Walkin's Easy When the Road is Flat

I have written a lot, recently, about being homesick. About missing America and about everything that I look forward to when I get home. In the hustle and bustle of packing, finals, and everything that my life here has become, I forgot to mention one thing:

Coming to Paris, this semester, was the best thing that I have ever done for myself.

Being here, for the past 5 months, has been the hardest thing that I have ever done. For 20 years, I have floated along a relatively placid sea- but more than that, I faced few challenges, ran into minimal obstacles, and the term "instant gratification" applied to pretty much everything.

Within hours of being in Paris, I knew that these ideas, ones that I had taken for granted, would not apply in this new world. I had to work for things. If I needed something, I also needed to do it myself. If I couldn't find something, I had to find a way to get it.

More than anything, this semester has taught me a kind of temerity and self-awareness that I know I could not have acquired in any other way.

On January 8th, 2010, waving good-bye to my dad at the airport was the boldest move I have ever made. Never one to step out of my comfort zone, I was suddenly diving into the uncertain at a frightfully high pace.

Getting on that plane, tears welling up in my eyes, I couldn't help but think- this is not the kind of thing that you do- what if you can't handle this? what if you can't handle the change?

Now, as I sit here, at a quaint corner cafe in Paris, I can't help but smile in recollection and think that now this IS the kind of thing that I do. I can handle this- and at this point, it is difficult for me to imagine a challenge that I would be unable to overcome.

Paris has changed my definition of the conceivable. It has changed my image of what I am capable of and it has forever revolutionized my own self-confidence.

Sitting at this cafe today, the server walked up to me and smiled "you have proven your french! and with that, I will give you the menu- in french"

But mastering a basic understanding of a foreign language, creating a home for myself, and starting a life in this new and unfamiliar place were small troubles in exchange for the transformation that they caused.

Adlai Stevenson once advised "when you leave here, do not forget why you came"

I came to Paris because I was unchallenged and unfazed by my life in America- the days were the same and I couldn't help but think that falling into a pattern of …well, patterns, was setting myself up for a life of the same. I needed change, i needed difference, and i needed obstacles.

In Paris, these are things that I have found- I have learned that there truly is no classroom equivalent for what you learn in foreign travels. I have learned that nothing is worth doing with which you have not invested your whole heart.

I have discovered, in Paris, that sometimes you can put everything you have into something and what you get isn't exactly what you wanted, that sometimes when you try your absolute hardest, you need to push harder- but most importantly I have learned there there is nothing that cannot be done without persistence, an open mind, and effort.

There is no better feeling than the one I had today, handing in my last final exam- unrealistic as it was, it was what the action symbolized: I felt I could take on the world. I felt as thought there was no pitfall that I would be incapable of overcoming.

More than anything, when I get home, I look forward to putting this mentality to action: to showing myself more things that I can do- and to taking on more obstacles- I have discovered not that failure is impossible, but that it is merely another obstacle on the road to success. Where there is a will, I have heard, there is a way- and of this, I can now say with a kind of confidence I never knew I had, I am sure.

With you I'd Walk Anywhere

Paris is a beautiful city, full of museums, parks, and narrow cobblestoned streets that I have spent 5 months exploring. The churches are some of the most beautiful places that I have ever seen and the architecture is unlike any that I will ever see again. But there are some things that, no matter how hard I try, I will never be able to find in Europe.

'Speed of the Sound of Loneliness' is a beautiful John Prine song that my dad plays a lot in late afternoons, I never noticed it- nor did i even know what it was called- but its a wonderful song. This morning I found it stuck in my head, so I got it online and turned it on…it didn't help…for some reason, it doesn't carry the same meaning when I am listening to it alone in my apartment in Paris. What I wanted was to be on my dads living room couch, him coming home from work, opening a soda, and sitting down next to me.

All of last summer, my friends and I listened to the same songs over and over again…songs that are just not done justice when I hear them out at parisian dance clubs.

I have been lucky enough, my whole life, to never really be alone. My friends are truly amazing, genuine, honest people- and always have been. I have ridden a sometimes bumpy road- but the people with me have made it more than bearable. As I look around my walls, here, in Paris, at my photos- I wonder what exactly I was running from. I think even of the fights that I've been in with my closest friends, even with people that I stopped speaking to…and I can now realize that every one of these fights was only out of love.

It's hard when you really care about someone, to understand that. Its hard to see through a haze of anger and realize that all you want is the best for everyone that you care about- most of the fights i've gotten into with my best friend were because I wasn't caring for myself enough and she had to remind me to try.

For so many years I have been blessed to be surrounded by people who care for me, people who have my best intentions always at heart. To leave all of these people for another country, where I was alone, really shook me to the core. I thrive on being in good company. I love spending time with people that I love.

I have never laughed or cried harder than in times spent with those closest to me- those who have seen me at my best and my worst. I'm not, in fact, one to really express emotion- but in these past few days, my excitement to get home has been almost unbearable. Making plans to go to dinner, to spend weekends in Albany, to drive to DC…it seems truly surreal, and now, after 5 months, I can appreciate that more than I ever imagined possible.

