Oh Lordy, What Ever Happened to the 1940s?

And I have a creeping feeling. A feeling that feels oddly out of place next to the daydreams I’ve been having about the American food that awaits me, the smiles brought to my face in thinking about seeing my US family and friends again. I’ve been talking about it lately in an excited manner. I got over my anxiety a couple weeks ago and now I see that it’s really not goodbye. I have a return date. So really, this is just a 2 1/2 month vacation. A vacation that a bunch of French people would kill to have: 2 1/2 months in the US.

Yet the creeping is inevitable it seems. I’ve spent the most amazing 2 weeks since classes ended. They were exactly what I needed and wanted. I feel fulfilled enough and like I’ve spent my time well. Now it’s time to go back. I feel that. And I’m ready. But that doesn’t stop my nerves from kicking in. Because suddenly this leaving feels real. I am in between two worlds already and I’m not even on a plane. My apartment is packed up, half of my stuff moved into its storage space for the summer. My string lights are gone. My bookshelf emptied. All there’s left to do is pack last minute items… yet I keep thinking I’m forgetting something. Perhaps my panic attack?

My nerves are inflamed at the thought of my almost 24-hour travel day awaiting me in less than 48 hours now. In fact, 48 hours from now I will not only be in the US but IN Syracuse. It’s a strange thought. I’m not worried about leaving everything I have here and making sure it is here when I get back. Everything is so much more solidified than it was over Christmas. What I leave in 48 hours I am certain will be here in August, as spectacular and warm as it is now. But being down to the final day, I still can’t help but feel sad and weird about leaving it all. I am human, after all. And leaving is a very real thing.

I am so lucky. Not one day goes by when I don’t realize how much I have. I do not take life for granted. Nor do I my parents and their generosity. I am very aware and thankful to everyone and everything that has made Paris possible… even my roommate who drove me here. In some perverse way, I wish I could thank her. Because without that first semester of misery, I would’ve never had the joy I have today. Life takes such funny turns and I feel fortunate that I have lived my first 2 adult years in such spontaneity and out-of-the-box-ness. Each day I stop for at least a few seconds and know that I couldn’t ask for anything better. Because I’ve done Paris my way.

Anyone can come to Paris and fall in love. With the city, with a boyfriend/girlfriend, with friendship ties to native Parisians. But how many people can say that they’ve come to Paris and found family? Cities change, significant others swap out at our age, and friendships evolve. But family is forever. That is where I know and am constantly reminded that I am luckier than most. Even luckier now than I was a week ago, I share my family with another, and that almost makes it more special. I’ve never had a sister or wanted one, but I get the sibling thing now… I get why it’s so wonderful to share a special relationship with someone who is the only other person in the world who will understand. I’ve been saying I have family here for a while, but after the past week it’s more real than ever.

Here’s my conclusion before embarking on my last day in Paris for a while: I have loved the crap out of my family in Paris the past few months. Now, it’s time to love the crap out of my family back in America. Come and go as I please, I know they will all be there.

The creeping feeling is just the manifestation of hesitation leaving family. It’s the same feeling I get leaving my parents on my way back to Paris even if only for a few minutes before I turn my back on my US life again. It doesn’t matter where we’re going: when family is involved, you’re never 100% ok with leaving.

For the first time in my time in Paris, I stare out my window at 4:30pm after 13 hours of sleep and feel a drive to leave my apartment. I have spent so long truly living here that I have not gone out of my way to visit exhibits or notable museums. Well, the Louvre I will save for next year, but this time I am not going to resign myself to TV. I am going to the Animal exhibit at the Grand Palais and not regretting one moment of this week. It’s time to squeeze every ounce out of this year before next one hits.

This year rushed by, like a dart in the wind. I always thought I paused long enough to appreciate things as they happened, but with the sudden deadline, it suddenly feels as if I didn’t spend enough energy doing so. It is all a complete blur. Recent enlightening events have only contributed more to my outlook that I in some ways lived this year wrong… or not so much wrong as not as the person I would eventually become. I’m different than I was a few days ago. I’m different than I was 3 months ago. And God knows I’m different than I was 9 months ago. We won’t even venture into the difference a year makes.

It’s funny. I consciously knew of this change but have been too close to it to see. Only in majorly defining situations did I have the position clear enough to see that something immense had happened that I couldn’t go back from. I wonder, with this week left, whether when I go back, people will see that. Christmas break in itself was an anomaly. And so much has happened, so much changed, since those 2 1/2 weeks. The last time I saw anyone blood related to me. The last time an inch of naivety and freshman me even existed.

