of news I had was that there had been a shooting at a restaurant. I now have friends working in restaurants. I felt scared and just wanted to know which restaurant. When I was able to know the name I have to say I was partially relieved, for it was not where any of my friends worked, however, as I started reading the information I had access to –which was a lot- I had shivers. This sounded serious, scary serious, and even though I was miles away from my home, I stood awake until almost the sun rose, for it was 6:00 am Saturday morning when I finally turned off my light and decided to go to sleep. All through the weekend my mind was very near my beloved Paris and my friends. I tried to be as informed as possible. I contacted everyone in my book. I watched the local French news over the Internet to understand it all and mainly because should we have turned on the news, neither Swedish nor Danish are languages that I master.
On Monday, I came back, and I found a city grieving more than 100 deaths. My friends were scared. I didn’t know what to expect. Children were asking very difficult questions which challenged parents to answer. But, how the hell do you explain a terrorist attack to a 6 year-old who has been fortunate enough to live his life in a place where he can walk on the sidewalk and doesn’t need to be holding his parents’ hands or who can freely run around a public park? What do you tell them to reassure them and to make them feel safe if you, yourself are not at ease?
Just last week I met a dear friend also from Mexico, and we concurred that one of the main reasons for liking life in Paris was the feeling of being safe. And that is exactly what these mad people are trying to steal from us, and this doesn’t mean I have no sympathy for what happens elsewhere, however, what is hurting me, what makes me ill, is knowing that people around me have been touched in one way or another by such terrible events. The girl who sells a baguette for my meals every day missed the concert because she couldn’t find tickets for the show, and therefore is alive, and all she wanted to do was celebrate her boyfriend’s birthday. One of the girls from the administration office in my school was supposed to be at the Petit Cambodge and didn’t go there for last minute change of plans, not to mention so many people who have expressed being there over and over to have an aperitif or dine with friends and family, and evidently, last but not least, that shouldn’t I had not planned the weekend escapade, I might have decided to go watch a soccer game at the Stade de France, because I’m going to leave Paris and will actually manage to have never been there, and no one would have thought I would put myself in an unsafe situation should I have planned such outing. So, the story, the pain, the grief changes. Perception changes. All those who are close to my heart in one or another way are safe and sound. However, others, not so close to me, but who I know, have lost friends and family members. And then, it makes me grief, for them, for their loved ones.
A week ago, a very formal ceremony took place at Invalides. It is the first one to be held there and not be for members of the armed forces in the history of France. Also, I read something about people wanting for November 13 to be an official holiday to not forget about these terrible attacks, but none of that is going to bring back parents, couples, family members, friends…
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