In Woody Allen’s “Midnight in Paris,” Owen Wilson plays a shaggy-haired, highly successful screenplay writer who pines for life in the 1920s. Those years, to him, were the golden age of art, beauty and contentment. Longing to get closer to his dream, he tries to convince his fiancé to move with him to Paris. He imagines a simple, beautiful life: writing novels in an attic with a skylight, walking the Parisian streets in the rain, finding artistic inspiration on every corner. In the movie, his fiancé wants nothing to do with it. Her dream is to live in Malibu with matching $28,000 deck chairs.
But I was smitten.
I think, right now, Seattle is my Paris. Today’s daydream of a perfect, fulfilled life is to live somewhere on the Kitsap peninsula, surrounded by ocean and mountains, close enough to enjoy the wonderful city yet far enough out to satisfy my country-dweller’s soul. I love the rain, so that’s no obstacle, and it will make sunny days that much better. I envision a part-time writing career, leaving plenty of time for wandering city markets and auditioning for plays. I’d memorize lines on a back porch overlooking the bay, serenaded by the rain in the trees. Matt would get home from his theater tech job and we’d cook dinner together and take walks along the edge of the bay. On the weekends we’d go hiking or boating or sell baked goods (me) and jewelry (Matt) at a market booth. Some nights we’d go to the city for sushi and a show. Others we’d stay home and watch movies with friends. We’d have a dog. And a garden. And a canoe in the garage.
And so on and so forth. It’s enjoyable to focus on the details as long as a dream doesn’t become an obsession. I think it helps life preserve a certain sense of wonder. And what would life be like without anything wonderful?
