What were we hoping to find in Paris?

Everything.

But more specifically: the meaning of life. If not that, an authentic café that hadn’t been appropriated to milk dry the tourist class. Of course, the ghost of De Gaulle had other plans.

When we arrived, the accommodation we had paid for was unavailable due to mysterious circumstances. Our hosts were somehow more irked by our arrival than we were agitated by the absence of accommodation after a sixteen-hour coach ride. Their solution? Take us somewhere else.

We were bundled into a labourer’s van by an edgy man who drove with a proud indifference to road law. I wasn’t God fearing, but I was idiot fearing. Had I gotten into a van that was being driven by an idiot? Quite possibly. At least, that’s what it felt like as we were thrown violently around his seatless automobile – one that had clearly been designed to transport tools, not people. Unless, of course, we were the tools. In hindsight, this seems plausible.

Even my ‘throw caution to the wind friends’ were scared. It’s one thing feeling fear, but it’s another thing seeing it in the eyes of friends who regard activities like sky diving as ‘fun’. I detected in their demeanour a sense that the future was no longer a sure thing. In fact, as our driver careered violently through a red light – possibly leaving some pedestrians dead in his wake – their entire demeanour seemed uncharacteristically fragile. No one had to say it because everyone felt it:

“What the fuck have we done getting into this van?”

I guess romantic boys who’ve read too much Hemmingway and Bukowski do foolish things in the pursuit of meaning. Or perhaps, we were just too concerned about appearing impolite to ask questions like; “Where are you taking us?”

This man drove us – no, launched us at breakneck speed without compassion – through the streets of Paris. Problem was, they didn’t look like the streets of Paris as I had imagined them. They looked like concrete thoroughfares of chaos and hellish torment. I must admit, mind you, that the speed at which we were travelling made it difficult to truly take in any of the sights. Arc de Triomphe really isn’t all that impressive when viewed as a fleeting blur. More concerning, I couldn’t get out of the van. It’s at times like these that you wonder: is this to be my fate?

He kept driving, punctuating sharp turns and emergency stops with vague promises of accommodation. I started extrapolating. Wondered what my parents would say at my funeral. Even though the words would be loving, I knew what they’d really be thinking… “Why did our boy get into that death trap with a random Parisian maniac?”

Fair question.

“Wasn’t he clever? A straight-A student,” they would think. “Did we not provide him with a proper education?” They would mutter despondently to each other, overcome by grief and doubting their approach to parenting.

I’d like to tell you that I am now fearless, but all I can say… Paris Jitters. I admit it, Paris scares me, man. Paris is fucking nuts. In Paris, you won’t find the perfect coffee shop. You’ll find people who want to rip your fucking head off and sell it to tourists who are in the market for “experiences”. Ah-fucking-ha. Experiences. No such thing. In this life there are only good things and bad things. Trust me, I’ve seen the Eiffel Tower. It looks like corrugated metal. Have you ever tried to play ‘Let It Be’ on acoustic guitar to a bunch of Parisian students on a patch of grass in front of the Louvre while high on the Devil’s Mustard? I have. It sounded like shit. Have you wondered where your friends got to at 3am in the great European capital of hell? I have. The answer? Locked in a strip club, being held for ransom by some abnormally large, seriously amoral bouncers. Dear reader… Don’t let the classic literature mislead you. This is Paris.

Paris Jitters, you ask? What are they? Do you not know? Guess you haven’t been. Let me enlighten you, kid. The Paris Jitters make haste to your amygdala a few moments post-Paris-arrival. It doesn’t take long. Honestly? It’s the experience of being tormented by a sprawling city that wants to break you. Or, at the very least, test your resilience in the face of immediate uncertainty and danger. Your cortisol levels? They may settle after a few months, but at a higher baseline. Make no mistake, you’ll never be the same.

Didn’t Picasso live there? Don’t take that as an endorsement. Remember that many of his paintings were bleak. Like me, he probably ended up in a shitty French fried chicken joint at 5am wishing that McDonalds was still open. What I would have given for a McFlurry. This is what Paris does to you… Turns you into a philistine.

You thought it was romantic? Sure it is, if you’re fucking demented. Still, I often talk of it fondly. Why? It’s never the good times that deliver you meaning. Only the challenging times. So, I guess, in a sense, Paris delivered. No, there isn’t a perfect coffee shop on some perfect street occupied by genius thinkers and writers of enlightened prose, but there are men selling cheap beers out of multipacks on the steps of the Sacré-Cœur.

It’s okay, I’m not complaining. I lived to tell the tale. I’m better for it, I think. But I’ll admit it, I’m not over Paris. I’ll never be over Paris. Yesterday, for example, I woke up shaking. I just about made it to my appointment. I was still shaking. The man who does my foot massages asked what’s wrong.

I winced.

“Paris Jitters,” I said.

He nodded with sensitivity.

“Tell me about it,” he replied gravely, shivering at the thought. “I knew I should have ordered the Camembert.”

I didn’t know exactly what he meant by this but, somewhere deep inside, I understood his pain and knew that he too would live out the rest of his life suffering from the Paris Jitters.