It sounds cliche to say that I didn't know how good I had it, back home, and I guess it's ridiculous that I had to travel to a foreign country for 5 months in order to realize that…but sometimes, you do have to learn things the hard way.

It's interesting to think about…here, in Paris, I have my own apartment. The city is gorgeous, there are unlimited options for activities, I can't get a job, I go to class 4 times a week, and the term "allowance" hasn't really applied since I was in America. I think that this, more than anything, has served as an example to prove that money cannot buy happiness. Tomorrow, I am going out to one of the best restaurants in Paris, I will eat and drink well, and be in good company- it will be fun, and a great meal…but i would give anything to be able to sit down on a couch with Maggie and Marmol, order cappachinos pizza, and drink andre out of the bottle (as I will be doing very soon)… Maybe thats just the class in me, though.

I've never really understood crying out of happiness or excitement…I think I did, once, in a Jim Carey movie, but thats a separate story. But the feeling that I get when I think of landing in JFK, of getting off that plane, and of walking into my moms apartment- of seeing my dog, my brother, my mom… its indescribable. Imagining stepping into my dads living room, where I know he will be waiting patiently…cracking open that first can of diet pepsi and sitting down on the couch…well, it makes me feel like I am the luckiest person in the world- and I wouldn't trade that feeling for anything.

There is so much that I look forward to when I get home- I have so many graduates to see and so many open arms to run into. I have stories to tell, and stories to hear.

They say that people come to Paris looking for love- well, as a… wise woman once said…

I don't think that that love is here…

no, it is not in this quaint apartment in this beautiful city…in Paris- in fact, it is right where I left it: at home.

A Little on the Trashy Side

In just about every aspect of my life, I am stereotypically girly.

I love shoes and holding hands, slow dancing and grand gestures, I've spent my share of days confined to bed with movies and Ben & Jerrys, and I cry every time Meryl Streep lets her husband drive away from Clint Eastwood in the pouring rain of Madison County. I tend to be over-analytical. I get attached too easily and I admit to owning such classic literature as He's Just Not That Into You.

Yes, in many ways, I pretty much define what it means to be girly…and I've been pretty comfortable with that my whole life.

But honestly… I'm a beast at pool. I love the smell of chewing tobacco and I think pickup trucks are incredibly attractive.. and I could tell you an embarrassing amount of information about yankees baseball and college football. In fact, just a couple of weeks ago, I was up until 5 in the morning watching the NFL draft

Paris has been going great, as the light at the end of the tunnel is now apparent- and with less than 2 weeks left here, I'm really enjoying what I have left. Last night was particularly interesting, as, after meeting up with a friend and some of his friends at a bar, my friend and I ended up taking a cab back to their house to hang out…now, there house is ACTUALLY located in eurodisney (they work for Disney as stuntmen in the wild west show…seriously, I couldn't make this up)

I went back with my friend, mostly because I didn't want to leave her alone and didn't know what situation she was getting herself into, and I knew I could handle myself fine. Honestly, when we got to their house, I was very hesitant…and, to be frank, kind of a bitch. There we were, two small twenty year old girls with no way to get home until the buses started up at 5am (unless we wanted to pay 80 euro for a cab) in a house full of 6 or 7 guys in good shape in their mid twenties- who all had each other to back them up.

My anxiety mustve been pretty apparent, after I turned down drinks and made sure to stay standing and alert, keeping my eyes locked on my friend, to make sure everything was okay.

After a little while, I walked out on the porch, where a few of the guys were smoking…I was tired and really, just wanted to go home, but the given my options (which were few) there wasn't much i could do but sit down and wait until Melanie was ready to go, so I sad on the steps and looked up at the guys standing next to me, at which point I was greeted by a site so familiar to me back at school…something I hadn't seen since my last time in America- in the back pockets of their jeans, all of the guys had matching lightened circles…or, as they're commonly known 'skoal rings'

I immediately loosened up and let out a sigh of relief. FINALLY a familiar site. After all of this time in Paris, i've gotten pretty sick of the eurotrash guys here with their tight jeans and manicured hands, and I hadn't even stopped to notice that the guys we had been hanging out with all night had a midwestern twang that was unmistakable accompanied by the kind of manners that, i've now learned, are truly American.

We sat around talking and, as these things usually do, the conversation lead to me taking out my ipod, after being challenged the fact that I liked country music. Sitting up until 7 in the morning, to the sound of my country playlist and the scent of berry blend skoal (which their parents shipped them from America) was certainly not how I expected to spend my night- it was such a pleasant surprise. As we were leaving, I apologized for the way I had acted only hours earlier, assuming the worst about them, rolling my eyes, and trying to get my friend to leave, an apology they all accepted with laughter and, i think, a little bit of understanding.

"who woulda guessed," one of the boys laughed, putting his cowboy hat on my head, "that all it would take to make the New York City girl comfortable would be a skoal can and some George Strait!"

Who, indeed.

As Long As I'm With You

I write this entry from the hotel room of one of the nicest hotels i've stayed at in a long time…or, maybe it just seems that way-it's been a fair amount of time since I stayed in a hotel.

