When I came back from living in Paris, family members, friends and other people asked what I did there. A few asked what I thought about, what I felt, usually beginning or ending with, "Were you ever homesick?"
One thing I never told anybody, though, was something that occupied much of my imagination while I was there: I pictured myself as a Parisienne, a woman of style and grace as well as substance in the City of Light.
No matter how much you love a place, if it's not home, you will be homesick. Yes, I lived in Paris and even considered it my home for a time. But there were still times when I thought about the bed in which I used to sleep, a favorite jacket I left in New Jersey, my grandmother, bike rides alone and with friends (Don't get me wrong: I did some great rides in France. I just couldn't forget the ones I did before them), my mother (and her lasagna!) and other people and things.
One thing I never told anybody, though, was something that occupied much of my imagination while I was there: I pictured myself as a Parisienne, a woman of style and grace as well as substance in the City of Light.
So I felt as if I were looking at a manquee version of myself when I looked, again, at these images photographer Christer Stromholm captured in Place Blanche during the 1960's:
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