There's not much to say. I loved seeing my family and friends. Chicago is a great city, it just is, and I adjusted quickly enough to American society.
Some things were very strange, like how big everything is, the variety in the grocery store, and how I could walk down the street speaking English loudly. That one still feels strange.
My focus is turned towards the fall quarter, but my future lies in Europe.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
I can't do this. (Aug 23rd)
I knew that I could not stay. I didn't actually have a life in Paris anymore. Being back was not a continuation of the spring; I was tasting a moment of someone else's life, just like every other country. My hosts gave me a chance to feel as if I was living there again, gave me a space to immerse myself again and create new impressions. This time, I did not relive the past, recounting stories to my friend as we moved from place to place. Then, I was slowly closing doors, as I revisited each spot that held so many memories. This time, I made new ones.
Ending the epic journey, and facing American culture again, was not something I wanted to do.
I managed to get across the city, somehow, and evade buying a ticket for the train. It was more like throwing myself onto the airplane, instead of willfully departing. I sat on the flight, staring straight ahead, completely in shock at what I was doing.
It turns out that the women seated next to me where just returning from a two week trip in France organized by DePaul. I was literally surrounded by 30 people who had been on the trip. Their stories and company on the long flight to Chicago helped me to slowly transition, to accept what was happening.
Though I did spend a lot of time staring at the seat back in front of me.
Ending the epic journey, and facing American culture again, was not something I wanted to do.
I managed to get across the city, somehow, and evade buying a ticket for the train. It was more like throwing myself onto the airplane, instead of willfully departing. I sat on the flight, staring straight ahead, completely in shock at what I was doing.
It turns out that the women seated next to me where just returning from a two week trip in France organized by DePaul. I was literally surrounded by 30 people who had been on the trip. Their stories and company on the long flight to Chicago helped me to slowly transition, to accept what was happening.
Though I did spend a lot of time staring at the seat back in front of me.
Last Few Moments of Paris (Aug 22nd)
I meandered around the city, accomplishing my last few errands. Mostly picking up new gifts for my family to replace the ones stolen in the Spanish mail (a common occurrence, I recently learned).
I was walking across a bridge, not far from Notre Dame, when I saw a young couple holding a single red rose. The woman was slowly peeling petals from the bloom, and dropping them one by one into the Seine. Tourists bustled along around them, cars roared by (Paris is a real city, after all), and they were holding a quiet ritual.
I thought about whether they had always dreamed of Paris, whether they were here after long hopes. Paris as the city of love never rang true for me. It was too real, too much of a metropolis to stand up to my expectations of a paradise for lovers. I love the city, but I do not share the same sentiments I have found in other people, the earnestly described pull of its romanticism.
I have been fortunate enough in my time living there to have moments of heightened awareness, of a strong sense of place. Sometimes it would hit me while I sat with a friend, chatting over a glass of wine (I prefer red, if anyone was wondering). Or the classic market scene, or an obscure bookstore. But in the last 36 hours in Europe, I was intensely aware of where I was, trying to take in every moment, every word in French spoken, even in the places I had visited the most. I knew that I was leaving, and instead of being home, Paris became a place to memorize so I could take it with me.
I did not want to leave. At all.
I was walking across a bridge, not far from Notre Dame, when I saw a young couple holding a single red rose. The woman was slowly peeling petals from the bloom, and dropping them one by one into the Seine. Tourists bustled along around them, cars roared by (Paris is a real city, after all), and they were holding a quiet ritual.
I thought about whether they had always dreamed of Paris, whether they were here after long hopes. Paris as the city of love never rang true for me. It was too real, too much of a metropolis to stand up to my expectations of a paradise for lovers. I love the city, but I do not share the same sentiments I have found in other people, the earnestly described pull of its romanticism.
I have been fortunate enough in my time living there to have moments of heightened awareness, of a strong sense of place. Sometimes it would hit me while I sat with a friend, chatting over a glass of wine (I prefer red, if anyone was wondering). Or the classic market scene, or an obscure bookstore. But in the last 36 hours in Europe, I was intensely aware of where I was, trying to take in every moment, every word in French spoken, even in the places I had visited the most. I knew that I was leaving, and instead of being home, Paris became a place to memorize so I could take it with me.
I did not want to leave. At all.
Friday, August 21, 2009
A Night in Paris, the Calm Way (Aug 21st)
Back at the apartment, I managed to call home on skype, since I have my computer. Lovely to hear from my parents. I have been out of contact for long patches of time, before.