I am usually not home for more than a few weeks at a time, maximum (and thats around Christmas time)- other than that, I'm at school, visiting friends, or doing whatever it is I do over vacations. Because I'm not home for long periods of time (and when i'm in school, I live off of the salary of someone well…without a job)- when I DO end up making that trek home, I always need to get a lot done. By this, I mean the artificial stuff…haircuts and colors, manicures, buying new jeans, purses, makeup…anyway, whatever it is- it all adds up pretty quickly, and my mother usually ends up baring a large portion of this financial burden, since my dad pays for my life during the time I'm at school. In light of this, my mom cant help but get a little frustrated sometimes, when I'm only home for a few days and end up spending more of her money than i do her time- after all, that hardly seems fair. Another result of this is that she tends to think that a lot of my life revolves around shopping (when in reality, i rarely buy things when I'm in DC…besides dinner and an exorbitant amount of vodka-cranberry's.)

Her frustration with this is something that I have come to understand over the years…her lectures of feeling under appreciated began to blend in with one another and finally a few weeks ago, I got to questioning this in my own mind. I started to feel like i WASNT appreciating her much and ask myself if I really was taking advantage of her…the answer to this question came to me quickly and clearly today …obviously it sucks that I go home and have to spend all of that money on stupid things- BUT...my mom has been here, in Paris,, for the past few days- and it has been an absolute pleasure. When asked on the surface why it has been so great all of the sudden- I would say…well i've been staying at a 5 star hotel, eating anything on the menu, ordering whatever drinks I want, buying new clothes, and learning that they serve champagne in the Chanel store…why do you THINK its been so great?

No…wrong. See, I've also been pretty sick these past few days- so tonight, when my mom and her friend left for dinner, I stayed behind in the hotel. I was in the nice hotel, a full room service menu and spa at my fingertips, a new pair of chanel heels on my feet…and moments after the gorgeous mahogany hotel room door shut, I found myself overcome, again, with a feeling of loneliness. My anxiety level went up, I started feeling sad, and even more I started dreading tomorrow- when my mom won't be here anymore.

Sure, my mom and I have had our fights- big ones, too- it's often difficult for us to see eye-to-eye because we have similar difficulties with communication…but sitting here today, I realized that my mood these past few days hadn't gone up because of my style of living- i owed my newly found happiness not to my mothers presents- but to her presence.

Paris has, as I've pointed out plenty of times, been a lot of a struggle for me in many different ways- but the #1 problem I've had is not being able to find those people I truly care about here. Honestly, I'm a very caring, passionate person when it comes to things I love to do and people I love to be around, I throw myself into things whole heartedly and sometimes that has its downsides-

I guess today though I realized that what my mother said yesterday was true, when things are hard and you don't feel well- physically, emotionally…there is no quicker cure than having your mother around. There is, cheesy as it sounds, nothing like a mothers love for her daughter.

Anyway…after all of this, my mom leaves tomorrow, which I hate. Honestly, I really wish she could sit through these last 3 weeks here with me, holding my hand- entertaining me with jokes and keeping me company at cafes- but she cant. It's come down to that, now, 3 more weeks- well, on Wednesday that's what it'll be anyway. My dad is right, they're going to fly by…I don't really have finals or much to do except for everything I never had time for. I will never again be living in this city, and likely won't be visiting it for years... and I do look forward to that- and to what i'll have to say about it then…for now though, I'm just looking forward to my moms return from dinner.

protocol

I realized today that I rarely update this in reference to the actual goings-on of my life…so heres a speedy update:

1. this weekend, I'm going to the south of france

2. last weekend, I went to disney world AND rode space mountain. it was nuts.

3. a week from tomorrow, my mom comes to visit

4. 4 weeks and 6 days from today…I am back on american soil

eeek.

If I could just get it on paper

I take the blame for a lot of things. Really, I can be a bit of a pushover. I hate fighting and even more, I hate getting yelled at, so usually when I'm in a confrontational situation, I accept blame, apologize, and move on. Really, I just hate seeing people that I care about angry at me.

The morning I looked up my first application for Paris last year was, in fact, a day in early September when I was blamed for something that, as much as I tried, I couldn't really see as being my fault…I woke up with all of my closest friends mad at me and for a little while, must say that I wasn't even sure why. But I was sure that I was sick of taking the blame just because I can be a pretty easy target in those situations.

Today, looking at an enormous selection of cheeses in the supermarket, I pointed to one that looked like cheddar and politely asked the man behind the counter for a small amount. Before leaving the store, though, I realized that I could've been mistaken, so I took out the cheese and took a bite.

it was DEFINITELY not cheddar.

I walked back to the counter and, a little bit frustrated, told the man I had bought the wrong one and asked if there was any way for me to just switch them- He looked at me as if i was crazy

"how did you not know what you were buying?" he said to me in French

"there was no label" I shot back- to which he looked down at his cheese display and back up at me- before apologizing and giving me the cheese that I had intended to buy, now labeled "cheddar".

