...It will be all over soon.
Lyrics from an amazing song called Pleads and Postcards by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, you should check it out. These also happen to be the perfect words for the end of the most amazing part of my life so far, which, fittingly, has just helped me usher in my twenty-third year (belated birthday gifts always welcome).
I was so afraid of turning twenty-three because, to me, it meant starting a new phase of my life: graduation, a "real" job and applying to Nursing school. It meant becoming a grown-up. Being twenty-two was comfortable and easy. I had that part of my life figured out already.
But is being "comfortable" with my life really all that I want? No. Non, even (you see, when you say it in French it has more sass). If that's what I wanted I would have stayed in Michigan instead of moving to Paris for four months -- and believe me, it crossed my mind. But move I did, and it changed my life in ways I couldn't have begun to imagine. I feel and see things so much more deeply -- I have truly come alive.
I am afraid, though, that I will never feel things as profoundly as I have while living in Paris. That perhaps this is a temporary state that will pass as soon as I step foot on US soil. Or maybe it's simply small changes that have resulted in this drastic new self-awareness. If I can somehow transfer pieces of my Parisian life back to Michigan, maybe I can retain this new outlook on life. So, here goes. I vow to (try to) continue:
-Enjoying little pleasures, like a hot cup of café crème,
-Enjoying my own company and reveling in being alone,
-Not over thinking every detail,
-Trying new things,
-Being BRAVE,
-Making mistakes and laughing at myself afterward,
-Being nice to people who aren't nice to me (well, have you ever met a Parisian waiter -- have you??).
It takes me a long time to warm up to people. It takes me an even longer time to love them. It must be that way with with cities too. But when I love you, you stay with me. So, I'm going to run headfirst into my twenty-third year. I'm going to appreciate how wonderful it can feel to live. I'm going to embrace Paris, hold it close, because all too soon it will be time to let go.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Wanted: The Best of Both Worlds
I prefer Jerusalem Garden's falafel, but L'As du Fallafel's pita bread is the best I've ever tasted.
This sentence accurately sums up how I feel about moving back to Michigan after four months in gaie Paris. Let me explain.
When I first got to Paris, I was so overwhelmed by all of the new that I didn't have time to miss home for more than a fraction of a second. However, once the reality of having to live in an entirely foreign city sank in, I wanted home and I wanted it now. What do you mean there's no Whole Foods in Paris? They don't have Almond Cheese or Black Beans in this godforsaken city? What's a girl to eat?
Problem #1: how am I going to last four months until I see home again? However, after two months of feeling completely out of place and one trip to the UK to remind me that the outside world still existed, I finally settled in to my Parisian life.
And boy-oh-boy what an amazing life it is. Le Jardin de Luxembourg is practically my backyard, I can get anywhere I could ever want to go (thank you metro), and fresh baked bread and pastries are only a two minute walk away (and that's if all the crossing lights are red).
This leads us to problem #2: four months is not long enough to live in this spectacular city. To quote Hemingway, "If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young (wo)man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a movable feast." Oh, Hemingway.
If an alcoholic womanizer can be moved by Paris, then a girl who cries during Marley and Me is surely going to be changed for a lifetime. But, go home I must. So, problem #3: how do I blend Paris and Michigan into a combination of the best of both worlds?
Well, let's start with what, in a perfect world, would be waiting for me when I get home.
1. Market and bakery within walking distance
2. Everything reachable by (fast) public transportation
3. People to speak French with
4. A petit balcony where I can lay in the sunshine and read
5. Shakespeare and Co.
Then, let's talk about what is actually going to be there.
1. An overpriced market (within walking distance) and Zingerman's bakery (reachable by bus)
2. My car
3. Le Comité Francophone
4. The Diag/The Arb
5. Borders
Okay, so this isn't a perfect world. However, Ann Arbor does have a few things that Paris does not. Thai food, for example, and burritos. I realize compared to confit de canard and moelleux au chocolat that isn't saying a whole lot. Let's be real, though. Living in Paris was never my life. But, oh how sweet it is. Besides, if Hemingway is right, (and let's be honest, this is Hemingway) then Paris will always be with me. I don't have to worry about combining Michigan and Paris into the best of both worlds; I am the best of both worlds. Chouette.
