Anything that can be loved can break one’s heart. Paris can be loved, but my wife cried on her first day in the city. In elementary school, she had seen the Eiffel Tower in a textbook and for twenty years yearned to see it in person. Paris was her dream, and the Eiffel Tower—a symbol of a world larger than imagination.
Our first day in the city was a stormy August afternoon. From atop the Place du Trocadéro, where tourists gather to sentimentalise Eiffel’s great monument, the view revealed nothing but curtains of torrential rain.
Standing in soggy shoes–sharing one umbrella–my wife asked that I take her picture.
“Of what?” I asked.
“We’re finally here,” she said.
But there was nothing to see, and we only had the one umbrella. She stepped into the rain, stared through me, and cried.
The Paris we fell in love with before we arrived (the city of our imagination) had been compressed into an ahistorical fantasy: the Eiffel Tower being built, balloons soaring overhead, and Hemingway and Fitzgerald clinking champagne glasses under electric light. In our imagined Paris, the days were sunny and the nights were bright.
But the real Paris unravelled our dream. Reality imposed upon our imagination. We brought all our romantic dreams, but we experienced heartbreak. It was a textbook case of Pari shōkōgun: a Japanese term which refers to the condition of heartbreak endured by travellers in the city of love.
Now, when I think of Paris, all I see is a stormy day in August.