Yes, I know, it’s time to go back again. And I’m not going to give anyone a hard time about it right now. I won’t post a long rant about how much I will miss Paris. Because we all already know that. And I have enough problems being repetitive orally, let alone in writing. Still, it’s not going to be entirely easy for the first couple days, and that I accept. But at the very core I love everyone at home just as much as I love everyone in Paris. And that’s something important to know. It’s only that right now, this particular passion burns so deeply because I’m in the middle of it. Scarily and truthfully, it’s very easy for life to shift and to adapt quickly, forgetting or putting a veil over what used to be if we don’t try to connect them all.

So I approach this last week with a mixed feeling. I know I’m lucky enough to not have to say adieu, and only goodbye. On the other hand, I am so deeply connected here that it seems impossible to uproot myself. On the other other hand, it will be so nice to see my naturally-given family, and share my life and newness with them as they deserve. I will relish buffalo wings, pizza, chips and salsa, tacos, good sushi, lasagna, roast beef, and garlic knots again. I will rekindle my sisterly romance with my cats. I will have to adjust to my twin-sized bed. I will be insanely busy with 2 internships and a job. And I will be in between two worlds. This is not going to be the same as last summer. Sitting idly watching TV and drinking endless quantities of cream soda is no longer an option… for both career practical and emotional reasons. As my Babci says, “busy hands are happy hands!” Never have I believed that more.

Recently I learned a lesson in love that I want to share with all my friends and family back home as my arrival creeps closer. Even in the darkest moments and my most obnoxious, inconceivable rants, there is enough love to go around. Just because I have fallen in love with Paris this year and have a life, family, friends, here, does in no way mean that I love any of you any less or that you are any less important in my life. There is room in my heart for everyone… even Syracuse.

Rocking the washcloth/scarf eye-patch for the night. Because not even the insides of my eyelids want to see this hideousness. And to help heal, of course!

Sad Anna with devil eye.

Freak occurrence during the night (it’s not painful or affecting my sight) that is now going to make everyone run from me during my last 2 weeks here.

I blame you, allergies! … and, you know, probably those 48 hours of nonstop craziness and consequential exhaustion…

Sigh I don’t even know what I did with the last 2 hours. At least I wrote up a study guide yesterday? And studied it earlier today?

Oh Tumblr, I hate and love you so much right now.

(Source: fresh-arab)

Finals tomorrow?! What do you mean I’m still in school even though like everyone else I know has finished?

What am I doing the night before? Looking at Disney pictures on Tumblr. Oh Anna…

(Source: disneystills, via fuckyeahthedisneyclassics)

Less than 24 hours after the results of the election were announced, I felt the energy of Paris shift. Not dramatically, but all was abuzz about the presidential change. Like many of us had hoped (but, as some of us are Americans, couldn’t vote), François Hollande was elected over Sarkozy (a quick run-down for all those who aren’t familiar with French politics), being the first Socialist president since Mitterrand almost 20 years ago.

I haven’t felt this much like I was witnessing history since I saw Obama get elected. By 8:30pm last night, only 30 minutes after the polls closed, Hollande was announced to have won. And even in my apartment off of the busy streets hidden in its quiet passage, I could feel something different. All the young liberals of Paris marched on over to the Bastille to celebrate and I stupidly decided not to leave my comfy abodes and celebrated in my own minor way. I heard it was spectacular, though, and that some people got to even climb on the great monument, waiting the 3 hours until Hollande actually showed up to give a speech at midnight. And boy was he greeted like a king with the most intense support possible. I never feel like us youths in the US care that much about politics, as a general statement. But in France, it’s serious business. And I really respect that they care and are that involved. To them, this election was historic, and they rejoiced in an appropriate crazy manner. In some ways, I wish I had gone. But you can’t turn back the clock.

I tried to make up for it this morning, though, when I actually grabbed a newspaper from the vendors outside of the Metro. The front page had a triumphant Hollande on it, proud of his accomplishment just like so many of us (at this point, I’m just including myself as a fellow French person) are of him. Unlike so many of Sarkozy’s snooty pictures, Hollande looked friendly to me, even though I can’t admit to knowing too extremely much… while still more than others. The title made me smile even brighter: François 1er, they called him… just like the great monarch many years ago. Every head on the Metro, mine oddly included, was buried in a newspaper and nodding contently at the news. It wasn’t hard to understand what was going on, or to read every word in French. I am now perfectly capable of reading French.

