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.]

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.