I had offered to cook dinner, and was a little nervous, because I was completely making it up. The classic sort of what-vegetables-do-we-have kind of plan. They gave me free range of the kitchen, made me a martini, and kept on popping in to see if they could help.
The weather was beautiful today: blue skies dotted with white puffy clouds, a gentle breeze, and just the perfect summer temperature that isn't too warm. Typical Paris, really. The tall window was open, looking out onto the courtyard and over the rooftops. Standing in their kitchen, with the fresh vegetables I had picked up that day, I felt entirely connected to the experience. Highly aware of where I was, how very French it all felt. If you can say that, I suppose. I can see the kitchen clearly now, as I reflect on it, like a picture I am holding. I remember thinking about how sorry I would be to leave.
I managed, by accident, to pull off an American version of ratatouille. Vegan, of course. Started out as beans and rice, but I added more vegetables and only had French herbs. Cooked eggplant for the first time. I had watched a friend do it in Germany, and it seemed simple enough.
After dinner, we played Scrabble in French. Not easy.
I had offered to cook dinner, and was a little nervous, because I was completely making it up. The classic sort of what-vegetables-do-we-have kind of plan. They gave me free range of the kitchen, made me a martini, and kept on popping in to see if they could help.
The weather was beautiful today: blue skies dotted with white puffy clouds, a gentle breeze, and just the perfect summer temperature that isn't too warm. Typical Paris, really. The tall window was open, looking out onto the courtyard and over the rooftops. Standing in their kitchen, with the fresh vegetables I had picked up that day, I felt entirely connected to the experience. Highly aware of where I was, how very French it all felt. If you can say that, I suppose. I can see the kitchen clearly now, as I reflect on it, like a picture I am holding. I remember thinking about how sorry I would be to leave.
I managed, by accident, to pull off an American version of ratatouille. Vegan, of course. Started out as beans and rice, but I added more vegetables and only had French herbs. Cooked eggplant for the first time. I had watched a friend do it in Germany, and it seemed simple enough.
After dinner, we played Scrabble in French. Not easy.
J'aime Paris...ce sera difficile a partir (Aug 21st)
Sitting on a bench this afternoon, trying to recover from my shopping experience, I realized that even though I wanted to see my family and friends again, I did not actually want to leave Paris. At all.
I had just gone into the small Franprix (a grocery store) near where I used to live, and just the smell of the place when I walked in reminded me of my life in Paris. Even though I can't eat half of what is in there, the sight of it all, how it is so very French, I suppose, made me not want to leave. I remembered life back in the spring, and cherished the simple things that I had taken for granted so long. The variety of jam after being in the U.K. for so long, where I swear they only eat marmalade, or knowing that I will not be able to get the shredded carrot salad in the States....
Writing it out, it all seems silly to get nostalgic over food, but I think it is indicitive of how I feel about life here in general. Yes, the Parisians are not the most friendly, but I made this place a home. Even though I felt deeply connected to the U.K. (a surprise for me), I did not have the time there the way I did in Paris.
France, for me, then, becomes the place the most difficult to leave. That's not true. I practically had to rip myself away from Wales. But the culture here is more different, distinct, than the U.K., and I think I love pieces of it. I tried to make a list of what I cared about, as I have been doing this entire trip, so that I can manifest it in my life back wherever. But I realized that trying to divide it up into pieces didn't work, that it lacked its draw for me. I realized that it needs to be whole, in context, to be itself.
Even though I want to see my family and friends, I don't know how to come back to America.
I had just gone into the small Franprix (a grocery store) near where I used to live, and just the smell of the place when I walked in reminded me of my life in Paris. Even though I can't eat half of what is in there, the sight of it all, how it is so very French, I suppose, made me not want to leave. I remembered life back in the spring, and cherished the simple things that I had taken for granted so long. The variety of jam after being in the U.K. for so long, where I swear they only eat marmalade, or knowing that I will not be able to get the shredded carrot salad in the States....
Writing it out, it all seems silly to get nostalgic over food, but I think it is indicitive of how I feel about life here in general. Yes, the Parisians are not the most friendly, but I made this place a home. Even though I felt deeply connected to the U.K. (a surprise for me), I did not have the time there the way I did in Paris.
France, for me, then, becomes the place the most difficult to leave. That's not true. I practically had to rip myself away from Wales. But the culture here is more different, distinct, than the U.K., and I think I love pieces of it. I tried to make a list of what I cared about, as I have been doing this entire trip, so that I can manifest it in my life back wherever. But I realized that trying to divide it up into pieces didn't work, that it lacked its draw for me. I realized that it needs to be whole, in context, to be itself.