Walking out of the store, satisfied, I had a mental flashback of sorts to a warm day last summer when someone I used to know told me about his "strategy" for relationships- really, it was more of a lecture than a conversation. A lecture that I, undoubtedly, thought I deserved- and in many ways, I did.

"I have a piece of paper in my closet," he had said to me, "and on it is written 'white paper'."

I was curious and confused as to how he was going to get this story to relate to my making mistakes combined with his not wanting to date me…and I did have a lot of respect for his opinions- so i continued to listen.

"Now, just because I wrote 'white paper' on it, doesn't make it any different- its still exactly the same, still just a sheet of white paper."

When he finished his little anecdote and we said our goodbyes, I walked away feeling rejected- but more than that, I felt a little bit mystified. I was so used to boys not wanting to be in "a relationship" as their being assholes and choosing to be in a lot of "non relationships"…but maybe, I thought (naively), he really meant what he was saying- he really just didn't understand why it needed a label. Maybe I was asking too much.

Maybe, I thought, the situation I found myself in really was entirely my fault. I felt like I had entirely ruined something just because I had assumed he was like everyone else. I thought I knew what he wanted- nothing from me. Honestly, I felt kind of guilty that day- and for a long time afterwards, baring the burden of blame and regret, thinking about the white paper and how right he really was.

I think that was the last time I mistakenly gave someone the benefit of the doubt and failed to trust myself and my own instincts (not to say that I wasn't, as I thought at the time, at least partially at fault) And now, a year later, as I sit here with cheddar cheese on my crackers, I see so clearly why he was wrong.

Relationships, friendships- ANY and EVERY human interaction is anything but simplistic. They are anything but white sheets of paper.

Sure, something like that, something like white paper, doesn't need a label to exist.

But when something as simple as cheddar cheese needs a label in order for you to know what it is- because it can look JUST the same as about a trillion other orange cheeses from the outside…you have to admit that with the complexities and intricacies of human interaction, asking for simple labels like "boyfriend" or "girlfriend" is really not asking much at all. Especially when the consequences of mistaking a "friendship" for a "relationship" are much greater, much more of an emotional burden than those that come with mixing up printer paper with construction paper.

I thought of the "white paper" sign this morning and laughed, wondering whether he really believed what he was saying at the time or whether he knew, as well as I did that hot July morning, that if and when he wanted something badly enough, putting a label on it wouldn't seem like such a burden.

There are plenty of things that I take the blame for- many of which are actually my fault. I have lied to close friends and made errors in judgement for which the repercussions lasted a torturous eternity. Sometimes, though, the rare occasion arises when I am right about something- and today, free cheddar cheese in hand, was one of those days.

Frenchman for the Night

Hearing news from overseas of drama surrounding the inevitable formal season, back in the real world, makes me think of one thing: the school year, it seems, is coming to a close.

For someone not involved in Greek life at all, I have been to more than my fair share of Greek events- mostly because I am not involved in Greek life at all- therefore, it is onmi-appropriate for guy and girl friends alike to take me with them, when they don't have other company. Now, even freshman year when I wasn't rushing, I remember thinking to myself that the only thing I would really regret about not being part of Greek life WAS the formals.

Being ever the cheeseball and sap that I am, I love dressing up and doing the whole dinner, dancing etc kind of thing- and my Freshman year, when the first formal (err…i guess it would be "semi-formal") season came along, I was pretty excited when one of my good friends dates cancelled on him last minute, so I got to go to his formal- ignoring the midterm or final or whatever it was that I had the next day. That evening, I was pretty nervous- I remember walking down a big flight of stairs with a red carpet, some sort of buffet in the foyer room, and then a giant room with tables and, of course, plenty of dancing.

Since that night, I've not-so-reluctantly taken to going to formals with friends pretty much every time the season comes around. Yes, I usually roll my eyes and complain when they ask me to go as their GDI friend…but really, I do love it.

Around this time last year, I was fulfilling just that role, agreeing to go to a formal with one of my close friends. I ended up cooking dinner for her and 2 guys (if you know me at all, you know how rare an occasion it is that I "cook" anything besides eggs, popcorn, or cereal.) all decked out in my "formal wear"…and in the end, we didn't even make it to the formal. Honestly, I'm not sure exactly how that all happened… one of the guys was a close friend of mine and I got into a screaming match with him about something or other- and told him I was leaving- just as we were outside hailing a cab to go to the formal.

As a "GDI", I've learned over the years, through several unfortunate evenings- that though dressing up and dancing is fun, the drama that comes behind those evenings is rarely worth it. Last year, at Maggies formal (to her credit, she had a date, she really just invited me because my sitting at home that night would've been extremely pathetic), we went out to dinner with a group of people beforehand and I literally just burst into tears at the dinner table. Nothing was said to bother me…really, I have no idea what it was. I wasn't drunk. It wasn't even my formal. I didn't even technically have a date to it.

Maybe I just have trouble dealing with stressful situations or ones in which I feel pressure. I don't know. But, I do know that later that night, after Maggie and Marmol had sailed off- so to speak- I went, entirely overdressed, to one of the bars we frequent in Georgetown.