For the next half an hour on the Metro, I intently read every article on the election I could find, intensely scanning the poll results for the areas I was familiar with. It was funny, in fact, to see just how much of the riches are concentrated in the west of Paris, obviously by the clear split between east and west in poll results: the west basically all voted Sarkozy and the east (my turf!!) went Hollande. I was ashamed yet sadly not surprised to see that NYU’s beloved 16th arrondissement had the highest percentage of Sarkozy votes in Paris (78%!!) and quietly smug with the fact that every arrondissement that I spend more time in around my area was all for Hollande. I hadn’t had any part in this election, but it felt good to FEEL like I was engaging with something big. Even by simply reading a newspaper.

The energy was so contagious that it spread to after classes ended. I finished at noon to a depressed, sulking Passy… all the cafes and their patrons disappointed that their riches would soon not be protected from the coming taxes of Hollande (here’s what I want to know: if you have all this money, why can’t you pay the taxes without complaining?). Even to this dreary response, I felt alive. The sun was out for a few moments… just long enough for me to grab a baguette sandwich and some other boulangerie goodies for lunch and spontaneously buy a Velib bike ticket. I had no idea how I would get home traffic wise, but I had no reason why not to try it!

I rode around Passy and the 16th for a while, just following traffic directions and wandering in subdued neighborhoods and school yards that I never would see otherwise. Then I found my way back on rue de Passy and made my way to Trocadero, over the bridge and practically right under the Eiffel Tower on the left bank. I never ever go on the left bank, but it felt right, adventurous today. I rode along the quai past the Musée Quai Branly on my right, the Grand Palais and elaborate Pont Alexandre III on my right. Then I passed Les Invalides and I got lost by La Tour Maubourg looking to trade my bike for a new one so not to spend any more money (30 minute limit). After getting a new bike, I then found the Musée d’Orsay and crossed a bridge not far from Notre Dame, ended up casually riding through the inexplicably gorgeous bloomed Tuileries gardens with the Louvre and Place de la Concorde in sight on both sides, and then found my way traffic-wise through Les Halles home. It was perfect.

Biking in Paris is addicting, an incredible thrill. It makes walking feel like a waste of time when you could be spending it with the wind in your hair, monuments and historical sites flitting by like insignificant images, crossing multiple bridges with the Seine surrounding you for a few quick momentous seconds as you stare out at the horizon lined by water. It’s a beautiful feeling of true freedom. Not even the cars can stop you. Today I picked up on the newfound hope that Hollande seemed to bring to the Parisians. Like this new political change and the uncertain future of France, I had no idea where I was going on my way home… but eventually we all find our way with bumps (literally and figuratively) along the way. I have faith. And I’m proud to say that in my 2 years in France, I will have experienced 2 very different French presidents. What’s to come next?

Something to get through finals week with ;)

(Source: all-those-fairy-tales-cametrue, via grandmapegg)

butitsonsale:

I’m like…

Replace “college” with PARIS and you have my entire state of being in one post.

jazzpatronandscribe:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-17975660

Socialist Francois Hollande has been elected as France’s new president.

He got about 52% of votes in Sunday’s run-off, according to early projections, against 48% for centre-right incumbent Nicolas Sarkozy.

2 years in France, 2 different French presidents :) Félicitations, Hollande!!!

This has been one of the craziest days of the semester. And, subsequently, I am about to pass out on my bed for the next 10 hours hopefully. So I can wake up at 8am to go to my routine floor barre class. It’s always fun, but boy do I wish I could sleep in.

I haven’t slept much in the past week, but for good reasons. For one, there’s classes. Then there’s today, which began at 11am (early considering that, after seeing a ballet last night, I got home and into a long conversation with my mother via phone). Our a capella group had rehearsal at 1pm for the “spectacle” that night and it went until 3. Then at 3:34, I had rehearsal for French Through Song for the performance that night too. Then I was swept away again after FTS rehearsal to rehearse a capella stuff again basically right up until we went on at 6pm. I did not stop singing in between the hours of 1 and 7pm.

The spectacle, of course, was amazing. It made me realize how much I miss performing with people. It really is a different thing to sing alone than with a group. The commrodory of the group lends such energy to the audience and our individual souls. I could’ve leaped off that “stage” (more like the front of the room) for joy. A capella killed it first. And then French Through Song went off in our funny, completely carefree and happy way. I performed my solo song on the uke “Une Chanson Douce” and managed to forget the words, JUST LIKE I THOUGHT I WOULD. I was so embarrassed but played up my cute side, owning up to it in full. As horrified as I was, apparently my original forgetting made it an even better performance, and the second time around I nailed it perfectly. I hope somewhere out there on the Internet there is a video of that…

I just had so much fun with it all! I was so full of energy that afterward, I picked up a bike from a nearby Velib station and just rode. I couldn’t go home… not after all that. At home all I would do is sit around. Maybe fall asleep. It began as a quest to see if I could get to my dance studio faster (nope) and then I ended up on the main streets of Paris on the quai along the Seine with cars speeding all around me, my adrenaline pumping. I’ve been asked whether I find it scary bicycling around other cars and, oddly enough, I always say no. There’s something exhilarating about it. Almost similar to jumping in that freezing cold lake. I’m in complete control. I’m so aware of my surroundings. The cool wind blows on my face as I glance around at my warm Parisian settings, a mixture of gray and faded pink in the sky as the sun sets on a rainy day. The Seine on my right, I make split second decisions about where I want to go based on the street directions, none of which I know ahead of time. I have no destination.

