I have lived in Paris for eighteen months. Or, rather, I have lived in Paris proper for six months. For the year before that, I lived in Orsay, a small town in a far southern extremity of the city. Close enough to be in Zone 5 on the RER, but distant enough that it was in a different department. I moved into the city centre because I couldn’t tolerate the quiet, nor the sense that I lived in a town where eighty percent of the population were physics PhD students (it’s the nearest town to Paris-Saclay, a huge complex of labs, university buildings and a grande école).

Eighteen months doesn’t seem like enough time to get to know a place well enough to miss it, and yet the past two weeks have lain heavy on my mind. It’s a moderate grief, and one which has taken its time in coming. I’m trying not to look at it full in the face, but only to snatch careful glimpses out of the corner of my eye. Things are starting to be packed up, or thrown out. Last week I ran out of jam, and resolutely passed the shelf in the supermarket by. There isn’t enough time to finish another jar before I leave, and each morning my toast has gone down uneasily, unsweetened.

I’ve taken to going on longer and longer walks. Where I used to be contented with a twenty minute stroll in the Jardin des Plantes, today I walked for three hours across the city — seeing how far I could get, really. I had determined it to be a farewell tour of parts unfamiliar, because going to see my favourite places would feel too much like pressing on a bruise. Despite the intention I found myself a compass needle, pulling north; Luxembourg, Odéon, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Île Saint-Louis, Arsenal, Bastille; and then south again, homewards; the Jardin des Plantes, Monge, Mouffetard. Places that are mine, but soon I must give up possession and turn them over to the next tenants.

In the backstreets of the sixth, an elderly couple in front of me were having an animated discussion, and as I passed them the man turned with a twinkle in his eye to ask me what I thought — que diriez-vous ? But not having understood what they were talking about I could only smile and shrug and walk on. Near Les Halles I passed what at first glance was a baby rat dead on the pavement — the length of my palm, eyes closed, feet curled under itself. On closer inspection I saw it was actually alive, and breathing fast — asleep, or dying. I picked it up and moved it into the shade of a bush. Its skin remained pinched and wrinkled where I’d touched it but I had no water to offer. What a place to be born, to live and to die.

I’ve only been to my usual bakery once in the past two weeks. I think I want to forget the feeling of being handed a warm baguette tradition, the simple pleasure of their fresh-baked pain complet, the baker always asking me ce sera tout ? with a cheeky grin because he knows I can’t resist his chocolate eclairs. Forgetting is easier.

I wish I didn’t have to leave Paris. I also wish I had not had to leave Madrid (a thing which I did twice), or Portsmouth (two leavings there too). The last place I didn’t grieve the leaving of was Aberystwyth. I think that was the last departure I made where I was certain I was going to something better, and where I had a satisfactory ending to the chapter already written. It seems wrong to attribute all my life’s problems since then to Covid, but it must certainly shoulder at least some of the blame. Comings forbidden and goings dictated; friends that were fixtures in one’s life suddenly distant, and then gone; arriving twice in new countries during times of social suppression, unable to talk, go out, make friends; the only constant in life being work; and then watching your own enthusiasm even for that trickle away to nothing, followed by your interest, followed by your conscientiousness.

It’s clear that I would not be writing this post if I was happy as a postdoc. While I can’t deny that I was fortunate to be employed in France given the circumstances which caused me to come here*, I felt both socially and scientifically isolated in the lab in which I worked, and all the time it grated on me that I had no say in the matter — no choice but a Hobson’s choice: move to Paris or become unemployed (and, quite likely, leave academia).

It’s no life, really, living somewhere when you know you will have to move again within the lifespan of a rat. I spent a good while questioning if the effort it takes to forge relationships — to say nothing of forging them in a different culture and language — was at all worth it. In point of fact the answer is yes, but that does nothing to lessen the effort. And there is frankly no substitute for the deep bonds with others that take years to form and nurture. I crave a long night in a quiet pub with very old friends.

So, today marks the beginning of the last week of my long goodbye to Paris. I’ve got a few last items to tick off the to-do list: one last night at the opera, and one last trip to the Philharmonie. Of course, I know I’ll be back, and actually in the not too distant future, because I’m putting some of my belongings into storage here (a violin, houseplants and a single suitcase is quite enough luggage to be taking in one go on the TGV). But I doubt if I’ll ever live here again. I would very much like to, that’s for certain; in spite of the noise, and the filth, and the rapid erosion of courtesy that being crammed into a Metro carriage with five dozen other human beings brings.

I like the sense of life in the city. Everywhere you look, people are living. I like the vast artistic culture — for me personally, the photographic opportunities and the classical music offerings are the best I’ve ever had access to. I count the Philharmonie and the Opera de Paris amongst those, but also the amateur music scene I was privileged to be a part of. I particularly treasure the memory of playing Bach’s St John Passion last Easter, and Rachmaninoff’s Symphonic Dances in the spring and early summer. Like always, it’s not the performances that I cherish the memory of, but rather the rehearsals; the camaraderie and the sense of togetherness, working away night after night in the dark. Pretty much the only thing that keeps me going down the relentless route march of academia is knowing that, barring apocalypse or a posting to the Antarctic, I’ll find an orchestra to play with.

This time next week I will be in Montpellier, the city in which I will turn thirty. That feels like a milestone at which important decisions must be re-examined. I’ve already spent too long this summer introspecting about academia, and postdoc life, and the inevitable question (will I make it?). A very real worry I have is that if I ever do get a permanent position, I will actually miss the transient nature of postdoc life. Does knowing you’ll be living in the same place forever feel like staring down the barrel of a long, quiet gun? I don’t really believe I’ll ever be in a position to find out; not a professorial position, anyway. My mind is already made up not to work too hard at physics for the next two years; I’ve already spent too long holding my breath, waiting to live. Come what may. I’m not waiting any more.

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* In Madrid, I was employed by grant money held by two senior postdoc fellows. Both of these postdocs got permanent positions within six months of me starting the job, and thus the grant money paying my salary came to an abrupt end. I was lucky that the new institution of one of the postdocs offered to employ me so I could complete the agreed-upon two year position.