As I sit here staring at the two-euro print of “Starry Night” affixed to my Parisian wall by extra-strength transparent tape (I don’t think my landlord would approve), I’m reminded of the movie poster for “Midnight in Paris,” which in turn reminds me of how rainy days were romanticized in the film. As an aside, did you know there are two very different versions of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”? The one on my wall is the one you’re probably picturing, and the other one which I’m showing to you now is a secret photograph I took at the Musée D’Orsay in Paris last year (“no photos allowed” is a loose guideline, in my opinion). You should check it out in person, it’s a treat.

So about those rainy days…today was one of those relentlessly rainy days in Paris, the kind when Mother Nature washes away those random whiffs of “public urination sins” from days gone by; a glorious day indeed.

Or WAS IT???

You see…Owen Wilson’s character in “Midnight in Paris” was all about the rainy days, so according to him today should’ve been amazing. If that’s not enough, I’ve seen the movie at least three times, and I’m pretty sure his character twirled around in the rain with a look of glee at some point; or maybe it was only a half spin, but anyway he fucking loved it.

I was all about the “I’ll have what he’s having” when I stepped into the rain today, but somehow…it didn’t quite live up to the fictional movie scenes I so heavily base my life on. It’s just that Owen Wilson’s character has this soft blond pony-like hair that recovers from a drenching in an effortless way, and as much as we’re incredibly impressed, we don’t all share these follicle-based gifts (and yes I was carrying an umbrella, but sometimes it rains diagonally and what’s a girl to do? I suppose I could roll around in the streets from inside a plastic bubble, but on this particular day I did not have the means). If that’s not enough, his character not only encountered a youthful Parisian dream girl who sold vintage records (which she probably acquired from past senior-citizen lovers), he also ran into her while crossing the river on this extremely rainy day!

Do you know who I run into on rainy days in Paris? An old British woman asking me for money.  And a tourist family of four that decides to link arms so they take up the entire width of the sidewalk. Not only that, but rainy Owen Wilson’s character never experienced how all those missing cobblestones in Paris fill up with water, so when you accidentally step into one you’re ankle-deep in a puddle. And your foot goes “squish squish squish” with you all the way home. And then you spend twenty minutes sitting there blow-drying your shoe.

It seems evident that the cynical part of myself was running point on this rainy day, except for one notable fact: the dinner I was about to cook for myself needed bread. And so, with one last stop at the corner bakery, I now beheld a fresh hot baguette in all its Parisian glory. A baguette so good it didn’t even matter that its tip had become rather moistened by the steady rain (there is no way to make that sound G-rated). I bit right into it as I squished my way through the streets, and just like that, I was home…

Okay…so now that the optimist in me has been re-established, I will swiftly dive back into the cynical world. Last year in Paris I wrote about my experience at the lock bridge, where couples affix a lock on a bridge to guarantee their love will last forever. Or something. I tried not to be too cynical about it last year, in fact I even tried to appreciate the wedding photos happening right in front of me. Overall, I only rolled my eyes about six or seven times while strolling along the lock bridge; not bad.

And then…last week…I saw THIS:

So basically in June the main “love lock bridge” in Paris (Pont des Arts) partially collapsed under the weight of those super-romantic locks. This was especially hilarious to me, since last year I’d pointed out how some of the locks are ENORMOUS, with the intention of…displaying the sheer insecurity of a relationship?? (sort of like how men with small penises drive big fancy cars—I would insert the name of a car here, but I don’t give a shit about cars). So alas, I was right for insulting the giant-lock offenders last year, but hey don’t stress, the French tax-payers will fund your insecurities via restoration of the bridge…no biggie!

So take another look at that photo. Yes, you’re seeing that right, i.e. several panels of the bridge are blocked off with wood, to prevent any additional weight from those lovey-dovey locks. And so…love birds have taken to declaring their love with…a marker. On a piece of wood. There’s some random graffiti as well (what do all those fish mean?), but take a close look and you’ll notice lots of names enclosed in hearts. I mean…what?? Granted, the original purpose of attaching a lock as a sign of love was pretty cheesy and a whole lot weird, but at least it had an idea behind it. But now? Scribbling some stuff on a piece of wood? And what do these couples even post on Instagram? A picture of themselves kissing, next to a section of wood? I’m not being a dick, I am genuinely confused by this.

So that’s the latest from Lock Bridge central (which I only found out about last week, since I consciously avoid that bridge)…

The cynic in me is clearly taking over again, so let me just say this has definitely been the best summer in Paris, with eight days of wonderment to go. I mean I only have two summers to compare against each other, but this one was full of unexpected discoveries, and new friendships that will surely last beyond these silly limitations of space and time. I will definitely write all about it in the upcoming book, but since this next book is a non-fiction effort…there are some things I was previously all set to write about…which I’ll now keep under wraps. It’s just that sometimes random friendly encounters at say, a cool bar…convert to something way more meaningful over multiple occurrences, and those are the memories I’ll keep for myself. But hey, fret not, because I still have way more stuff to write about than I’ll ever be able to use, and on that note…I will include an important Paris pro tip here: if you ever plan on riding line 12 on the Paris Métro (particularly from Montmartre to Porte Saint-Denis), please ladies, wear a sports bra, or duct tape, or anything to contain your bountiful breasts, because line 12 is the most boob-jiggling metro I’ve ever ridden! I’m serious, no matter what your cup size may be, on line 12 it’ll be like loose coconuts knocking around in a bouncy castle, so please, dress accordingly. You’re welcome.

À bientôt Toronto, and even though I will miss Paris for a million reasons, some writing stuff on the script front is brewing; it’s too early to talk about, but for this particular dreamer, anything and everything is possible…