#anyways it's sunny and nice out and everything but apparently the novelty of that has already worn off again and i just feel Bad

[indigodawns]

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[lavieenjones]

July 31st, 2017

The most difficult moments in life are rare opportunities to transform. –the internet and maybe Kabbalists

The night of my one year anniversary was spent in a fire station kissing boys, dancing my heart out, and clinking bottles full of bub like I was 50Cent- and perhaps in reverse order. Vive la France.. like I’m 20 years old. With the one year mark looming ahead of me, I’d been a complete crazy person feeling like I needed to make a decision to stay or leave, to put a blessed end to this limbo and semi-commitment I’ve made to being here. So this night of reckless abandon was exactly what was called for.. or exactly what a crazy person would do. Tomato, tomato.

My last real update was in March, and I regret not capturing more of it here, because as I reflect on this past year - to quote Eugenia​ - it is with complete wonder, amazement, unconstrained gratitude, and longing to share with everyone. And since it’s been five months, and a lot has or hasn’t happened depending on your POV, I’ll either tell you way too much about not a lot or not enough about everything. So, fair warning, #TLDR. But before I get into all of that I just want to thank everyone in my life who has been supportive and with me this whole time in thoughts, facetimes, and visits, and everyone here that have opened up their lives to me with such beautiful immediacy and acceptance. All of you overwhelm me.

“When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.” As an unabashed pusher of the book, The Alchemist, I have loaned, given, quoted, and cherished the story for a very long time and I think it’s, in part, what’s driven me and kept me grounded when I made the snap decisions that led me to: go to college in CO, quit my job in FL without a plan, move to Chicago with two weeks’ notice, and ultimately move to a country wherein I knew no one and didn’t speak the language. I remember so completely the fear and pure, crazed anxiety as I sat atop a pile of luggage waiting for an uber to take me to O’Hare last year. If the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, getting to my feet that day to help the driver load the trunk was one of the shakiest steps I’ve ever taken (I was afraid, yes, and had inhuman amounts of adrenaline coursing through me, but I also had just carried four very heavy suitcases down three flights of stairs so every muscle I didn’t know I had was spasm-ing). I’m still not sure what I’m doing here to be honest. I’m beyond the point of trying France on for size and am now trying to decide if I want to sink in a little and let my roots grow, or go home to Chicago/SF/Denver/USA (clearly another decision to be made.. lately Madrid and Amsterdam have sounded interesting too.. 😳). And if the decision is to go home then when? And if it’s soon, shouldn’t I stop wasting time with French lessons and dating apps? There are only so many times I can say: Je suis désolée, je ne parle pas bien le français. J'ai besoin que vous parliez en anglais s'il vous plaît 😘☺️. Anyway you see the rabbit hole I end up going down. This week I am convinced I'll regret returning now so we'll see if that sticks for a while. At any rate, for now, I’ll forget about these life altering decisions, trust in the alchemy of my life, and instead tell you about the fireman’s ball, spring travel adventures and visits, my birthday abroad, and Parisian observations.

In short, since March, I went to Prague for #saintpraguiesday with Jack, visited (and was overly emotional at) Normandy with Hillary and Mike (and apparently earned a hefty speeding ticket yet to be seen on the way home), drank wine out of a baby bottle, visited the Champagne region and WWII-decimated Reims, circled Stonehenge and cut through Bath on my way home (cringing at the thought of fat, rich men bobbing like rotten apples in the tepid waters, but then enjoying a little shopping in the square and one of the best meat pies I’ve ever had), took a last minute train to Holland to revel in the tulip fields (sorry about the Snap story, I was freaking out), had a birthday and an insanely sweet surprise party (dancing til dawn included), lounged/guzzled rose seaside in Corsica and le Cote d’Azur, ping ponged from Paris to SF back to Paris to Minneapolis to Tampa and back to Paris again in the span of two weeks to kiss some babies and celebrate Kara and Anna’s graduations, proved all American stereotypes right by driving the French countryside in a convertible blaring Kanye and Led Zeppelin, ascended Mont Saint Michele and Eze Village, drank with a league of twenty golfing Brits inside the fortress walls of St. Malo, partied on the other side of the tracks in London, saw a concert at the Philharmonie, watched the Fête Nationale (Bastille Day to you) Eiffel Tower fireworks to close out my 365 days in France, and went to Lollapalooza Paris with some sweet Chicago and CO friends and a pack of glitter-crazed (beatifically so) South Africans to kick off the next 365.

