line 4 to clignancourt

I was on the metro the other day going to class and I was surrounded by people like me on their way to work or school. Everyone in the train had headphones in and were filling in a crossword puzzle or checking emails on their iPhones. They were each little islands in their heads, waiting for the next stop and thinking ahead to their presentation that day and what they were to eat for dinner that night. But in the middle of this complete void of humanity, I saw a woman on the other end of the train sitting completely still and crying. I was so startled to see such raw emotion in a public place that I started to become honestly nervous and embarrassed for this woman. I couldn't stop staring at her expensive coat and neatly pulled back hair and the huge tears rolling down her cheek. I looked around to see if anyone else was nearly as panicked as I was to see this stranger so obviously emotionally stricken, but the man next to me continued to stare blankly in front of us, and the girl sitting next to the woman was too absorbed in her book to notice. And then, the train stopped at my station and I realized that I only had 10 minutes until class started, and I left. I was swept back up into the rush and bustle of a city of 9 million. 9 million people, and I'm positive that like me, not one of the other 899,999,999 people did a thing to help the lady crying on the metro. I can't help but think back and wonder how we've gotten here. How can we stand inches from strangers everyday on our commute or in a restaurant or at work and not be moved by their pain? There are a lot of things to fear in this world. We worry about terrorist attacks, and we worry about recessions and politics and racism, but what scares me the most is how out of touch we've become with compassion.

come again?

I absolutely had this crazy idea coming into France, that this little tradition they have here in good ole Pear-ee called speaking French would rub off on me magically. Not to say that I'm a total French speaking loser...I do great...when I have 15 minutes to think through and respond to a question which was stated to me word for word with noticeable pauses. I'm not terrible at French, but I'm convinced that my on again, off again affair with the language has actually nothing to do with me at all. It's the Parisians. Yes, it's true...I've discovered that there in lies a detrimental flaw to all of Paris-kind that has lead to my decline in comprehension and added hours to how long it takes me to order a coffee...

They talk so damn quietly. I know that Americans are unusually and appallingly loud and obnoxious, but really, Pierre?! Can you speak at a decibel above a pin drop? I'd really appreciate it, given the fact that at any given time, there's some dude on a moped revving his engine to get that pretty blonde's attention or a heated debate on politics going on at the next table. And then when you ask them to repeat their last statement, I've gotten nothing but eye rolls and exaggerated shouts of their previous sentence. "Oh this unrefined ugly American who has lost her hearing from too many Monster Truck rallies". Maybe they have the superhuman ability to read minds, maybe my ears are shot from years of living among the loud and uncouth people from the motherland. Maybe they're really snotty. Maybe I'm not flexible. Until these maybes are further investigated, I will continue to shake my head when asked a question and pray that the man asked if I wanted sugar with my cafe...did he say "sugar"? or was that "umbrella"? Either way, my answer is a firm "oui".

sweet dream or beautiful nightmare

Being in France is like being in a dream. I don't use that phrase in the cliche sense, I mean it literally. In dreams nothing makes sense-elephants are popping out of peanut butter jars, somehow time passes with extreme rapidity and awkward events with people you kinda know from Oceans lab scare you. Dreams you can wake up from, and sometimes all you want is to wake up from them. But then there are those dreams you adore. The alarm goes off and you cannot for the life of you imagine that all you had just seen had really only taken place in your head while resting on a pillow. So a shirtless Zac Efron didn't actually take me for a spin to Bora Bora on a motorcycle? Dammit.

Being in France is a mix of those. I'm extremely groggy at all times since I'm still not fully adjusted to the time difference and I seem to look at the Eiffel Tower expecting to be awoken at any moment. Customs and language are a puzzle to be decoded, and acting on them and speaking in it feels like a charade. I'm a monkey watching and copying-going through the motions to keep up. So in this haze of miscommunication, winding streets with no rhyme or reason to their windings, and sleep deprived charades...I'm finding that living in a dream is a blessing and a curse, but I know that this one has all the potential to become my reality. Maybe its no bare chested Zac, but I think I can love Paris just as much.