Perhaps I intuitively sensed why, for such a long time, I deliberately chose not to include Paris on my travel list despite the many opportunities available.
Clearly, Paris seemed to possess everything. Splendor and historical pain, tourism and manufacturing, and varying people (famous and foolish). A city of love and romance that attracts many with every special quality was perpetually empty for me.
A long-established crepe stall opened new flavors, a neighborhood bookstore where I stumbled upon a French edition of The Little Prince was quite refreshing, and the jazz club north of the Seine, where guest musicians constantly changed to jam, was splendid enough to make me think, “This is Paris.”
The problem was that during my week in Paris, I never once felt fulfilled.
Now, months after leaving Paris, the only memories that remain are the Japanese team’s shouting during the women’s rugby quarterfinals, the Mali team’s innocence during the men’s soccer Group D matches, and the sincerity of the Dutch cheering squad during the men’s hockey Group A matches.
While it is undeniable that experiencing the French matches and cheering songs firsthand, and finding their passion and identity ‘cool,’ it is also undeniable that months after watching the consecutive jam sessions at a historic Parisian jazz club—which were dazzling and intense—the only thing I remember is the sight of the usher smoking, which was quite ‘cool.’