I couldn't help but think, walking up the stairs, greeting everyone, how much more I liked this atmosphere. I guess all of the pressure really gets to me…and in situations like formals, new years eve parties, christmas parties- its all about finding a date, making sure your friends are going, having the right dress blah, blah, blah…sure, I love seeing boys wearing bow ties as much as the next girl (probably a little more) …but it sure would be nice to have less of a stigma attached to nights like that. It seems that when there is less pressure, the night ends up being more fun- one of the best New Years Eve's I ever had was spent at a diner with two girls, drinking bottled beer, wearing pajamas and my best birthday memories all come from surprise parties.

The only reason I was thinking about this today (besides hearing about formal nonsense from the states) is because I've realized that in Paris- in addition to the fact that there are no formals- every night out comes with pretty much the same stigma as the one before: to have fun.

It's nice because minus a small group, I usually never see people I'm with at a bar again- I never know who I am going to meet or run into on any given night. And the lack of expectation is a bit of a relief. Especially after 3 years of spending thursday, friday, and saturday nights out with pretty much the same crowd.

Now, I am by no means saying that come next winter, I wont be anxious and excited to dawn a dress and heels at some formal of a friend in need- I love that feeling of having your expectations align with reality- because sometimes that does happen- and that rare feeling is worth all of the times when it doesn't.

For now, though, I'm happy to go out in jeans and see where the night takes me.

Losin' track of the long days since I've been home

Honestly, I have experienced homesickness before.

The summer I was 15 (or maybe it was 14, really, a lot of those details escape me now) I decided, spur of the moment, to go to sleep away camp. I'd never done it before but all of my friends did it (ah, the pitfalls of peer pressure) and so it was my turn.

As is the case with spontaneity, this decision was completely unthought out. (is that even a phrase?) I did little research on the camp, knew no one there, and didn't have even a vague idea what going to sleep away camp even WAS- in fact the only times i'd been away from home for more than a night at that point was a 3 week period I spent in Australia coupled with a few mandatory church retreats before my confirmation

Like you may have predicted, sleep away camp didn't really work out.

Okay... I hated it.

Really, I don't even know why. I've never had much trouble making friends, the people were nice, and the activities were what you might expect…but I just hated it- and after the 2 week mark, on parents visiting day, I called it quits. I had spent too much time sitting in my wooden, creaking bunk bed with a sleepwalker next to me to take it any longer. I missed my friends everyday and i missed my family even more.

On that day, parents day, in the beginning of August, I was so excited to get back to my house in Pennsylvania. It seemed like I had been away for years- eating my moms barbecue chicken, sitting in the Longo's basement until midnight- everything that had once seemed patterned and expected, I felt so lucky to be a part of.

But isn't that always what it is like to return home?

When I go back to New York after having been away for a lengthy period of time, there is such a calm that comes over me and that feeling is irreplaceable- the feeling of truly being home. Walking into my dad's building, knowing he will have a "WELCOME HOME" sign on the door and offer to order from my favorite restaurant, wandering down columbus and broadway, peering into my favorite shops, sitting on my moms living room couch with her eating popcorn and renting movies on demand…in high school, these things blended in with my everyday life- but now, their rarity makes them so much more special. I may never live in New York City again, but it will always be home.

I think that now, I feel the same way about Washington DC. When I went back over spring break, it was physically difficult for me to remain seated on the plane- I hugged maggie like I do my family, literally tackled Marmol to the floor, and could barely contain my excitement when I surprised Mike. Even with certain people, from whom I expected a less than enthusiastic welcome, I found nothing but open arms and grins. I could finally breathe easy- I was home. I remember thinking, that first night, sitting down at Froggys with maggie, mike, and marmol- like we had a thousand times before- texting those I wanted to see that night- that I could not think of anywhere I would rather be nor anyone I'd rather be with…and that's pretty silly if you think about it…a cheap corner pub in Washington DC? In comparison to Paris? one of the most beautiful cities in the world?

That's what homesickness is, i think- that feeling of wanting SO badly to be somewhere, anywhere, with the ones you love- but knowing, still, that it's not possible- which only makes that ache more difficult to bare.

Yes, I think I may be feeling a little bit homesick. It's hard hearing about everything going on back in DC when it's my favorite time of year to be there- hearing about the 90 degree days over there is made all the more frustrating when I wake up to clouds and rain day after day. Hearing my mom talking about how she wishes I could go on vacation with her- or maggie saying the same- makes it so much harder for me to be here…still. after 3 months.

Okay, so I only have 6 weeks left- less, even. I am being a little bit of a baby. And yes, I'm trying to live them up in a way that I wont regret having missed out on anything. Really, I just wish that the weather over here would get better- I wouldn't have thought that the clouds and rain would continue this far into what is supposed to be Spring.

On a separate note, I was in London this past weekend for Easter. It was an absolutely amazing time and extremely refreshing to be around english speaking people (even if their accents got difficult to understand). I went with Melanie and we even met some Americans, also a really nice change. However, after 7 nights of going out in a row, I'm trying to give my liver a rest- and get some decent nights sleep.

