It all started in a little town called Conway, Arkansas, about a half hour outside of Little Rock where I stayed with two dear American friends who studied with me in France the first time. There I found an entire community of friends, most of whom I had been hearing about for eons, waiting to show me a good time. From staying at their school’s “French House” where nearly everyone spoke français and had studied in France to a party scene the likes of which rival any I’ve seen, I stayed up late chatting and playing away the hours with dear friends. It was a marvelous send off, meeting my fellow adventurers who knew me best at the heights and depths of my time in France. If anyone was placing bets on whether or not I would actually succeed in creating a life abroad, I’d give my dear Lindsay and Rachael the best odds of anyone at actually knowing what I’m up against and what I’m capable of.
I love you my darlings! Thank you Hendrix for a fantastic time!
After a dry county in Arkansas, no where could seem weird, and all my apprehension melted away the morning I awoke for my flight to France. Little Rock to Charlotte, Charlotte to Philly, and finally it seemed I might actually be on my way, Philly to Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris. Alas, not all great schemes are executed without a hitch and two hours out over the Atlantic, the pilot announced a problem with the plane and we turned back to Philly. Come to find out that the navigation system had gone down and we sat on the runway two hours while the plane was fixed before heading out again at 2:30 am!
Always one to make the best of the situation, I had struck up a conversation with the lovely young man next to me, who it turns out was doing much the same as me. He was doing an internship in Philadelphia and returning to France to do his visa paperwork. We hit it of splendidly. He spoke English and I French, both of us practicing and correcting the other. It was wonderful to begin to get in the mode of speaking French (which at this point has overtaken me so completely that I had to keep reminding myself this afternoon to speak English with the German girl at the hostel). We entertained ourselves while the busy flight attendants refused to tell us what was going on, and included everyone in our seating area in our complaints and jokes that the reason we weren’t leaving yet is that the wing on the other side of the plane had fallen off and we just couldn’t see it. (I hear it took them a while to find the super glue.) Eventually, though, we were back on our way, and though we arrived several hours late, we neither fell out of the sky nor became eternally lost over the Atlantic. Quel chance!
Returning to Paris for the third time, I went immediately to my favored quartier and checked into the hostel I stayed at on previous visits. It is always a strange feeling going back to the rue Mouffetard. As I walk down the street strung overhead with blue lights, down to the Place Contrescarpe, everything is familiar, the cobblestones, the crèpe-makers, the cornerstones of the buildings. It is why I come back. What is inevitably missing, however, is the presence of all the wonderful travelers who I have met and roamed with there. With every step I expect to see their faces and so often I recognize someone who is not truly here. The loneliness of being alone across the sea was deeper and more tangible for the fact that it seemed like it aught not exist, and I knew it would probably be my last time at the Young & Happy hostel.
My room was the same I had called home when first arriving in the City of Lights and I made the most of my time there, eating at all my favored places and frequenting the local student bars. Rather than adopting international travelers, I found myself befriending a wily troop of local Frenchmen. Slightly graying and ever-polite, they were very encouraging towards my plight to find a job, a place, and perhaps a bit of a life here. Another perfect opportunity to practice my French, I laughed late into the night with these fellows before heading off to Ramouillet, a small town an hour outside of Paris and home of dear friends Barbara and Francis.
My time in Rambouillet is hardly describable. While I ate plentifully, drank constantly, slept in a big bed, and was spoiled rotten by things like bathtubs and internet, my hosts were as charming as one could ever imagine. They have truly become my French family and their little place a home away from home. Standing in the garden, all the tension of travel slides from my weary frame and I could sit talking to Barbara forever. An American who has chosen to spend her life in France and truly a sister in spirit, we rambled for hours upon end about everything this life has to offer and more. It was for me a safe haven in the midst of strange faces, heavy baggage, and constant transport.
Coming back to Paris for a few nights before heading down to Toulouse, I have been quite lucky, not only to have met up again with an old friend from Rennes, but also to have found what may quite possibly be the cheapest hostel in France. With nigh-German prices at 13 euro a night for a bed near La Place de la Bastille, I find myself now on my final night in this grand city, resting comfortably (and more so because of the price), surrounded by travelers (not an American in site), and am sitting now at a lovely little café overlooking the huge monument to the French Revolution and preparing for a Mardi Gras out on the town (thanks to Britt for reminding me). I have overlooked most things touristic this time around in favor of wandering, discovering, and enjoying. I spent my first day in Montmartre trolling cafés, peeking in shops, speaking French at any opportunity, and soaking in the delicious energies of Sacre Coeur, a beautiful domed church dedicated 24 hours a day to prayer for world peace. I met Michael (the guy from the plane) there and we went to the Salvador Dali museum, my one tribute to tourism and walked around on the lovely hill of Montmartre enjoying various views of the city.
Tomorrow I leave for Toulouse… I have no idea where I will stay (I should get on that!), I have yet to buy my train ticket, and I have never set foot in the city before, but there it is. Much in the style of this entire trip, I set off (rather unprepared) into the unknown with adequate French comprehension, too many bags, and an utterly unrealistic surety that everything will work out. If you are ever in doubt of your capacity to accomplish something, remember that the momentum of optimism is shocking and it will propel you towards feats otherwise un-thought of. And so it is I go, armed with optimism, to the city where I search a life (for a while at least). The Parisians keep telling me that I absolutely must life in Paris, but je m’en fou! Off to Toulouse!