Hey, Hemingway: problem solved.
This sentence accurately sums up how I feel about moving back to Michigan after four months in gaie Paris. Let me explain.
When I first got to Paris, I was so overwhelmed by all of the new that I didn't have time to miss home for more than a fraction of a second. However, once the reality of having to live in an entirely foreign city sank in, I wanted home and I wanted it now. What do you mean there's no Whole Foods in Paris? They don't have Almond Cheese or Black Beans in this godforsaken city? What's a girl to eat?
Problem #1: how am I going to last four months until I see home again? However, after two months of feeling completely out of place and one trip to the UK to remind me that the outside world still existed, I finally settled in to my Parisian life.
And boy-oh-boy what an amazing life it is. Le Jardin de Luxembourg is practically my backyard, I can get anywhere I could ever want to go (thank you metro), and fresh baked bread and pastries are only a two minute walk away (and that's if all the crossing lights are red).
This leads us to problem #2: four months is not long enough to live in this spectacular city. To quote Hemingway, "If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young (wo)man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a movable feast." Oh, Hemingway.
If an alcoholic womanizer can be moved by Paris, then a girl who cries during Marley and Me is surely going to be changed for a lifetime. But, go home I must. So, problem #3: how do I blend Paris and Michigan into a combination of the best of both worlds?
Well, let's start with what, in a perfect world, would be waiting for me when I get home.
1. Market and bakery within walking distance
2. Everything reachable by (fast) public transportation
3. People to speak French with
4. A petit balcony where I can lay in the sunshine and read
5. Shakespeare and Co.
Then, let's talk about what is actually going to be there.
1. An overpriced market (within walking distance) and Zingerman's bakery (reachable by bus)
2. My car
3. Le Comité Francophone
4. The Diag/The Arb
5. Borders
Okay, so this isn't a perfect world. However, Ann Arbor does have a few things that Paris does not. Thai food, for example, and burritos. I realize compared to confit de canard and moelleux au chocolat that isn't saying a whole lot. Let's be real, though. Living in Paris was never my life. But, oh how sweet it is. Besides, if Hemingway is right, (and let's be honest, this is Hemingway) then Paris will always be with me. I don't have to worry about combining Michigan and Paris into the best of both worlds; I am the best of both worlds. Chouette.
Hey, Hemingway: problem solved.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Pour Rire
I try not to laugh at other people's misfortune. Mostly, because I tend to have a lot of unfortunate things occur to me and I believe in Karma. The last thing I want is a metro full of Parisians laughing at me, the foreigner. Alas...
Coming to Paris, I expected many things. For example, I expected everyone to have an inborn and impeccable fashion sense. I believed that it would be possible to wear high heels all day long without my feet blistering. Getting tired of eating pain au chocolat was an impossibility. And, I was sure that putting a smile on my face would be one step toward overcoming the language barrier.
Cut to: me attempting to perfect my I-don't-give-a-damn expression.
Because Parisians don't often smile. I, on the other hand, am a smiling fiend. Babies, puppies, people behind counters - I smile at everyone. Or should I say, smiled. After all, a large reason I studied abroad was to learn about and adapt to a new culture, right? And besides, the last thing I want to do in a city of over 2 million people is look like I don't belong. Especially on the metro.
One day, March 19th, to be exact, I had just finished casually shopping with friends. Clearly surviving another week of classes is reason enough to buy a new dress, n'est-ce pas? Deeming it time to return "home", we descended into The Metro - Opéra, line 8. After riding for one stop, we got off the train to transfer. As we were heading toward the exit a man wearing a serious suit and carrying a leather briefcase came running toward us. Mid-stride the get-your-ass-on-the-metro-or-get-squished-in-the-doors alarm sounded. Serious suit man kept running. In a burst of speed he leaped toward the metro and made it into the car. His briefcase, however, did not.