A brighter side to everything- my mom is coming to visit 2 weeks from tomorrow, which should be a great time. Also, I incidentally only have 2 projects, 1 final, and some pictures to draw and then my "work" for the semester is done. And I only have 3.5 weeks of class left after tomorrow…very weird.

Though I'm trying not to act as though I already have one foot out the door…I'm just about ready for another dinner at Froggys.

nothin' to plunder

There are few things in this world that I really, really hate. Mustard, waking up before 9, and French doctors- to name a few…all of which i've had unfortunate encounters with, this week. But my least favorite thing that I have yet to experience is, by a landslide, feeling guilty.

This feeling, which often comes as a shooting pain with a moment of being dizzy, usually comes hand in hand with Friday, Saturday, and Sunday mornings when I realize that I spent far too much money the night before on nothing…well…of any value.

12 dollar drinks at the Daily Grill tend to rack up pretty quickly- and with the trips to Columbia, Garretts, and Rugby, the tabs don't stop there. Everyones had one of those mornings where you wake up and realize your cell phone isn't working or your wallets lost or you left your debit card at the bar after racking up a pretty shameful tab…in all honesty, I'd probably just laugh these off except for the inevitable and worst part of these mornings…

The fact that when you lose your cell phone or spend an entire weeks allowance in one weekend…you have to tell your parents. This phone call to my dad is the number one contributing factor to the guilt I (rightfully) feel after letting these things happen- and it is the reason that most nights, I make pretty responsible decisions and remember to close out my tab after 2 rounds.

Obviously I have a huge amount of respect for my dad- and if you ask anyone about it, they'll roll their eyes and do a pretty accurate imitation of one of our phone calls- ending, obviously, in 'love you huge!' (which, apparently, isn't a phrase people normally use)

But the thing that makes me feel the most guilty in making these calls (one of which I haven't made in awhile, actually) is the way that he responds- assuring me that everything is going to be okay and not to worry. Meanwhile, in my head, it only makes me feel more irresponsible for spending his money flippantly and being unable to ever really reimburse him...a pretty effective tactic, on his part.

After putting some thought into it, I've realized that all of the people that I know can make me feel the most guilty about doing something wrong are the FIRST people that I go to when I actually do something wrong- mostly because of the respect that I have for them.

"Morning-after-guilt" as Maggie and I have so dubbed it- ends up making me feel, quite honestly, a little bit more guilty than I probably should- so when I call my dad on the brink of tears and start apologizing for something like spilling a drink on a phone or going over-the-top on the credit card at Rosa Mexicano- he rightfully tells me that it isn't the end of the world.

Maggie told me once that the feeling you get in the mornings after you drink- of high anxiety comes with the change in chemicals in your brain that happens when the alcohol is totally drained from your system…something with seratonin, maybe- i'm not sure, but she could explain it better.

Honestly, I could lose a different cell phone every day this week- have to get a million blood tests at 80 euro a pop- and overcharge his credit card with frivolous fancy dinners until the day I leave paris, and I know that at the end of the day, he would be right there with me, telling me that everything is going to be okay- and THAT is exactly why I could never do those things- because I am so sure of his allegiance. I know that he does so much for me- and the guilt that I get only comes when I feel I am not doing my very best to make him as proud of me as, I know, he already is.

My dad always seems to know when to pick his battles with me…well, most of the time, anyway.

The summer I was 15, he got mad because he thought I was drinking, mostly because the boy I was seeing at the time was one of those 15 year olds who had been raiding his mothers liquor cabinet since he could walk. Truth be told though, at 15 I didn't really have an interest in drinking quite yet. But he didn't know about that- and because we were only just beginning to delve into my teenage years, he had no way of knowing what choices I was making- so one day, the morning after I was out until past midnight (though only because I was watching movies in the basement of my friends house with a group of girls) without calling home (her house never got service) my dad gave me the first real lecture I can vividly remember. The whole time he talked, I just remember thinking that he was wrong and that I was making all of the right decisions- and a large part of my motive behind that was how much he cared for me and standard to which he held me.

I remember thinking though, that August morning, that I never wanted to have him say these things and have them be true- because I knew that was a guilt that I wouldn't be able to handle. And so, I spent my teenage years making pretty good choices for the most part. Sure, I was out late a couple of nights and a few times, the doormen called up with noise complaints when I had parties- but, come on, I was a teenager- and that is life.

A lot of my current frustration in Paris lies in the fact that I don't feel like I am doing anything real to deserve all that my dad is giving me and doing for me. For most of summer and first semester, when I messed something up or did something expensive, in my head I would extinguish the guilt when I went to work or spent a night studying in the library- things I knew would make my dad proud and things that made me feel, personally, like i was contributing something of value to society. Maggie used to make fun of the fact that it got to the point where whenever I did something, even socially, wrong, I would call my dad immediately just to hear his voice. "Colleen, just because youre calling your dad doesn't mean that didn't just happen" she would say- but in my head, it did. Hearing him say that everything was okay made it okay for me. All of my freshman year, whenever I didn't go to class, I would call my dad first to tell him, and if he seemed disappointed, I'd go to class- but if he laughed it off and chalked it up to the college experience, I'd give myself permission to spend the day outside. Its strange, i guess, the patterns we develop.