Even though I want to see my family and friends, I don't know how to come back to America.
Across to Arcueil and Back (Aug 21st)
This morning was not that eventful. I just trekked all the way across Paris and back to get my suitcase, where I had left it at another host's place.
I am just glad to have it back.
I did get a chance to talk with one of my host's roommates, a very kind Frenchman going to Thailand soon. It is kind of common for me to hear about amazing adventures; long periods traveling and far away destinations are nearly ho-hum common among couchsurfers I meet. Nearly, since actually everyone gets very excited about it all.
I spent the afternoon, when I finally left the apartment after taking everything out of my bags, rearranging it, and putting it all back in again. Since most of my gifts for my family were stolen, I set out to search the city for more.
Let me say this. I hate shopping. It sucks the soul out of my body. I am terrible at choosing things, so put me into the most complicated sweet shop I have every seen, and I can do nothing. Completely overwhelmed by this afternoon, to the point where I couldn't speak French. Stared at someone asking me the simplest question...
I am just glad to have it back.
I did get a chance to talk with one of my host's roommates, a very kind Frenchman going to Thailand soon. It is kind of common for me to hear about amazing adventures; long periods traveling and far away destinations are nearly ho-hum common among couchsurfers I meet. Nearly, since actually everyone gets very excited about it all.
I spent the afternoon, when I finally left the apartment after taking everything out of my bags, rearranging it, and putting it all back in again. Since most of my gifts for my family were stolen, I set out to search the city for more.
Let me say this. I hate shopping. It sucks the soul out of my body. I am terrible at choosing things, so put me into the most complicated sweet shop I have every seen, and I can do nothing. Completely overwhelmed by this afternoon, to the point where I couldn't speak French. Stared at someone asking me the simplest question...
Under the English Channel to Paris (Aug 20th)
Nothing very exciting can happen on a bus. Although now I know never to take a 24 hour bus ride again, as it does not go well with my claustrophobia.
To go under the channel, we took the strangest train I have ever seen. It is like a ferry, a very long, narrow, ferry. The bus drove right onto it, and parked in a series of chambers that were wide enough for the bus and a walkway on either side. Fortunately, we were able to get out. The Jamaican in front of me had his seat leaned back, my backpack was wedged beneath my knees, and at any moment I was going to burst out of my seat, flailing about.
Though the ferry-train was interesting to see at first, I wish I could have actually seen the crossing. I missed the one to Wales as well, since it was dark.
I arrived in Paris exhausted and dirty, and managed to get myself to the other end of the city to meet my new hosts. I was just glad to be there.
They are a young couple living in Colombes, a suburb ten minutes from the St. Lazare station. I was welcomed in immediately, and able to take a cold shower right away.
Their small dog is energetic and loving, and adores to stick her head through the bars of the decorative grate on the window, watching the people below. The windows in this tiny Parisian apartment are classic: tall, with glass doors that open inward, and white metal shutters to block out the sun.
Before dinner, they offered me a martini, which I gladly took, and then we sat down to a summer salad that was a relief after days of eating bread and beans (Ireland).
My two hosts are relaxed, fun, kind, and generally a joy to be around. It is as if it is entirely normal that I am here, and I feel completely welcome. There are some couchsurfing hosts where you feel as if you are friends immediately.
To go under the channel, we took the strangest train I have ever seen. It is like a ferry, a very long, narrow, ferry. The bus drove right onto it, and parked in a series of chambers that were wide enough for the bus and a walkway on either side. Fortunately, we were able to get out. The Jamaican in front of me had his seat leaned back, my backpack was wedged beneath my knees, and at any moment I was going to burst out of my seat, flailing about.
Though the ferry-train was interesting to see at first, I wish I could have actually seen the crossing. I missed the one to Wales as well, since it was dark.
I arrived in Paris exhausted and dirty, and managed to get myself to the other end of the city to meet my new hosts. I was just glad to be there.
They are a young couple living in Colombes, a suburb ten minutes from the St. Lazare station. I was welcomed in immediately, and able to take a cold shower right away.
Their small dog is energetic and loving, and adores to stick her head through the bars of the decorative grate on the window, watching the people below. The windows in this tiny Parisian apartment are classic: tall, with glass doors that open inward, and white metal shutters to block out the sun.
Before dinner, they offered me a martini, which I gladly took, and then we sat down to a summer salad that was a relief after days of eating bread and beans (Ireland).
My two hosts are relaxed, fun, kind, and generally a joy to be around. It is as if it is entirely normal that I am here, and I feel completely welcome. There are some couchsurfing hosts where you feel as if you are friends immediately.
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