In a movement so synchronized it could have been choreographed, every single person standing on the platform turned and stared at Serious Suit Man tightly gripping the handle of his briefcase, while the rest dangled precariously outside of the metro doors. And then, as fast as they had turned, every single person started laughing. Loudly.
I laughed until my sides hurt and tears were streaming down my face. Six weeks of pretending you never smile (and one of the most hilarious scenes I have ever witnessed) will do that to you.
As the metro escaped into the tunnel I wondered, along with a quay full of Parisians, what that poor sap had done to deserve this. And then, as quickly as the scene had begun, it was over, and as I walked away I quietly mused that it is possible to be myself in Paris.
[PS - if you still don't believe in Karma, today I slipped on the side walk and almost bit it in front of two Parisian woman. And yes, they laughed at me.]
Coming to Paris, I expected many things. For example, I expected everyone to have an inborn and impeccable fashion sense. I believed that it would be possible to wear high heels all day long without my feet blistering. Getting tired of eating pain au chocolat was an impossibility. And, I was sure that putting a smile on my face would be one step toward overcoming the language barrier.
Cut to: me attempting to perfect my I-don't-give-a-damn expression.
Because Parisians don't often smile. I, on the other hand, am a smiling fiend. Babies, puppies, people behind counters - I smile at everyone. Or should I say, smiled. After all, a large reason I studied abroad was to learn about and adapt to a new culture, right? And besides, the last thing I want to do in a city of over 2 million people is look like I don't belong. Especially on the metro.
One day, March 19th, to be exact, I had just finished casually shopping with friends. Clearly surviving another week of classes is reason enough to buy a new dress, n'est-ce pas? Deeming it time to return "home", we descended into The Metro - Opéra, line 8. After riding for one stop, we got off the train to transfer. As we were heading toward the exit a man wearing a serious suit and carrying a leather briefcase came running toward us. Mid-stride the get-your-ass-on-the-metro-or-get-squished-in-the-doors alarm sounded. Serious suit man kept running. In a burst of speed he leaped toward the metro and made it into the car. His briefcase, however, did not.
In a movement so synchronized it could have been choreographed, every single person standing on the platform turned and stared at Serious Suit Man tightly gripping the handle of his briefcase, while the rest dangled precariously outside of the metro doors. And then, as fast as they had turned, every single person started laughing. Loudly.
I laughed until my sides hurt and tears were streaming down my face. Six weeks of pretending you never smile (and one of the most hilarious scenes I have ever witnessed) will do that to you.
As the metro escaped into the tunnel I wondered, along with a quay full of Parisians, what that poor sap had done to deserve this. And then, as quickly as the scene had begun, it was over, and as I walked away I quietly mused that it is possible to be myself in Paris.
[PS - if you still don't believe in Karma, today I slipped on the side walk and almost bit it in front of two Parisian woman. And yes, they laughed at me.]
Seriously, Who Blogs?
Evidently, I do.
This, however, has not always been the case, due, mostly, to preconceived notions about what being a blogger means. Bloggers are intellectuals, political extremists, or worse, whiny teenagers.
For years I have wanted to blog but have not felt that I possessed proper blogging material. I am not emo. I do not live an extraordinarily interesting life. All I do is spend a large portion of my day wishing I was writing. I want to be a writer. Maybe I should go to graduate school to become a writer. I wish I was writing right now.
Then it hit me: the only way to be a writer is to write.
This, however, has not always been the case, due, mostly, to preconceived notions about what being a blogger means. Bloggers are intellectuals, political extremists, or worse, whiny teenagers.
For years I have wanted to blog but have not felt that I possessed proper blogging material. I am not emo. I do not live an extraordinarily interesting life. All I do is spend a large portion of my day wishing I was writing. I want to be a writer. Maybe I should go to graduate school to become a writer. I wish I was writing right now.
Then it hit me: the only way to be a writer is to write.
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