Calling my parents about social things they had no real way of knowing about and giving them most of the facts is something that I started doing more since I got to college.

Calling my mom in tears at 5 in the morning last year when I was accidentally locked out of my room after spending the night yelling, screaming, and apologizing- when i needed to be showered, changed, and looking attractive in 2 hours (while at the time, I was in clothes from the night before and my face was stained with tears) was the only option I could think of.

Another morning I still cringe over to this day- I called both of my parents as soon as I could to tell them every detail and seek immediate advice- and of course, my dad was willing to let me charge that 150 shameful dollars to the credit card. Yes, as I have let myself become increasingly willing to tell my parents about what goes on in my life- they've been as receptive as one could hope- after all, when (if) I'm ever a parent, I know all i'd want would be to hear my son or daughters stories so that I could help them figure out what to do- and i think my parents like being a part of that process. They know I'm in school and doing well, and more than that- they've come to trust my judgement, so they are just as anxious to work towards solutions as I am, when it falters.

Anyway, though, in Paris I don't have a job- I also don't really have work to do- and I never even have to wake up at a reasonable hour…really, my life is filled with walking around Paris, going to nice dinners, and attending 4 classes a week…not really a heavy burden to bare. Today is a Saturday, I woke up at noon (something I usually don't do back home) but there would be no difference between my waking up at noon and my spending the rest of the day lying in bed- I only have to do one thing today…and that's it. My mom still gets up every morning at 4am to get to work and my dad is up early to make my brother breakfast, go to the gym, and then spend the rest of the day at work…they work hard so that I can be here, and because I know that, its hard to not always have some sort of guilt knocking on my door.

Obviously my dad wants me to be here and to be exploring and going out…but part of me, i must say, is looking forward to getting back to DC, to getting a real (using the term "real" loosely) job, and starting to put the rest of my life together

Buicks to the Moon

It is the fascinating nature of the world to persist in spinning no matter what is happening.

My dad once told me that whenever things go unexpectedly, the most interesting thing about human nature is how we must find a way to deal with what has happened. It is out of these times, when we are sure that nothing can go right, that we create the best memories and find strength in ourselves.

Last year I preemptively bought a friend concert tickets as a birthday present. I was so excited when I had the idea and I saved up money and spent hours online finding the best seats I could afford. Thankfully, I never told him about the tickets- or gave them to him- and as fate would have it, about a week before his birthday, something happened that made it clear to me that I was stuck with two very good tickets to go see a concert… with no one to fill the seat next to me.

Another friend of mine, pessimistic (or realistic as it turns out) as he was, had called dibs on the second ticket at the time of my buying it

"when you end up having a spare ticket to kenny chesney in May" he had said, "don't be a girl and skip out on the concert. that won't be fun for anyone. Shotty that second ticket."

Like any american, I have respect for shotgun.

When late May rolled around I was pretty down in the dumps…but theres really nothing that cheers you up better than live country music on a hot summers day. And so we went to the concert- the two of us- and had the time of our lives. It was just what I needed then- a night to stop feeling guilty, to go out and talk and laugh with one of my best friends.

What that night taught me is that sometimes the most fun lies in the unexpected.

There are some things that can seem so big that they feel like the end of the world. Some nights, we are restless, unsure of how exactly we can wake up the next morning- but there are things to be done. To everything, a strategy. Nothing is impossible and everything can change in a minute.

Anything can seem life altering. But it is our ability to cope with such things, no matter how small, that gives us the strength to get out of bed the next morning and greet the sun with a knowledge that you can handle whatever the day may bring.

When these things happen, it is not our (obviously unrealistic) fear that the world will end that scares us, but our fear that it will go on and that everything will be different. Change is pretty scary.

When Bryan and I broke up it was in the parking lot of the Woodbury Commons mall on a gorgeous day in August. We both knew it had to happen that day, and we spent the entire 24 hours before sitting together literally trying to grasp each second.

Honestly, it was torture. They say that when you're taking off a band aid its best to do it in one fell swoop- get it over with. The more time you have thinking about something and the pain its causing you, the worse it is. When you know that something is going to change the way you live your life day to day, ignoring it isn't going to help.

Truth be told, there are some things that happen that do make everything different. Marriage, divorce, having children, ending friendships, graduations. There are some moments after which we are never the same…I try not to be too scared of these things, but as I said, change can be frightening.

My Research Methods professor last semester came in one day with a broken arm and had to wear a cast for the remainder of the school year.

An optimist, not discouraged by the turn her life (and new car) had taken, she told us not to worry…"I will find a new normal," she said that day

And she did: her overdramatic gestures were designated to her left side. Every so often, she would lean against the wall, because her right arm would ache. Sometimes class ended early, due only to her frustration- and she wore sweatpants a lot more often.

