paris diaries, vol. v

Today was the first rainy day in Paris that I fully enjoyed. It was a slow, and cold, start to the day, resulting in my being late to my Art History class, which I fell asleep in. After class, I had an informal meeting with my program director, two peers, and someone that I don’t really know what to call, but she is the one who connected me to my internship. Said meeting had me thinking about my future and what my next steps will be—something that I’ve thought of way too much recently. After the talk we all had, our director took us to the 8th arrondissement, but not before getting lunch at a market. I had Pad Thai with pork, and it was delicious. The metro ride to from the market to our destination was quick, and we soon began to go into various different art galleries. We spent hours going in and out of galleries in the sprinkling rain.

Once we had finished with our last gallery, “Christie’s,” I saw a café nearby and went to sit down to escape the rain and have a bit of a rest. I ordered hot chocolate, sat under the awning, and watched cars drive by and people walk past in the then-drizzle. I eventually asked for the check, promptly paying and walking hurriedly to the metro stop. I saw two ravens amongst a few pigeons outside of the entrance to a small park, an unusual sight for me. I trudged on, though, trying to get to the metro stop before the rain decided to fall harder.

The metro was nothing special, simply a time for me to stand and listen to Red (Taylor’s Version) while looking at the huge belt buckle of the girl standing across from me. It made me feel like I was back in Kentucky.

I got off the train at the stop on the corner of my street, and quickly realized it was pouring down outside. I walked back to my dorm, cold, wet, and feeling negative. About halfway there, I saw a young girl, probably around eight or nine, skipping and smiling despite the rain. It was then that I realized how insufferable I was being in such a situation. I had the opportunity to smile and close my eyes and turn my face upwards toward the sky, feeling the small, cold raindrops fall on my skin. No worrying about my mascara running, or my hair getting ruined, or even my laptop in my bag (which was pretty well protected by the bag). And so I marched on back to my dorm, happy to feel the cool air and the rain after so long of the city being hot and uncomfortably sweaty.

Less than an hour later, my friend Gaby and I went to Musée d’Orsay to see my roommate Kelcie and her family who flew in yesterday. I’ve been so excited to see her sister (hi, Karis) that I feel like I spent more time talking than I did looking at artwork. But I will say, it was really fun to go through the museum and realize just how much of it I knew of, whether it was just a passing “oh, I’ve seen that” or a piece that I had studied in class and could actually say something about.

The rest of my evening has been pretty normal. Dinner in the cafeteria (that was not quite my taste), followed by a trip to Carrefour to get sushi and eclairs. No, it isn’t the greatest combination, but it filled me up and tasted good. Then I watched a bit of a movie and wrote a bit of this post, but soon got distracted as some of my friends were starting to play Among Us, so of course I had to go join. It is surprisingly fun to get back into after not playing since high school. After over an hour and a half, we split ways and I came back to my room. I ate little caramels and continued to watch a movie and write until Kelcie came back. We hung out for a bit until the time split us up, and now I sit here in my bottom bunk writing and publishing this post.

I have decided that there are some things I feel that I need to share. Things beyond a day in my life, or the Eiffel Tower. I would like to add a disclaimer now that I have no intention of sounding opinionated or knowledgeable about things I’m still learning, but this blog was and is written to be about my life and the way I experience the world. My life extends past the things I’ve already written about and often repeat, so I hope that you will read this with grace and some sense of compassion. Not for only me, but for the world we are living in.

(Side note: the following paragraphs have been written at different times with different mindsets, so it may not be completely cohesive. I apologize in advance for the lack of polish of these thoughts.)

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I sometimes find that writing is less about the words I go on to express and more about the way the pen carries itself across the paper, my wrist not quite guiding it but instead following along. Rather than feeling the urge to get my thoughts onto paper, or a Word doc, I crave that feeling of ink touching the paper or my fingertips on the keys.

What does that say about me, as one who writes? I wouldn’t call myself a writer, exactly, but more of someone that writes. I don’t say that to discount the words I’ve written or even this blog; it has to do with the purpose in which I write. I rarely go into this practice with my message, or thesis in more formal settings, in mind. I go in with a full mind but cannot think of a way to sort out the content. Does that make sense? To me it does, and it doesn’t.

The other day I had a strange dream. It was filled with strange action, as most dreams are, but a couple parts really stuck out to me. Honestly, in some moments I have been reflecting on them I have felt this overwhelming urge to write. I know I said earlier that writing for me is more about the act and less about the words themselves, but I felt this push to say what I needed to say. I was at a café with two of my friends, intending to do homework. The service inside was not great so they went and sat outside, but I stayed in my seat, tucked away behind a wall, and opened my laptop. I opened a fresh, blank page, selected a font that felt right, and started typing a digital journal, reaching three pages before I knew it.

