paris, je t'aime

I completely at this city's will. Everything from the sights to the language consume my entire being and cram up my brain until there is no room for anything other than "je voudrais..." and "tout va bien". I'm in love with the sounds of the French language...on the bus I feel like the man on the phone next to me is reciting a romantic, emotion filled love poem while he actually is discussing God knows what with his boss. The waiter asks if I want the bill, and I blush at how sensual it sounds. I can't help but have a romantic relationship with everyone I come in contact with, with a "bonjour, comment vas-tu?" And it's not just the language. This whole city has my head in a spin, and just like falling in love with a human being, I find myself at a loss for thoughts of my own. When the Notre Dame is staring you in the face on a daily basis, you tend to feel small in comparison. Paris, this relationship is amazing and everyday is a whirlwind, but I'm starting to lose myself in you. Though your romance has won me over, I can't compete with your lights glistening off the Seine, or your sparkling Eiffel Tower every hour on the hour, your museums which are themselves as historical as the works they hold, your beautiful natives, your rich food, or your heartbreakingly stunning streets. I'm torn, my dear city of lights. I would love nothing more than to stay with you forever, but I fear giving up myself entirely.

Maybe the best places are those we can both love AND hate, but fit into comfortably. This passionate love affair I have here cannot last...and I'll return home filled with the thrill of living in the midst of unimaginable beauty, but ready to settle back into life.

to be or not to be

He's beautiful in the way that Greek gods are beautiful. I don't know how his hair stays so damn voluminous without an overabundance of gel, and I marvel at the fact that I will never be able to say "princess" in French the way that this man does, with the P and the R making a sound I can't even begin to place in my brain. I catch him staring at me and I think about how my love handles have grown and how my fading dyed hair must be getting frizzy with the heat in this bar. I don't know how his hand got there, or what I'm saying that amuses him so much, but it's intoxicating. His assertive arrogance has me simultaneously mesmerized and repulsed. From my days of reading Twilight, I get the faint indication that I should run as fast as I possibly can from this gorgeous monster. My moment of hesitation is enough for him to wander, and for me to remember how much I want his hand to stay on my back while we piece together broken sentences in two languages to compose our conversation about nothing. I would talk about nothing with him for as long as humanly possible, because for those moments when we were there, I forgot that my body doesn't feel like it used to and began to think maybe my American accent is indeed sexy. His carefully premeditated movements equate to a well rehearsed choreography routine, and while knowing full well that it is anything but personal, the show of his attempt at impressing me has succeeded and has in fact entertained and fulfilled me.

And then I realize, that it's all a show for me. This worry about my appearance and the prospect of it changing, the capturing of another's attention, the planned words and actions- a show. Yes, this foreign man has me captivated, but eventually the routine has to end, and what will be left is really nothing of any substance. The most I could hope for is to find out the secret to his hair in order to repeat it on myself. As much as I'd like to stay for awhile and play the leading lady in his play, I've got to keep the real world in mind and peace out at intermission.

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.

what's love got to do with it?

There's this website called oneword.com that I use everyday. The premise is that the website gives you one word, and you have 60 seconds to write whatever comes to your mind about that word. Everyday is a new one, and by the end of your writing sesh, it posts your blurb and you can read through other people's one minute surge of thought. I suggest this because: The most unexpectedly beautiful things can come from your head when you don't think and just do. I promise, you'll surprise yourself with what comes out.

But what really amazes me is reading everyone else's posts. The word one day was possible. Another day it was cheek. Another was seconds. The commonality between every 60 second brain splat was the subject of love. Everyone managed to turn the word possible into a heartfelt love note, both happy and sad. It's amazing how consumed we are on the matter. I myself am guilty of wondering at it's existence at all, but then you see 85 pages of 4 sentence rants about a final goodbye, a first kiss, a moment when the world evaporated and only two people were left...and somehow the word of the day was pencil??? You can't help but realize that no matter how much you deny it's existence, this love thing is inescapable. It's bringing with it heartbreak and happiness, but mostly the power to consume our entire being so completely that we can't see a single word that doesn't make us feel it.

just around the riverbend

If you want to catch me in a weak moment, just sit me down in front of the last 15 minutes of Pocahontas. Forget the fact that John Smith, a man she magically learned English for, leaves her forever, but just look at how her hair blows in the wind and never gets tangled.

Ever since I was little I've dreamed of being her. I wanted her tan, her natural running ability, and to pull off a mid-driff animal skin ensemble so effortlessly. To me, she is the epitome of grace, and since a young age I would stand down wind, practice my serious face, and allow my curly mess of hair to be taken where it may. Coincidentally, this plan doesn't turn out as glamorously when taking place in my front yard and not drawn by an animation artist. Two bottles of conditioner later, and my dreadlocks would begin to loosen.

Years later, my secret desire to be a strong Native American woman is as intense as ever. Although I may just be holding out for John Smith to pop out of a tree somewhere close to a river that may or may not include a waterfall that we may wade through to reach each other in slow motion with strings playing in the background...the dream is still alive. Lord knows I don't know which colors make up the wind to even begin painting with them, and I won't lie to you and say I consider any raccoons to be my close personal friend. However, when I feel like the outlook is hopeless, I still channel my inner Pocahontas. She goes canoeing, I take a drive. She runs through the woods barefoot, I put on my Nikes and go for a jog on the road. She seeks advice from trees, I consult the bottom of an ice cream tub. She jumps off a cliff, I move to a foreign country. She chooses her fate, I choose mine.

Wingapo.