Hillary​ and Mike​ visited in April, lots to say about their visit, but first I think their being here was a blissful reminder of what it was like to have good friends around. The lack of such in tangible proximity was starting to weigh on me. And I think I just sometimes need the connection with people who might care that I booked a vacation to Murder Island or that I received yet another “this is not me” email response from a co-worker- which translates to “not my job” in the American workplace. I thought cultural annoyance was a thing, but Google says non. At the very least, the weeks preceding their visit had been a test in cultural tolerance. Mostly I think I was just dealing with a real bout of homesickness and it had begun to bleed into everything. For example, I went to a burger and fries place to have a taste of home and someone bumped my arm and fries went flying. I went up to the counter to, I don’t know really, presumably order new ones, but instead when I got to the order counter my eyes welled up and I asked for a broom to clean up my mess. Everyone was really uncomfortable. I’m a hair-trigger crier, but that was extreme. Coincidentally, shortly following this public outburst was my birthday. My dear friend Lize​ threw a surprise party to celebrate and I ended up dancing in my eleventh month in Paris with the sweetest people ever. I’d fled Paris the weekend before because I didn’t want to celebrate my birthday alone. And while my island escape was complete paradise, that Friday night surpassed it tenfold. It was a wake up for me that I am building a life here and I’m really happy about it. I’m trying to carry this joy with me; though invariably I forget this sentiment while slogging through the work weeks, but for the moment, I recall the elation perfectly and cherish it.

What helps in moments of wavering conviction that being here is really a dream come true are realizations like my birthday party night, island escapes, and that Paris has been unbelievably beautiful lately. When Hill and Mike were here the weather was crisp and sunny and lovely. There was a moment when we walked from the Shakespeare and Co. bookstore, across the bridge behind Notre Dame, through the back gardens and all the while cherry blossoms were blowing past us on a light breeze. I mean if I wasn’t on cloud nine just having them in town, I was after that movie-quality stroll across the Seine. The whole week they were here, in fact, I was undone/overcome/overwhelmed by bursts of pure happiness. Our itinerary was pretty perfect: Parisian highlights, road trip to Normandy, Honfleur, Versailles, Champagne, and the 3 F’s of France: fondue, fromage, et .. fermented grapes?

Normandy was the biggest surprise. I was awash with gratitude and appreciation like I've never felt before. It’s likely very late in life to have had this experience, but I was filled with awe-inspired respect for the bravery of the nearly 10,000 soldiers buried in that coastal cemetery. Next up was Honfleur. This crazy old fishing town captured all three of us instantly. It was everything that was sweetly prosaic, weathered, and charming. We also had a really nice dinner along the port that I will remember for a long time. The food was actually not that great, but the conversation and laughter leaves me smiling even now.

The rest of the time they were here we spent hitting up Parisian must-see attractions, and some perhaps better left unseen things as well. Namely, Le Refuge de Fondue, wherein you are served wine in baby bottles. The novelty is quite lethal as you don’t really know how much you’re sucking down and we each had 3-4 baby bottles which is what? 6-8 glasses of wine? The next morning we were heading out to the Champagne region at dawn with our heads hung a little lower than we might’ve wished. I had a hard time finishing any of our tasters. Reims and the rest of the region were beautiful and I think worth going back to when I’m not wishing to lay down, just for a little while, the whole time. Let’s get our weekend booked Daniel y Gra-ham.

All in all though, a really great visit. And going to Normandy and Honfleur whet my appetite to explore more of this country I now call home. We now know I went to Corsica to avoid being solo on my birthday, but it was also a way to have a whole new French experience. From the way they speak to the food and vistas. One doesn’t immediately think of amazing seafood, crystal clear cut-glass water, and Mediterranean cave exploration when they think of France. Or at least I didn’t. This was also the longest trip I’ve taken by myself to date- 5 days. It was actually really nice to just be for a few days and soak up the sun and sea sounds. I spent most of the time on, by, or in the water, or driving around in my manual rental car. I forgot how much fun it is! And add in the adrenaline rush of navigating cliff-side, narrow roads.. I was in heaven. Then on day three, in a state of pure euphoria from laying, reading, and snoozing, I flash-fried my entire backside. The day after that I went on a pretty intense boating trip that basically was the same thing as riding a horse bareback based on the choppy waves we cut through. For a day when I could barely wear clothes due to the heat pumping off my back and the skin being too sensitive for any contact, this sea excursion nearly killed me.

In other travel news, Jack​ and I continued our EU/best friends mayhem tour this Spring and went to Prague. First impression: feels old AF, especially when you go to a strings concert in a church probably built before 1400. The timelines of these places start to chip away at the illusion I know anything about world history, and also continually remind me how young America is. (Side note for perspective, I was at a French flea market recently and asked the age of a teacup, the sellers response? “Very modern, 1930s.” Only not in America is that concerned modern.) Anyway, we basically walked the entire city on repeat, upping our stein ozs with each stop, checking out historical graffiti, and fulfilling everyone’s personal Czech checklist: absinthe, igloo bars, river boat tours, and the best Thai food two nights in a row. Last thing I’ll mention about this trip, which has little to do with Prague and everything to do with the experience is that here is where I listened to the bulk of Born to Run and I will forever associate this special place with the time I became best friends with Bruce Springsteen.

