F*ck you, Joni Mitchell

One night in February or March, I was lying in bed when decided I needed some new music to listen to.

I had not downloaded any new songs since I got to Paris, and after some long metro rides with headphones in, all my music was starting to sound like a broken record.

I needed music I didn’t know at all, a new-to-me artist to dive into and explore.  But I felt tired and was lazy and started perusing Netflix instead.

I was delighted to see that Love Actually is on Netflix here. It’s the best, worst movie in the world.  Ever since I read in an interview that Taylor Swift watches it every Christmas, I too watch it at least once per year, because in my heart I am very much still a thirteen-year-old girl who wants to be connected to T. Swift through our rom com choices.

I debated starting it, but it was already pretty late.  My mind started to wander, replaying scenes from the film when the quote hit me,

“Joni Mitchell is the woman who taught your cold English wife how to feel.”

Then Alan Rickman’s coy reply, “Did she? Oh, that’s good. I must write her sometime and say thanks.”

I should listen to some Joni Mitchell.  Emma Thompson’s character is arguably the best in the movie, so I should trust her, plus I wanted to listen to something older.  I hated all of Spotify’s current top 50.

I decided, inspired by an article I had recently read, that it would be best to listen to pick an album and listen to the entire thing.

I chose Blue and hit shuffle.  A few seconds later Joni Mitchell’s voice chirped in my ear,

“Sitting in a park in Paris, France
Reading the news and it sure looks bad
They won’t give peace a chance
That was just a dream some of us had
Still a lot of lands to see
But I wouldn’t want to stay here
It’s too old and cold and settled in its ways here
Oh but California, California I’m coming home”

I almost laughed in disbelief.  Was the universe playing a joke on me?  I actually couldn’t bear to listen to the rest of it and skipped to the next song.

I loved Paris, but it was like being in the honeymoon phase of a relationship, I didn’t want to acknowledge any of the city’s flaws for fear the whole façade would fall apart.

At the same time, it was something that I needed to hear.  Deep down, it felt like a breath of fresh air to hear a fellow North American long for home from a bench in Paris.  All while being frightened of the news, a feeling I can relate to every time someone here brings up our president.

Sometimes it is old and cold and stuck in its ways here.  Forty degrees can feel like 20, and sometimes it baffles me that there isn’t any sort of convenient store or even a supermarket that’s open late at night, and very few that are open on Sundays.

Stuck in its ways.

But I love Paris in a way that almost scares me, because I know my time here is limited, but also because I don’t want to be blind to its imperfections.

For some in may be too big, or too touristy.  Others think that the people are rude.  They are more reserved, but I really can’t blame them.  A city like this requires self-preservation.  Once this was explained to me at our orientation, all the blank metro stares seemed a bit more comforting than off putting.

I’ve really learned, and tried to remember, the difference between reservation and rudeness.  To us Americans smiling and small talk are expected, and I do miss that a bit, but it’s also a relief to sit on the metro after a long day and it not be expected that you smile.  I can glower in peace.

But nearly every time someone bumps into you they say excuse me.  And someone always stops to help the mom at the top of the metro stairs carry her stroller down.

Plus, I have the fortune to receive all the warmth I need from my friends and host family. There’s no shortage of smiling faces when I’m with people I know.

When I listen to that song now I smile.  And I know for the rest of my life that line will conjure warm memories like being bewildered by Paris in the snow or overwhelmed taking the metro that first week.  Or even how tangled my hair was from wearing scarves all the time this winter, partly because of the cold and partly in a vain attempt to fit in with the scarf-loving French.

I’ll remember the elaborate beauty of the buildings on every corner and the excitement of wandering through a city cloaked in the history I just learned about in class.

It may have its issues, but all cities do, and like loving anyone else it’s necessary to look past a few flaws.  After all, wouldn’t sunny California grow tiring after a while?

Plus, there’s nothing like a dreary Parisian winter day to make you appreciate a good cappuccino and a good book.