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.