burnished into my bones

About a year ago, I read a piece in the New York Times about this young man who was a  ‘starving artist’ in Philadelphia — he worked part time at some major museum and then devoted the rest of his time to his art. He made his own bread from scratch just to save a few pennies. He had a one room apartment. He was ‘doing it.’ I applaud him.  I had an instant flashback to my first weeks out of college, flying back to Paris for a summer internship with a film company where I lived in a  one room “maid’s quarters” on the sixth floor, with a communal toilet on the hall. The owner (a friend of my employer) was extremely generous to let me stay there for a nominal fee. He had filled this tiny space with massively clunky furniture that had no business being sold in Paris. It was, essentially, a bunk bed, over a perpendicular oversized desk (subpar Ikea). One folding chair. A sink. No closet.    When I lay on the floor, I could touch one wall with my toes and the other side of the wall simultaneously with my fingertips by stretching my arms above my head. I was in a neighborhood with an address but I took my showers at the community pool.  I loved it. I bought my demi-baguette and apple or a clementine after work and I walked, and I walked, and I walked. Paris is inside of me. It’s a part of my heart. It’s streets, paths and metro system are burnished into my bones.