For the past 4 months I have been living in Paris. Learning more about this beautiful country, city, and myself every day, there is nothing that could make me more thankful in this moment than the fact that I have had the opportunity to do this. Although now is a tumultuous time to be in Europe (or anywhere in the world, honestly...) there is nowhere else I'd rather be, and I wanted to share my experience with the most recent tragedies and my own journey that gave me such a huge tie to Paris and everything that it is, starting from the beginning.
After the attacks on Paris on November 13 this year I was hit with a stream of worried questions and opinions from those who knew me back home. Through news and other media outlets, people had both true and false information about what was happening in Paris, and though I thoroughly appreciated the love and concern, I had a hard time explaining my own feelings on the subject. Difficulty in forming responses to these people- thousands of miles away- stemmed from my inability to figure out any justification for the tragedies worldwide that were coming to life after that night.
I had a difficult relationship with Paris from the beginning. Beautiful, but difficult. But she had become my home, and something I feel immense love for. And that night, she was attacked. I don't know how you can justify that- ever.
What it did make me think about was my journey with Paris itself- and the personal ties it held for me, and what the city came to mean to me.
So I start from the beginning, more to get this all out of my own head than out of expectation that anyone will actually take the time to read it (I can get a bit wordy)
Here goes nothing.
I came to Paris 4 months ago with nothing but adventure on my mind and excitement bursting from my seams. Coming back to the city I had fallen in love with the summer prior was almost all that had kept me going during the tumultuous 3rd year of university. "Next year I'll be in Paris, and none of this will matter" became my mantra of the 2014-2015 school year. (Seriously, If I could have made it into a bumper sticker, I would have)
But as the world is not perfect and does not go according do my precise plans (still reeling from this semi recent discovery tbh, is that what adulthood is?!) my first 2 weeks were not the Parisian dream I had been replaying on repeat in my head for the past 9 months. In fact, my plans took quite the beating.
First 20 minutes on French soil and my ideal scenario took a hit. After waiting at the baggage claim, the crowds cleared and there was still no sign of my two, meticulously packed suitcases. In a thick French accent, I was informed that my bags were in Washington DC, but I had no reason to worry (HAHA) because they would arrive in 2 days.
Now I did have a premonition that this might happen, as I had been rerouted from LA to SF. But I had also prayed extremely hard to the parisienne style goddesses and I was hoping for a miracle. (I felt jipped)
So instead of spending my first parisian days in the carefully concocted oh-so-chic all black ensembles I had planned on impressing the masses of Paris with, I had 1 pair of extremely ripped boyfriend jeans, beat up converse, and no access to a blow dryer. With newly snipped bangs, this was quite the stylistic tragedy.
Great start, right?
Still I pushed on, hoping my new peers would look past the sloppy ensemble and see me for who I was, an at heart parisian. Arriving alone, I had thought I would immediately be able to conjure up a supreme squad of people with the same interests, sense of humor, likes/dislikes as me(baguette with avocado, anyone?) and that by day 2 we would have taken over the city and be spending the remainder of our time frolicking through the chicest arrondissements sipping espressos, soaking up each others awesomeness.
Again, actual events did not go according to plan, as I arrived to the first orientation jet lagged, make-up-less and groggy in my flannel and high-tops, looking kind of like the greasy kids "selling advice" on the sidewalks of Venice beach. (Not exactly the modern day Coco Chanel vibe I was trying to convey.)
So tear tear, my minor struggles in the most beautiful city continued for two weeks, making me feel an equal mix of outcast and spoiled brat.
Not making friends right away, I spent a lot of time sitting in my room alone. My dreams of sitting at cafes and making conversation with waiters was seriously hindered by the fact that the small amount of french I knew seemed to fall out of my ears whenever a measly "bonjour" was thrown in my direction, replaced with a sort of deer in the headlights look and a lot of uhh and errm coming out of the hole I formally had appreciated as my mouth. Immediately giving myself away as American scum, most encounters made me want to melt into the floor. (Maybe not actually what they thought, but definitely how I felt.)
I thought learning french in France would be extremely easy, a sort of osmosis like process. What did I care about the fact that I took 3 years of Spanish in southern California and could barely order a burrito, let alone form any coherent sentences. I would be IN France so obviously it would all work out. Wrong. Oh so wrong Mandee, oh so naive.
The language that sounded so beautiful when it was being spoken around me sounded like I was speaking with a mouth full of mashed potatoes. (Cute, I know)
And so the struggles continued and accumulated, until I felt so much "the other" that I wondered if I had made the right choice in coming at all. As much as I wanted to be Parisian, my image of what that was and what I was actually working with were just not matching up.
Not one to usually give up, (usually... I mean does anyone ACTUALLY finish those 30 day workout challenges???) I tottered along. And gradually, it happened. I made friends. And not just the "you're my friend because I'm absolutely alone and desperate" kind, but real ones, ones who I could explore the city with, have serious conversations with, and bond over our shared incompetence at conforming to the stereotypical parisian style and social norms. (I'm just going to say it, the thought of wearing a navy/black blazer and Stan Smith Adidas every day for the rest of my youth bores me to tears.)
With these new relationships and a newfound courage to explore the city, both with myself and with others, I was able to somewhat find my niche. I struggled with the "Cool American" vs "not cool American" dichotomy, the pestering question of how much of your self you were actually willing to give up in order to conform to expectations, where you fit in and the pressing question of even wanting to fit in. At home I was happy being different, but being so obviously unique in a completely unfamiliar place with new people and a new language can be really overwhelming.
And yet I figured it out. Slowly but surely, I figured the damn thing out. With the help of my new friends, we found thrift stores that reminded of us of home, reminded us of what we wanted to express ourselves as- our real selves. Each day passed with a little more comprehension of what was going on around us, gradually storing more and more cultural capital and feeling more at ease. We found bars we felt comfortable in, streets we loved strolling, areas that reminded of us of our scenes at home, just with a little french twist. We found people we could see our selves connecting with, and after a couple of glasses of vin rouge we actually had the courage to do so.
Day by day, my happiness in Paris, and with my Parisian self, grew. I could appreciate everything so quintessentially Parisian going on around me- the people rushing through the streets with a baguette in their arm, the Haussmann style architecture that gave everything a white-cake like look, the women walking little dogs next to giant ones through the busy boulevards, little old ladies rolling their shopping bags behind them full of produce from the marché, the daily characters on the metro, the children in the city parks giggling and screeching in french, and the fact that I was at the center of it all.
A month into my trip I travelled to Germany. I'm not sure what it was, maybe the fact that I was camping, (for those of you that don't know, the outdoors is NOT my thing) or possibly the fact that I almost got arrested by a duo of overzealous metro police, but I began to ache for Paris. Upon my return to the city I felt an overwhelming sense of relief, turned to my friend, and said the words "I am so fu*king glad to be home." Parson my french (ha ha...) but that's when I knew. I knew that in my own 21 year old expat way, I had become Parisian, and that Paris was my home. Paris held my heart.