I ended up on Ile Saint Louis randomly. The thought of ice cream passed my mind, and then I got so caught up in biking that I forgot. After riding around the entire island and staring at the Seine from all sides, flitting images of Bateaux Mouches passing me by, I followed traffic up to the Bastille. I rode all around the giant etoile, potentially very intimidating with really cars rushing on all sides, but I was calm. I had an idea of where I wanted to go, and the familiar sight of the Opera Bastille (no matter how ugly it is in relation to the Garnier, I still love it in its own way) watching over me. My free 30 minutes were running out and I rushed to find a stand to exchange bikes. Once finding a new one, I picked up where I left off and rode toward home (I actually know how to get home from most places!!) and got side-tracked on a quest to find the Canal Saint Martin in the dark. It took me down a crowded pedestrian bar street where I got to be super obnoxious and ring my bell. Sure I got dirty looks, but I only stared off into space determined.

I never found the canal outside of getting back to the Bastille and the part of it nearby there. But I did find the Gare de Lyon! Finding the Bastille again, which is pretty hard to miss, I rode back on the main boulevard, through the etoile at Place de la Republique, down to Faubourg Saint Martin and turned on Rue Saint Denis instead of my usual route down Rue Saint Martin, a random little side-route that I knew would bring me to my final Velib station. It’s funny how you get led so randomly onto streets because of traffic directions. And yet it’s so easy to find your way around Paris by bike if you just have the patience to find ways outside of the norm.

After biking for an hour, solid ground felt insecure. I almost felt like I was floating. But that’s how I’ve felt all day… floating on music, floating on bikes. It was the perfect way to end the day. I don’t think my eyelids will last much longer. Now, for some well deserved sleep!

People often say that time flies when you’re having fun. But what about when you are simply living life? From day to day for the past almost 9 months, I haven’t lived what any native French person would call an extraordinary life. Certainly, to Americans, this is a fairytale. But my vision of a fairytale ended a while ago and changed into the happy escapades of everyday living. I had no ticking clock rushing me. I rarely jumped on planes to other exciting countries. I had Paris and a quiet life to call my own and no need/want to make it bigger.

I’m convinced that it’s actually in the quiet life where time passes the quickest. Without too much to complain about or too much to shout from the rooftops. The scary thing is when you realize that the quiet life you are so happily living has an expiration date. And that the end that seemed so far from sight just got halfway closer.

I always have a lot of thoughts, but I’ve had more than usual lately. So many, in fact, that I find myself hurriedly jotting them down on jerky Metro rides, wishing I had a computer in front of me to keep up with the speed. I was suddenly flung into spring break, which actually passed slowly while traveling and then fast at home when I slept all day and watched movies alone under the rain of Paris. Spring break was not supposed to go by that fast. 2 weeks is not supposed to be a short time. And now coming back to classes — 2 weeks’ worth — and hearing the chirpy chatter of people ready to go home, I only feel like it’s the beginning of the end.

“But Anna,” everyone tells me, “you’re here for another year! You have plenty of time!” I am not allowed to complain about leaving. Fine, I’m not justified in feeling this. But that doesn’t mean I don’t or shouldn’t be allowed to do so.

Because here’s the thing. I see how fast this year went, especially when I found myself having a life, a routine to live, classes in and outside of school (ballet!). People I love, an unlimited amount and variety of things to be learned. This semester, everything I thought I felt about Paris last semester solidified big time. I have more to lose than I feel I did in any place other than my hometown… but at least I always return to Manlius, and in an easy manner. This year I created something bigger than I knew existed that has changed me in ways I didn’t even know were possible. Now, even 2 1/2 months away from that seems like an eternity, even if I do look forward to seeing the people I love at home again.

When people tell me I have a year left, I smiley briefly at the fact that I do not have to say goodbye to everything I hold dear yet. But then I enter the real world, and can only think that a year is nothing time-wise. I still feel like it was just this time last year, preparing for this and freaking out at every detail. It all seemed so foreign… such a big deal. Now I’m in the process of getting another visa. It’s as if, despite how much has happened and I remember, a year passed in a second. To a person who has no jarring want to return to her former life other than for a visit here and there, this is not comforting.

