-3 Degrees Celsius.

9:15 on a winter Monday morning. I wonder what the Parisians are doing right now. I'm sure the city is mostly desolate, as many of its inhabitants have headed to the mountains for their winter ski trips. But I'm sure the natural sparkle of the city goes on. Family-owned shops are still opened, and sidewalks must be swept up so that les propriétaires des brasseries can begin a new week. And while the weather may be drastically different from the 95 degree sweltering heat I grew accustomed to, and while the clouds may never part during a winters' day, I'm sure that the radiance of the city's wonder will shine on nonetheless.

Madame Dru must still be sleeping, or either sitting in her kitchen smoking while enjoying a cup of steaming hot black English tea. A piece of toast will suffice until she heads off to work, grabbing a bit of quiche or salade on her way. I wonder what free-spirited ring she has selected for herself today. Perhaps the clear ring with all the rhinestones to compliment her black sarong, or maybe a swirled design to jazz up her simple yet purposeful Birkenstock sandals.


«Les Bagues des Rêves», Chez Rosine, 2010

Then again, this is Rosine we're talking about. Two days after Christmas, she probably hasn't seen her children much this fall, and she doesn't really enjoy working. So she's probably traveling, or sleeping in late-- enjoying a good existential piece of literature, sipping tea and/or Diet Coke.

And here I am, restless and neurotic in my home-home, at 2:15 in the morning. My mind wanders from street to street, trying to relive all the life-changing moments of my Parisian escapades. As frustrating and confusing the city was on a day-to-day basis, I couldn't help but fall in love with the wave of emotions. For such a seemingly reserved culture, French folks really wear their emotions on their sleeve. When they're mad, they show you...in hand gestures, in words, and in eyebrow scrunching. And when they're happy, they attempt to smile and usually kiss your cheeks like they've just seen a long-lost friend. But one thing you can count on with any strong emotion is the repetitiveness of their words. Usually in threesomes.

Très très trèèèès bien.

But why do these peculiar details intrigue me so? Why do I weep for the strange friends I made on the streets, in cafés, in dark bars and late-night streets? Why do I crave the scent of foreign second-hand smoke wafting through the streets accompanied by the distinct scent of freshly baked croissants and quiches? And why is it that I'd rather sit on a dirty metro for 30 minutes than in my own air-conditioned car during a traffic jam?

I of course have an answer for all of these questions, but am not brave enough to face it. So I lay awake sometimes for hours each night, thinking about my life in Paris this past summer, the friends I made out of complete strangers, and the odd sense of welcome I felt each night at la fontaine Saint Michel. And despite the fountain being a tourist hot-spot, I never felt like a tourist. I always received a warm greeting from the performers who recognized me, who understood that I could not pay them each night I watched their routines, but saw how much I valued their passion and talent.

So I lie here awake, feeling guilty for wishing to go back so soon in life. Guilty for not wishing to visit my own country in greater depth, fearing that if I don't go back now, I never will. Or worse, my friends and French family will have forgotten me by the time I manage to "get my act together" and return.

But somehow, the mere image of crowded outdoor cafés steaming with guests and their daily gossip brings me right back into the wave of French culture I dreamed about before even embarking on my adventure. My heart aches for so many things. And right now it aches most for my humble yet dark and twisty hippie of a host mother, the reassuring feeling of solitude, Centre Pompidou, a quietly messy salon, the shuffle of the metro, and a 4 euro bottle of Champagne to be shared among friends at sunrise for no particular reason other than the sheer factor of being young.

My heart aches, and it's an ache that hasn't faded. An ache that won't fade.


«The Best Chicken on a Stick Ever», Chez Rosine, 2010

A little help from a wise woman.

"Ultimately, we have just one moral duty: to reclaim large areas of peace in ourselves, more and more peace, and to reflect it toward others. And the more peace there is in us, the more peace there will also be in our troubled world." --Etty Hillesum

Helping others find peace does not find me peace. And it doesn't find peace for the people I interact with on a daily basis. Instead of looking to fix everyone else's problems, why can't I just stop and look at the situations I'm creating? Why can't I look at the people I'm hurting, instead of the strangers who are hurting themselves and begging for help? I'm a troubled, reckless little girl with only a few vague directions in life. And I guess that's how most twenty-year olds are, but for some reason I find myself in this extreme version of that lifestyle. And I'm not at all sure how I ended up in this place, hurting the people I love the most and only feeling bitter and alone at the end of the day.

"It gets more confusing everyday. Sometimes it's heaven sent, then we head back to hell again." --John Legend

Disney has doomed us all.

Fairytales, from the way I've been exposed to them, don't come in many different packages. They start off with a little girl who either has daddy issues, step-mother issues, an evil magical spell cast upon her, or just plain bratty-princess syndrome. They start off with a little girl who usually wants for nothing, but wishes for everything. They start off with a beautiful, young, tortured soul.

