Dedicated to my baptism in chilling.

Paris. 2025.
        One of those trips you plan in a hurry, without expectations—and yet because you simply can’t not go.
Bob Dylan concert. Of course, Bob Dylan. Who could ever miss Dylan? I was ready to buy tickets for Brighton because… well, naturally, the UK. But the teenager wants Paris.
“Come on, stop with your British obsessions and let’s go to France for once.”
I wrinkle my nose, exhale a je m’en fiche about the French. Ten years ago, I had an unpleasant experience in France, involving some family members and me caught in the middle of their fight.          So technically, no French people were involved—just family drama that detonated on French soil. Still, I was left with a bitter taste that led me to avoid France like the devil avoids holy water. Completely irrational. Totally me following my instincts. And terribly wrong.
          Paris. Just me and the boy who’s about to become a man, soon.
“Mum, it’s your birthday! What do you want—museums? I’ll take you. Louvre, Musée d’Orsay, Versailles. Take your time, I won’t rush you. Yeah, I know you want to see Courbet and Toulouse-Lautrec. Yes, I promise I won’t stare too much at The Origin of the World, I won’t embarrass you. What else? Art galleries? Okay, fine, even if you’re exaggerating. So much art. You do realize you’re a bit obsessed, right? Haha.”
         He carefully guides me everywhere, and I wonder when our roles switched. I realize that, for once, someone is taking care of me—and I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t think I’ve felt this since I was a small child. It’s strange—always the caregiver and not the cared for. Until now.
But I like it. It’s the first time I stop fighting it and allow myself to trust—because I know whose hands I’m in.
         I close my eyes, he takes my arm and leads me through the palace I kept reading about when I was little.

He tells me to open my eyes. I see the woman with the enigmatic smile, behind all the tourists who prefer to photograph her rather than live the moment.

I just stand and look at her, while the little man beside me supports me with a smile.
“Do you like it? Do you know it’s not finished? Do you know Leondardo….and … ?”
I smile, not listening to his words. Yes, she is beautiful—and I feel a wave of gratitude flooding me.
After so long, I finally realize that I love being alive.
Why not? I can travel anytime, expect nothing from anyone, and still have someone who cares whether I smile or not. This is love.
I take his hand, he pulls away—of course, why let himself be touched by his mother—and takes me to Caravaggio. My murderous lover, the one I always search for in Roman churches. He’s here in the Louvre, but I barely recognize him. I don’t see the chiaroscuro on these walls.

I’m disappointed and want to leave. The air is too thick inside. I need to breathe again.

Red wine, fries, and crème brûlée. I tell myself my hips won’t be happy, but I am radiating with joy. I’ll think about them from tomorrow. Another marathon, maybe.

I don’t care about anything right now—last day in Paris and I don’t want to leave. Stick to the present like it’s oxygen.

I wonder where I’m going and why I keep running from everything. He says he likes being at home; we’ve been away too long. I listen and feel like I’m suffocating.
Too many things piled up. The moment I imagine walking into the house again, it feels like someone’s strangling me. I dream of making a massive bonfire in the yard and throwing everything in—useless souvenirs, too much furniture, dishes, clothes, toys.
“Don’t you dare touch my guitars, okay? And I guess you’re not burning your books either.”
I stare at him, shocked.
“I don’t commit sacrilege.”
He takes me to Pigalle. The street is full of guitar shops. I wait outside, too tired and bored to go in. I sit down and scroll through my phone. I can’t find peace and numb myself with mindless scrolling.
I plop down on the ground by a tree, reading nonsense—horoscopes, tarot, searching for explanations and finding none. Strange synchronicities. I’m tired. Nothing makes sense anymore.
I look around, bored, and realize the young man’s been gone for an hour. I’m about to call him when someone interrupts me. A short, thin man, with his hair tied in a careless ponytail, says:
— Madame, parlez-vous français?
— Oui, un peu…
— Okay, English then… madame, I’m sorry to tell you, but… madame, chère madame, how can I put it nicely?.... Madame…. He breathes deeply … Madame, you are sitting in shit.
— Excuse me???
— Yes, I’m sorry, this is where all the dogs come and pee and shit, you know.
— Oh, holy crap!
— Yeah, I know. Come with me.
The man takes me by the arm and leads me to a bike rack nearby.
— Sit here, it’s better.
I thank him, grab my head, still embarrassed, and check my jeans. No suspicious smell. Disgusting, still.
My young man returns with guitar accessories.
He laughs like crazy and tells me that only I could pull something like this off.

“Shut up, kid, don’t be a brat”, I mumble, but actually, I secretly like that he makes fun of me.

I look up at the Paris sky while we walk slowly on Montmartre streets. It’s Halloween night.

I remember a day with crisp mountain air. Snow and high altitude. A chocolate-shaped summit. And someone who was provoking me in the most maddening and irritating ways. I think of every word, and I get annoyed again. Aghhh… I’m going to grrrrrr… and I clench my fingers. That damn annoying man!

Then I smile. Of course, I smile. Whoever finds my buttons and pushes them deserves an award.
I send a greeting to the sky, hoping it reaches him. And I thank him. Growling a bit, but still a thanks. He’s not that annoying after all. Or can I say he’s actually nice? It’s not going to kill me if I admit it, won’t it? There, I said it, happy now? I talk to him in my head.
“You are nice—when you want. Of course.”

I keep looking at the Parisian sky, and I think I have always liked challenges. Where would I be without them?

Definitely not in Paris with my jeans filthy and my hips round from too many desserts.
Shit happens.

But it’s damn good. And suddenly, I am no longer even upset with him. Not a single bit. This feels nice. Chill. Like that crisp mountain smoky air.

A star shines brightly. Now that is my sign. And the shit, of course.

Just my good luck.

Merde!

😊