I also went to London a couple months ago to 1) fulfill my and Jack’s ultimate London must-do activity: go to the giant ball pit bar in Dalston before he finished his program, 2) celebrate sweet Lauren​'s birthday and see Becca​ this side of the Atlantic, and 3) explore a little more of England.

First, the ball pit was awesome if a little disgusting. I mainly tried to block out that I’m in my 20+10s and diving deep into a pit probably covered with countless germs.. namely 💩.. idk what that kept trying to push its way into my thoughts while submerged in the glowing plastic balls, but even now I am making Grinch lips thinking about it. Germs aside, it was a blast. Around midnight we went to see London Bridge and watch the city sparkle on the water. Was a nice send off for Jack.

The next day I set out for some tourist-ing and went to Stonehenge and Bath. Both were pretty cool. Stonehenge is both incredible and annoying. Legit tourist trap, but because it’s in the middle of absolutely nowhere you kind of feel like you’re experiencing it with these people and it makes it feel a little un-special. That is to say, it still feels special even though you’re surrounded by people all trying to take pictures of the same thing at the same time. I took some snaps myself but then just sat and looked at the stones for a little while. I don’t know about aliens, etc. but it does seem like an incredible feat for the average human.

After this, I went to Bath and while I love all things ancient it was a little hard to imagine away all the tourists and really see the Roman baths in their day and time. And as mentioned above, had a really nice steak pie in the town square, so that was good.

I’m going to have to leave Mont Saint Michele, meeting the darling Chloe​ in Nice, and my other French countryside ramblings for another post. Because this has gotten entirely too long, and I want to tell you about the Bal des Pompiers and some quick- and acutely accurate- reflection on my time in France to date.

Bal des Pompiers – or the Fireman’s Ball- is a night when all the firehouses in Paris open their doors, accept donations and lewd looks, put on strip teases, and sell garbage champagne for 35€ a bottle. Mix it all up and it was one of the most hilarious, reckless, balls out nights I’ve had in Paris. Such a weird tradition and one I am so, so happy to have been brought into. I have no photos from the night because, well I doubt I could focus enough to take any, but also I was too busy dancing and smooching strangers. #onelove?

Now the year one wrap up. You’ve been with me along the way for the more immediate observations: the cheese is great, work is isolating and awkward, the women don’t dye their hair, and the men are rocking man buns and GQ suits. But here are some broader puzzlements that continue to haunt me:

1. The postal mail system is alive and well in France. Need to create a subway/metro account? Fill out a form, mail it in, wait 8-10 weeks for a reply (make that 8-10 months as I still don’t have my pass). Recently buy tickets online to a concert? These will be mailed out to you in 3-4 weeks, please be home for delivery within that timeframe. Urgent immigration documents to be signed? Check your mail in 2 weeks, if nothing is there request said forms again. Lather, rinse, repeat. What year is this? 2. Check books. E’rybody using them. 3. Vous form is a thing. Get over it you pompous jackasses. Not only do I need to learn formal and informal, I have to learn noun gender as well. I’m out. 4. “La bise” is real and takes forever. Never mind that you might not even know the people which for me, let’s be honest, is always. Also, if you get la bise after a date, dude’s gay. 5. I fall in love with every man that sells me cheese. They seem to genuinely care that I enjoy the cheese and get excited about making recommendations about other cheeses I might enjoy. It’s a complete trip and I fall head over heels at least twice a month. There is a particular father/son duo for which I am fully prepared to destroy their family dynamic over because choosing would be impossible. 6. No one gets pedicures because it's too expensive, and as a result do not cut their nails as often as they should. So many women out there with talons- bleh. 7. One day I saw a girl, maybe 12, walking probably home with a baguette that her mom probably sent her out to get before dinner. No other reason a pre-teen would be carrying around fresh baked bread. The idea that there are French families living this imaginary version of reality is still mind boggling. “It is the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.” I still can’t believe I’m living that dream along with the countless people walking home with fresh baked bread each night. 8. Some people have showers larger than a small refrigerator, some people have refrigerators larger than ten shoe boxes taped together.. those people just aren’t me. 9. French women slap on lipstick and call it makeup. They legit could have not brushed their hair for a week and still this is the only measure they take each morning. Makes things easier anyway. 10. And a direct quote from a lifelong Parisian, "I’d rather my purse go in the river than my cigarettes”—this exactly expresses the devotion to cigs out here. They are an extension of self. .. and keep them away from the river.

Ok, je m'en vais. Thanks again for being a part of this life experiment.