Present in Paris

I just recently realized how important and powerful writing is despite having declared my major in the craft two and half years ago. The realization hit me sometime during winter break when I chose to spend the entire day writing about myself. I didn’t write about my accomplishments or my dreams and aspirations; I wrote about who I was in that moment in time, dissecting and examining every part of myself. I asked myself why I feared the things I did and why I surrounded myself with the people I did. It was a selfish piece, in the sense that all the content and focus was on me, but it was perhaps one of the most therapeutic and liberating experiences. I woke up the next day feeling “smarter”, if you will.

Now, instead of it being a beautiful December afternoon in California—if I didn’t know any better I would’ve really thought it was fall—it’s the first day of February, a cold and overcast day in Paris (however, all the days I’ve been here for so far have fit this description perfectly). I’m sitting at my desk in my bedroom, staring directly at the tarnished beige wall before me. Originally I had started writing on my bed, which looks out to the classical Parisian architecture surrounding the narrow rue duret, but it was too distracting. Though I wish the following were not the case, I am, and have always will been, and will most likely always be, my most productive self in the most boring spaces. So now I’m here.

I woke up with a strong desire to write today, but am still struggling to find the words to articulate my thoughts. My mind and heart are in an unusual state of experiencing the duality of overwhelming heaviness but blissful vacancy. Half of me cares about everything, while my other half couldn’t care less. I’ve never really experienced this feeling of not caring before, so with that comes a sense of guiltiness that persuades me to go back on my words, regret my decisions, question myself. As I sit here, writing, 3000+ miles away from my past and the source of my troubles, I’m beginning to realize how important it is for me to present right now. To roam the streets of Paris with my mind full of concerns about things I physically cannot control because I am so far away, takes away from what could be a lovely walk, and more importantly my first-time experience in Paris not as a visitor but a resident.

            Although admittedly it’s much easier said than done, the most productive way to live one’s life is to live in the present moment. While reflecting on the past and preparing for the future is comforting and helpful, it’s not always as curative as we think—I cannot change what has happened, and I cannot fully control what will. All we have is “right now”. Trying to be somewhere one is not, takes one away from the moment. Though I have no doubts that after this semester of study abroad I will return to France tens of times, like I said, I will never experience Paris as a first-time resident again; less will seem new and thrilling, more will seem normal and repetitive. This is not to say one should completely forget about the past and disregard the future, but rather to free their minds of distractions and things he or she simply cannot change in the present, or have the potential to ruin the beauty of the given moment.

            Paris is home now, albeit just for a short four/five months, but until that day in May comes when it’s time for me to return to sleepless New York, Paris is home and deserves to be treated as such. The moment this all really hit me was just as rewarding as the day I realized the power of writing and how much I could learn about myself simply by taking the time to do so. It was my first Tuesday night and I was walking through the Republique metro station trying to catch the 8-Train going towards Saint-Ambroise to meet with friends. As I was walking towards the platform, I saw a group of officers, who looked more like soldiers ready for battle than anything, gathered together in a half-circle, stopping all passersby and asking to see their Navigo pass. Not only had I already gotten lost once in the night already, the officers looked intimidating and I was well aware that my pass did not have the required photo identification they were looking for. Having no other choice than to confront them, I walked up to the half-circle of judgment calmly.

            Bon soir, Mademoiselle. Est-ce-que je peux voir votre pass Navigo? The officer, who was clearly of Middle-Eastern descent, towered over me and his stare was unyielding.

            Ouai, bien sur. Mais comme je viens d’arriver à Paris, je n’ai pas encore mis ma photo sur mon Navigo, I said, handing him my pass. My French words came out so smoothly, had I not told him I had just arrived, I was certain I could’ve passed for a native. All I wanted to do was smile, I had been waiting for that reassuring moment when I would realize the 10+ years of French I had studied would be with me forever.

            Pas de soucis, mais faites-ça bientôt, eh? Bonne soirée, he handed me my pass back with a smile and a wink.

            As I walked away and sat down to wait for the train, I saw the value in that seemingly unimportant exchange. It was the first time I experienced a non-romanticized version of Paris, it was also the first time I had to handle something (besides grocery shopping, really) in France without the help of a chaperone or friend. After two short minutes of waiting, the train arrived and I continued my journey to the 11eme arrondissement. The train was fairly empty so I was able to get a seat easily and then, sitting there amongst other Parisians, most coming back late from work, I felt at home. Just how New York City is not Times Square, Paris is not the Tour Eiffel or l’Arc de Triomphe. Though they’re all lovely in their own respect (I normally hate Times Square, but I love walking through the area at dawn when the weathers nice), they are merely tourist spots. The moment I realized Paris was my new home I was nowhere near the Tour Eiffel or the Arc. In fact, I have no idea where I was; I was underground, riding through a tunnel made up dirt, rats, carambar wrappers, and broken bottles of wine.

            Before leaving abroad, my old roommate and close friend, Victoria, told me something that stuck with me: If when you come back to New York, you haven’t changed, you didn’t fully experience abroad correctly. At first I didn’t fully understand what she meant and wondered why I would want change if I was feeling satisfied with my current self. But then after realizing how important it is to stay present and live in the “moment”, it all made sense to me. If I return to New York from Paris not having changed in even the slightest way, it means I never left New York to begin with. Sure, I got on a flight and landed in Charles de Gaulle and took classes at Parsons Paris for a semester, but I didn’t fully immerse myself in Paris. Physically, I was in France, but mentally and emotionally, I was still in my sisters, comfy, white cloud-like bed in Brooklyn.

            Though my stay in Paris has just begun, I can already tell I will be returning to the same New York, a new young woman—an intimidating, exciting, overall bittersweet thought. I’ve left my old self in the city of insomniacs, and begun learning and living my new self in a city of high culture and timelessness, a city that refuses to rush and truly enjoys the moment. The scenery outside my windows looks nothing like the one outside my window in New York, familiarity has become a forgotten concept, and I love that. Admittely, it’s only two weeks in and I have craved the quintessential turkey, lettuce, tomato, mustard, and cheese bodega sandwich a few times in the after-dark hours, but the comforting taste of a soft crêpe avec du jambon et fromage will forever be a lovely alternative.