I can’t wish away the last 2 weeks of classes. I can’t wish away the summer to when I’m coming back. Because when I come back in August, the clock starts ticking for real. For no longer will I be the person exceptionally staying longer. I will be like everyone else who’s a year-long student. And at the end of that year, no matter how much I kick and scream, I’m going back.

I keep trying to tell myself that I feel this strongly about my life here because it is a type of forbidden fruit. If it were as easy as New York, I would take it for granted. But is that true or just a delusion to help ease the pain? It’s not like the ticking clock is moving me to live in any other way than in the US. I watch TV like normal, sleep until 1pm like normal, and stay in on weekends relaxing like normal. The only difference is that I feel perfectly at home… and yet horribly anxious.

Anxious about leaving France. Anxious about leaving Paris. Anxious about forgetting French this summer. Anxious about needing to improve my French this summer and making sure it happens. Anxious about doing all the work I need to do. Anxious about rehearsals for my concert Friday. Anxious about finals. Anxious about my exposé tomorrow. Anxious about making sure I see everything I want to see (for instance, more than the 4 museums I’ve seen in the past year) before I leave at the end of May. Anxious about leaving 4 days before my apartment’s rental contract is up. Anxious about leaving my apartment. Anxious about getting to all the places I want to (especially in France) in the next year. Anxious about maybe not having done enough in the past year and dumping it all on next. Anxious about losing my ballet progress this summer. Anxious about leaving the people I love here. Anxious about talking about all I want to talk about. Anxious about not saying all the important things I want to say. Anxious about making sure that this month is not wasted. Anxious that it won’t go by too fast.

Anxious about change.

easterncandytime:

juan les pins. (by Sandra Beijer)

Can someone please explain to me why I haven’t/am not viens, viens, viens à Juan Les Pins? Or the French Riviera in general? Oh so much left to see in the next year…

The rest of my vacation photos for those who don’t do Facebook! Well, here they are!

Florence, Italy:

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10151544941695304.838861.848690303&type=3&l=b2abadc1ab

Copenhagen, Denmark Part 1:

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10151552066370304.839743.848690303&type=3&l=44db64244c

Copenhagen, Denmark Part 2:

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10151553949430304.840011.848690303&type=3&l=feda80e120

But I don’t really mind. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that Paris is prettiest in the rain, but in some unexplainable way, I like this rain. And it’s not like I haven’t seen my fair share of rain in the past week…

I remember briefly commenting on how all the leaves seemed to have magically popped up overnight on the trees before I left. But now especially, gazing down Boulevard Sebastopol waiting for a bus to Gare du Nord to get some Chai tea from an Indian grocer, the boulevard looks even nicer. The rain weighs down the leaves, the trees forming a sort of green border of refreshing color among the gray buildings and sky.

I loved Madrid, Florence, and Copenhagen. I loved spending quality time with my friends and making new memories. But, even in the drizzle, I never stop preferring Paris. Furthermore, can we discuss the fact that I consciously chose the bus over the metro to get to Gare du Nord? When did that happen?

Everything has gone right, if not better than expected, since I returned. I have newfound respect for the US, after seeing the American Embassy hustle me through my passport renewal process in an hour and 15 minutes (3 different windows and steps!). They even laughed with me at my flusteredness. The American gentleman at the last window happily pronounced to me how I was getting my first adult passport. “Yes I am!” I exclaimed in enthusiastic response, “And in Paris! How excited!” He was incredibly friendly and wished me luck in all my future endeavors after asking me about myself during my entire time at the window, in between official matters, of course. I left bouncing out the embassy feeling content, having been assured that my new passport would be in my mailbox within 10 days.

While there, I saw several expat American families renewing various paperwork. I talked with one mother and daughter, relocated because of the father’s job. Every American in that room seemed in a good mood (probably because they were going through us — as there were a LOT fewer Americans than French — with good speed). And every American sang the praises of living in France and having no desire to go back. While I am one of them for now, I secretly squirmed with jealousy that these teenagers were growing up here.

Later I went to the cordonnerie nearby my dance studio to FINALLY (I mean I’ve been talking about doing this for months) get my favorite pair of vintage ankle boots’ heels fixed. I was pleasantly surprised to hear that it would only cost 40 Euro for that extreme amount of work (the heel is so badly slanted that shoe makers always give me dirty looks) and apparently fixing another part of the shoe that needed fixing. Furthermore, it’ll all be ready tomorrow. France, I am SO impressed. It’s good to be back.