Recently, I have felt the weight of what, or I suppose the better term is “whom,” I no longer have in my life. This could be a result of death or a fight or simply choosing different paths. I am reminded of these losses daily. Seeing the numbers 777 make me feel a mix of emotions. Hearing a specific song makes me think of my best friend from (sophomore year of) high school. Having a dream about someone I love hugging me makes my insides shrink. All of these things build in my head, alongside things and new memories I gain every day. A smoldering cigarette atop a wet garbage can. A woman sitting at a café that let a small bird eat the crumbs off her plate as she sat back in her chair, drinking coffee. A baby in a stroller than waves to everyone that passes. You get the idea. My brain fills with these images and thoughts, and often I feel too overwhelmed to function.

To me, these times when my brain feels busiest are the times that I need to hear the keys of my laptop clicking and clacking under my fingertips. The sound is both comforting and oddly inspirational—allowing me a quick outlet of thoughts in a fashion that, as a student, I am so familiar with. And that is partially why I created this blog. I do journal every once in a while, on paper, but more often than that I am writing my thoughts in the Notes app of my phone or a document on Microsoft Word or Google Docs. Since coming to Paris, I think it is easier for me to post a blog than it is to write in the black journal I specifically packed to write down my Paris memories in. Instead of using it, I turn to this blog. Of course, the internet only sees so much of my life, and I tell it a fraction of my life is truly like. I haven’t talked about the book I’m currently reading and its inspirational effect on the career I am pursuing, or the stress I feel when I have an expense report to do for my job that I spend eight hours on in one day. I don’t talk about the fear that accompanies living in a new city where I barely speak the language, or the way the garden at Versailles looks midday when a storm is brewing. But then again, I should, right?

I feel almost dishonest when I spend my time writing this blog, especially when adding to “Paris Diaries,” and not telling the entire truth about what goes on behind the scenes. I’ve thought a lot about the things I shield in my life versus the things I share so freely. In most of the entries in this series, I have simply written a narrative of my day or week. “First I did this, then my friends and I did this, and then I spoke a little French and got a coffee, and then, and then, and then.” When I read it back, it feels juvenile. (We are going to ignore the irony of me doing that in the first part of this post. Sounds good.) I love writing and I enjoy when people read my writing, and heck I even like rereading my blogs to remind me of things I have now forgotten about. But at the same time, is that me? Is that my voice? I’ve struggled with this before, I even wrote a blog on it when I first began writing publicly in this way. I just hadn’t realized until now how superficial is sometimes seems to me.

So, in the name of honesty and of fear, I will speak a little on the feelings I felt Saturday as Versailles and the Louvre were evacuated due to a bomb threat, and I was in the gardens of Versailles during it. A group of us, over ten in total, had taken a train to Versailles, splitting up once we got there. Half of us went into the Chateau and the other half of us went to the gardens. I was in the garden group, but then we split up when it came to buying tickets, and so Kelcie, one of our friends, and I went in first. Overtaken by beauty, we paid no mind to the messages in the WhatsApp group, or the texts from Gaby (who was in garden group #2). We walked down the steps, stopping here and there to take it all in. We were about 15 minutes into it, when Gaby called twice and a worker started shouting at us to leave. We saw that the other groups had been evacuated, and as we were leaving we asked a worker what was happening. “There is a suspicion.” A suspicion of what? But we quickly saw the red beret-wearing soldiers scattered throughout the gardens, all bearing large guns. We opened our phones, realizing there was a bomb threat to Versailles and the Louvre.

Fear is something I am learning to cope with. I could care less about the Parisian bed bugs scare people so fiercely. Here, it really isn’t even that bad. What was scariest was what similarities I saw between the incidents here and those of the US. Bomb threats? France hasn’t had a major terrorist attack in years. A stabbing in Arras? In a school, no less? Terrifying, when you remove the context of America’s pattern of violence that we have become so used to. I genuinely feel safer here, in Paris, than I do in many parts of the US. But I still feel fear over the threat that reminds me of home. That night, when we had our weekly dinner at our director’s apartment, our conversation was long and intense. The weight of it was felt in the air, like the humidity of Jackson, MS in August.

One thing in particular stood out to me as we were talking about how to live our lives fearlessly and safely in a world that is so intimidating. Our director said, “We have to continue to live our lives. Focus on living life with integrity.”

There were no bombings in France. For that, I thank the Lord.

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Thank you for reading, as always. Another Paris Diaries is in the book, but now the countdown begins until I go home to the US. I leave Paris in 31 days, in a weird, discombobulating back and forth of emotions. But I will save that for another day.