As the story progresses, the little princess runs from her problems, sweeping them under the rug until there comes a point when they're staring her in the face and she has no where to turn but to a handsome prince, or a fairy godmother, or maybe a pack of friendly animals. She never saves her own ass. Instead, it's saved for her-- by some guy who she will ride off into the sunset with to get married, have really attractive babies, and then begin another generation of want-for-nothing-wish-for-everything(s).

Life isn't a cookie cutter though. It's not molded into an early onset issue that can be magically healed with one kiss or a magic fairy waving her wand. Life is brutal, it's harsh, yet it's magical in its own ways. Very few people experience trauma, struggle with money, or have an absent parent from a young age. But those that do don't go about finding their fairytale in a systematic way. There is no Pythagorean Theorem that tells them which step to take next. Sure there are some pretty pivotal steps a person has to take in their lifetime; go to school, get a job, get married, have kids, and obviously pay taxes. But how they go about those steps, if they even want to take them all, is entirely up to them.

A pregnancy can occur in high school. Drop out or keep going? Keep the baby or terminate? These aren't things Cinderella had to deal with.

An absent parent can surface in college. Take the easy way out and ignore them? Be the bigger person and forgive easily? Okay, maybe a few of the Disney princesses had to confront poor parenting skills. Good thing for my generation that we don't have to worry about the "you must be married to a prince" rule...or the whole arranged marriage setup.

Life is messy though. Very very messy. And we don't always get what we want. I may not come from nothing in the full sense of the phrase, but I certainly don't find myself wishing for everything. I have hopes and aspirations, of course, but the reality is that not every wish you make comes true. Not every prayer you utter will have a positive outcome. And not every person will want the same things you do. One thing I have to face as a non-Disney princess is the concept of compromise. And boy does it suck sometimes.

I wish I was still young enough to be convinced that coming from nothing means you can wish for everything...and have a pretty good shot at getting it all in the perfect order.

Inspiration

This summer I thought I discovered my own way to be inspired. I thought I had finally captured my personal method of internalizing the world around me. But I guess not. Since I've come back to reality, to track workouts, to reading assignments, and daily chores, I've felt lost when it comes to expanding my mind. My eyes are wide open, but my heart feels oddly shut off from the world, from myself.

Maybe it's how I perceive my surroundings and there really is a lot to be inspired by walking down US-1. Or maybe this really is a city you live in to just drive right by everything around you, too busy to recognize anything or anyone but yourself. I've never felt so alone, even living in one of the most populated cities in America. Sure I felt alone in Paris from time to time, walking to school alone everyday will make a person lonely. But for the most part, the loneliness didn't bother me. It was my time to think clearly, to feel the sun's rays on my shoulders, to look up at the sky and know I was where I should be. It was my time to buy a Euro-worth of candy, or buy the International Paper, when I know very well that I don't even buy papers back in the states. I can't describe how I felt in Paris, because I just was. In Miami, I feel confused, closed off and sick the majority of the time.

The sickness I feel isn't a cough, and it's not a headache. It's a rising feeling starting in the bottom of my stomach. It's the kind of rising anxiety you get when you've just heard your boyfriend cheated on you, or you might have been caught cheating on an exam. First, the drop comes. Your stomach drops to the floor, pulling your heart down with it, inch by inch. But then your breathing calms you for a moment, and your equilibrium sets in. The nausea settles in at the bottom of your stomach, but quickly works its way to the top. It's an aching nausea that you feel all day long...like something in your world has gone terribly wrong and there's not a thing in the world to be done to mend the pain.

That's the loss of inspiration. That's the sickening feeling I get each and every day, doing the things that supposedly bring me joy in other areas of the world.

I like to stare at the ceiling at 1 am.

"Do you promise?"
"Yes."
"Say it?"
"Yes, I promise."

So simple. And so easily said. Yet those words form a complex system based on trust and follow-through. Those three words can sum up a belief system, a vocalized feeling, and maybe even a future action. When I was younger it seemed so much easier to just believe a person when they said 'I promise'. There was no guilty ache in the bottom of my heart, no rising-sick-feeling in my stomach. I just believed.

Maybe we hooked pinkies, hugged on the deal, or made a vow, but no matter what we did, my friends and I knew our promises could be kept. There was no concept of lying to each other-- sure, we lied to our parents when we wanted to do something we approved of, but there was no lying to friends or other loved ones.


"L'innocence", Centre Pompidou, 2010

Now I find myself making promises with people, hoping they keep their word; wondering if they will come through in the end; wishing my innocent belief systems would come racing back into my life. It's hard to trust others when you've been disappointed throughout your entire life. That's not to say your own life itself has been disappointing, but there are certain times to look back on and wish for a brighter outcome.

