... To Not Falling In Love

La Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris

I know Paris is the city of love, but zut alors, not for me.  I arrived heavy-hearted from my Irish goodbye, and in need of a solid night of sleep.  I willed my deep brain to remember enough French to attempt functionality, and prayed to meet some fast friends.  In short, I was weary, and fading fast.  So while I did get to spend a solid 24 hours with an extremely effusive and warm southern woman named Elizabeth, I quickly realized that Paris was going to be an uphill battle for me, mostly against myself.

Marie Antoinette's Garden, Versailles

Les Catacombes

I think Paris is where the past month of solo travel began to truly catch up with me.  I missed my family, and my friends, and my personal space.  I missed my girl clothes, and doing my hair.  Because let me tell you, I was never more aware of my "dirty hiker" look than sitting at a cafe in the middle of Paris.  I missed snuggling my dog, and my fridge full of fresh produce that I could prepare for myself in a clean, private kitchen.  I missed roommate nights of pink wine and deep conversation.  I missed snort-worthy laughter with my work girls.  I missed sleeping through the night, alone in my room.  And so, in effort to not fall entirely to pieces, I did.  It.  All.

Eating Some Feelings

With the help of Elizabeth, I figured out the train system.  I mastered my confident stride through the hordes of tourists, and perfected my stone cold response to the unwanted advances of some seriously aggressive hommes parisiens.  I biked Versailles, hiked for hours through the monuments, and determinedly appreciated the beauty, architecture, and culture of the city.  Admittedly, I know more about the intricacies of how croissants are made than I do French history, but I was able to appreciate that too (Merci, Monsieur Hugo).  And finally, I ate.  I mean, unashamedly, guiltlessly got down.  I even made a point to go out in the evenings when I felt like it least, as I was determined to not let melancholy keep me from being present in this most glamorous of cities.  

Le bon Samaritain, Jardin des Tuileries

So while I remained as thick as they are thin, and as frumpy as they are chic, I came out on the other side.  Not less lonely necessarily, but a little more of some other things.  I'm more curious about the dynamics of  different cultures and immigrants converging on the city.  I'm more enamored with the language that I just can't seem to live near.  I'm more grateful to Chicago for teaching me to navigate public transportation.  And finally, I'm more gracious with myself.  Because I was sad, and frustrated, and sleep-deprived, but I did Paris.  Or at least, I scratched the surface.  And it was delicious.