Le copiste-Finding love a Paris

I knew and felt, in some way, that Paris would never disappoint me. I had visited many countries, but every time, after five days, the idea I would return home, in Athens, felt welcoming. I knew very well the difficulties in Greece, but it was my country, I was used to it, and it was the place I always wanted to end up in the end.
With Paris it was different. The moment my foot touched its ground, it felt like home. I never stopped loving Greece, but Paris was something different. Me and It fell in love immediately and passionately. From the moment this town decided to embrace me, it kept giving me joys. There was something, something which made you “smell”, even without walking outside a patisserie, something which made you hear the sounds even in your quiet bedroom. You felt like you had your own secrets, like you were having love with it, even though your hands weren’t touching anything. I knew that a city that magical, that romantic, with the buildings from another age, the chic people, the cute bistros, and the vintage shops, would never disappoint me. Well, I’m living in my own world: dreaming and strong feelings, like an overemotional teenager.
Indeed, I was never disappointed, until now. Just, that day, was the first one I got moody since the beginning of my studies here.
With teachers I often argued, since I got more guts, or rather more temper, in the middle school. Many times they were really strict, but I also didn’t bear much. But if there was something I’d never stand about a teacher was the overuse of authority, when he or she tried to dominate that way. I respected many professors in the university very much. I could agree immediately with what they said. That was the way someone should try to gain your appreciation. Not to force it you.
Berdeau was intransigent like hell. He couldn’t bear any criticism or disagreement, he always tried to proof to the students with one hundred ways that he could never be wrong, that they weren’t right.
Knowing my strange personality, knowing his too, it came as no great surprise to me that we ended up arguing, for one more time, but with a kind and quiet voice, always using sensible arguments. I told him he should just listen to what I wanted to say. He had been unfair with many of my classmates about an event, and as always… I was the one to try and make sense with him.
“Je suis ton professeur, je suis l’ autorité. Je dis et tu fais, si simple.” He said, pressing his lips.
“Je fais ce que je crois correcte, monsieur.” My voice was calm, but I probably had crossed the line.
And then he told me that for how long he was a professor in the university, I would never get my degree.
I got out ready to erupt and Dimitris ran towards me. He was the only Greek friend I had here. We’d been classmates since school. Like I expected, the sensible voice, anxious and a little angry. Fortunately, I had a person to remind me how mum’s moaning and muttering is, for as long as I am away from home.
“Have you lost it?”
“What do you mean?” I was bored for that kind of conversation.
“You’re in trouble now!”
“What can he do to me?” the idiotic professor…
“You won’t pass his lesson! He might also speak to others. He has many connections!”
“What are you talking about! I just said my opinion!” we walked to the metro station. “He was being unfair to all of you and nobody talked except me!”
“You talked sharply and you can’t, in his case. Just do the stupid, stupid!”
That was something I couldn’t stand. Before we got in the metro, I couldn’t manage to stop the tears of anger and embarrassment.
“Why, Dimitri? Why should we always go with the flow? Why say yes to everything we don’t agree with? Is it because it’s good for us? I don’t care! I want my dignity! And I’ll say whatever I believe in my life!”
A lady told me to be quiet. “You don’t understand what I’m talking about, so shut up!” I told her, continuing to talk in Greek. She shook her head. I should be confirming the stereotype of the loud Greek person. I took out of my bag my favorite free press newspaper and went to the page with my preferred Unknown reporter, who always signed with the pseudonym Le Reveur, The Dreamer. I didn’t care who he was, he just relaxes me, because he always agreed with my opinions. He wrote especially about the news, and for many other issues which troubled him. I was that moody, that I didn’t even realize we had arrived at our station. Dimitris pulled my arm to get out of the wagon. “Are you planning to stay here all day?” I tripped, my bag fell, as did all my books. A black little girl (it was great living with all those great people here in France, their faces were so sweet, so expressive!) and a man helped me pick them up, and, embarrassed, I left quickly with not even saying “merci”.

TO BE CONTINUED....
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