How can you be 100% sure another person truly has your back? I guess you never really can. Children believe people have their back because, for one, they usually do, and two, children don't know any better. They don't realize that people lie, deceive, torment and hurt others. Children don't realize that one day, they too will lose the wonderful ability to trust with no hesitation, to love without fear, and to believe in everything.

My guess is that the magic starts to wear off once they find out Santa isn't real. Or that the tooth fairy is really just a parent who leaves a quarter under their pillow and places their tooth in a special box stored in the basement. I honestly hope I never have to lie to my children, that they never realize the tooth fairy isn't real, or that the Easter bunny didn't really bring them the best jelly beans in the city. I hope that they continue to make pinky promises with me, their friends and other loved ones. And I hope they have faith that everyone carries through on their promises. To know how much I've been through, and how hard it is to breathe at night sometimes while I lay awake worrying about the validity of what I hear from a person's mouth, I would never want to subject my children to such a nightmare. I would never want to strip them of their innocent and wonderous belief system.

Nostalgia.

The phrase "wake up slow" has never really been something I understood. Sure I sleep in sometimes, but I never really allow myself to just lay in bed and absorb the world around me. This morning, however, I was greeted with a beautiful beam of sunshine around 8 am. It wasn't the kind of sunshine that blinds your sensitive eyes upon opening them. The rays were gentle, warming and beautiful. I turned to look out my window and saw the day had already begun, but there were no hustle and bustle sounds outside. There was a calm, serene feeling. So I moved myself a little bit to let the sun rest on my face, and blinking a few times I wondered if I looked like a Black and White actress who had just been awakened by her true love. Batting my eyes like a starlet, I smiled and turn over on my side to feel the sun on my back.

Facing the corner, I saw the sun didn't just stop on the small of my back, it was shining over me, projected onto my white wall, broken into little drops of sunshine as it came through my lace curtains. Moving my body once a little once more, I felt my face illuminate and I smiled again, falling back to sleep.

I wake up an hour or so later, and realize it's Saturday. If any day is a perfect day for waking up slow, it's Saturday. My agenda for the day, get lost in Centre Pompidou and look at every piece of Modern Art that catches my eye. The other piece of agenda, capture every moment of Parisian weekend life I can. There's less than 7 days left in my adventure, and while I've taken full advantage of every opportunity that has come my way, part of me thinks there is still more to be uncovered.

I won't lie and say I'm excited to return to the states. Sure, I'm excited to see my friends and family, and play with my dogs, but as far as living in the U.S. goes, I can't pretend like I feel at home there anymore. There's a major difference in feeling accepted by your friends and family and feeling at ease in a city surrounded by strangers. I could never leave my family behind, but I didn't realize how differently I live my life compared to the people in Miami. The University is great, but I realized that I constantly tell myself the fast paced life of Miami is too much for me, it's not my style. And then I just kind of laugh it off and move onto a new subject. But I can't keep ignoring that. The drivers are not nice, you can't stop and talk to a stranger for more than 30 seconds to ask for directions, and you certainly can't just spend 2 hours in a little restaurant with a friend. And I can't think of many places in the U.S. that you can do that.

I love my country, and I love the people in it, but everyday I am here, I realize there was a huge piece of me missing. It's the piece I've been searching for since I was old enough to make my own decisions. The piece of me that's been missing this whole time is a connection with other human beings that's more than just passing each other by on the street. I'm not saying the French are the most friendly people in the world, but people aren't afraid to ask you for a lighter, a cigarette, which metro is closest, etc. People in bars are genuninely interested in what you're doing in Paris, what kinds of things you've done. There's no one way street here, everything is personal and shared.

Okay, so not everyone here is as peace and love, recycling is awesome, and free-spirited as I am. But they get it. They don't mock it, and they see the genuine love in my eyes when I talk about my tattoos, or when I talk about political issues in America and attempt to explain how not every American agrees with the war. They can see a more passionnate side of a younger person, and its refreshing to be valued as an equal here, and not a minor, or just a student with sometimes radical beliefs.

I know I said I would try to find myself along the way, and I knew that was a bold statement to make with just 5 weeks to do so. But looking back after only 4 weeks in Europe, I really have found myself. It's not just wishful thinking when I say I want to change the world one heart at a time, it's a creedo. It's my creedo. And I think it is safe to say I have sufficiently started that process here in Paris, with my own heart and maybe a couple hearts around me.

To the Americans who I've been so lucky to meet, I hope we can stay in touch. And to the Parisians I've quickly become great friends with, and who look out for me at night, or who smile at me when I walk by the fountain, I hope I can look back at these places in a year or five years, or thirty years and know that I changed their life for the better, and they changed mine as well.

Noontime next Saturday I will be making my way to the airport, with a tear in my eye and a bag full of memories.