During my highly introspective (i.e. emo days a.k.a “God, please take me away already!”) years of being in between graduation and my first ever foray into the world of 13th month bonuses and SSS applications, I was heavily wishing I was born with French blood. It was a whole year and a half of getting familiar with the gods of Nouvelle Vague and having embarrassing conversations with myself in the most basic French phrases I was able to commit to memory. Simply put, I was suffering extreme racial envy.
If anyone would ask me the about the Top 5 Most Defining Moments in My Life, my trip to Paris back in 2006 would definitely take the top spot on that list. For once in my sluggish existence, I had the drive to list down all the places that I just had to see for myself. Whether it was a cemetery where someone I looked up to was laid to rest, or a location of a scene in a French film that I loved, I diligently took down all their addresses and wasn’t allowing myself to fall upon the lazy excuse that I would probably stumble upon them by chance.
Looking back at it, the challenge of finding those locations with only a map in hand and my non-ability to read them was the real adventure. (Warning: Cliché coming up.) After all, it’s the journey that matters, not the destination. Even though I was apprehensive at first about traversing my way solitarily through the maze of foreign streets and confusing subway lines, I began to enjoy the semblance of freedom and independence all of it symbolized.
Of course there were a couple of wrong turns here and old strangers wanting to talk over mugs of steaming coffee there, but I was very inflexible in my goal to stick to the itinerary. And because I stuck to the itinerary, I found myself standing upon the burial place of the poet who, although confuses me from time to time, has managed to carve a spot in my heart for himself - Charles Baudelaire.
During the moment I came across his burial place, a young French man was reading one of his poems in the language that Baudelaire had originally written them in. I can still feel the chills that went running down my spine during that cloudy afternoon - that was how beautiful the moment was. Even though I couldn’t understand what that kid was reciting, I stayed on to drink in the experience and ultimately be intoxicated by it. All I could muster was a sigh, a sigh that was pregnant for longing of a life that breathed of liberté, égalité, fraternité.
An intimate poetry reading by Baudelaire's grave.
I left a note on that jar. Can't remember what I wrote though. 
Today, what was once a severe case of Francophilia has finally been given the proper treatment to alleviate it. There still are some residual effects though, such as randomly blurting out French phrases, having a penchant to pick old 60s French pop as the soundtrack to an otherwise dull day, seeing Jean Pierre Leaud or Louis Garrel everytime I close my eyes, being amazed at the acceptance of Nicolas Sarkozy and Carla Bruni’s relationship (only in France!), etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
This afternoon, I will be boarding a plane to London, a close neighbor of Paris. Unfortunately, I won’t be having the privilege of greeting “Bonjour!” to the city of lights, the city that has changed me in ways that I can’t even begin to explain. This is mainly the cause of all this wistfulness and weepiness. And there lies the trouble of pining for the days of yore, of the bittersweet act of waxing nostalgic.