In life, though, sometimes we break arms- but that is what casts are for.

With time, effort, and persistence, I have been lucky enough to encounter no wound that cannot be healed.

Laughed Until we Cried

If there is one thing that I have learned from all of the "wife swap" that Maggie has forced upon me, it is that every so often, things are required of us that we are less than willing to do…and without being forced to do these things, we would become bratty, obnoxious, and usually overweight.

Simply put, we often have to do things that we just don't want to do…and more often than that, we cannot always do the things that we want to. For example, on this fine morning in March, with the air getting crisper and the temperature slowly rising, my two best friends are making their way to Cancun for the elusive, much anticipated Spring Break- where they will bask in the suns rays, drink on the tab of the hotel, and frequent such high class establishments as Senor Frogs.

I, on the other hand am headed to New York City for the day, as everyone that i've been spending time with these past few weeks has finally departed for their various destinations…while they've finished midterms and spent the last month counting down to this week, I'll be picking up and getting on a ten hour flight back across the Atlantic, arriving in Paris late on Sunday. This coming week, I will have an abnormal (for my life in Paris) amount of work to get done- all the while knowing that my best friends are sunning themselves in Mexico.

Let me back up here for a minute…because I've left a few things out…

Yes, I came back to the states for my spring break and spent the majority of my time back here in DC.

They tend to say that there is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find they way that you, yourself have altered. Strange, indeed, it was to get back here…sitting on my couch again, getting up for those greasy omelets from downstairs, worrying about who I would run into on the streets…it all seemed very surreal, though just months ago, this was the life I led every day.

Especially in college, the immaturity of a young age tends to overwhelm the hope for decent interactions…and that was something that I had prepared myself for. Obviously Maggie and Marmol were going to be excited to see me, but as far as a lot of other people were concerned, I hadn't exactly ended on a high note with everyone…there were fights late at night, doors slamming early in the morning, things that went unexplained and glares that cut like a knife.

In coming back, though, I was so excited just to be in DC, that I was ready to bypass the immaturity, make my apologies, and go back to the way things were…what I hadnt anticipated, though, was the growth of those around me- that everyone that i had left…even in the least graceful of ways…would greet me with open arms and grins- equally anxious to forget the past.

I guess I just didn't know they had it in them.

Yes, I have made a grave amount of errors at this school and my social regrets could go on for miles…but somewhere between greeting the bouncer at rugby and eating pizza with Pat's doorman while he looked up TD bank's emergency number…Somewhere in these past two weeks that I spent sitting down at Froggys, walking to happy hour at Paolos, lying on the waterfront and laughing so hard it hurt … somehow none of those errors really mattered anymore- because the people that care about you are going to be there no matter how often you snore too loudly or forget your credit card or make a drunken mistake.

After all, what are all of those but more stories to tell?

One particular evening over this break, we sat around reminiscing about days gone by and the mistakes we'd made and I found myself laughing harder than I had in months…and about things that at one time or another, might've made me cry. I realized, that afternoon, how useless it ends up being to spend time lamenting over things you cant change. Sometimes, we make mistakes- and with Maggie, with Marmol, and with everyone close to me- I have made many, but the confidence that they would be there for me afterwards, to laugh with me and to get through it together…well there is truly nothing that compares to that kind of reassurance, and it is having that kind of honest and genuine confidence in others that makes it so much easier to take the less important stuff with a grain of salt.

It was wonderful to be back in DC for so many reasons- there were so many people I wanted to see and so much I wanted to do: I was back to eating good, old fashioned American food, I listened to country music so loudly it hurt, and I did everything as "American" as I possibly could. I loved seeing my parents, my brother, and- of course- my friends. I leave DC with no regrets about how I lived these past two weeks- minus the pang in the back of my mind that my coming to DC disappointed my father. And that kind of satisfaction is a huge relief.

Yes, my best friends are in Cancun now…and in another 2 weeks, my mom and brother will be headed down to the Bahamas…as I thought, being back here did show me the things I was missing out on- but more than that, it reassured me that they will all be here when I get back- my mom, my dad, my brother, my friends…they're not going anywhere.

And so tomorrow I pick up and get on a plane- back across the Atlantic- back to Paris- for another 9 weeks of cultural immersion

a bientôt!

Worst 15 Minutes of my Life

I have always been told that giving up is a bad thing…unless, of course, it happens to fall in between late February and early April.

That's right- with this past Wednesday, the season of lent has begun. One of a variety related to new beginnings, lent has always been one of my favorite markers of progress. It, like New Years Eve, is a time to asses where you are in relation to where you want to be.

There are a lot of rules about Lent of which I am not exactly sure…having not attended CCD since i was 15 or 16, the details are fuzzy. I know you aren't supposed to eat meat on Ash Wednesday (or the Friday after, which I'm pretty sure also has a name). You aren't supposed to have sex on Good Friday. And my CCD teachers always used to tell us to wear a cross all through until Easter, so that we would feel more guilty if we broke whatever it was we had promised.

The one thing I am sure of though, is that Lent is about giving something up.

After a few failed attempts to give up the same thing in high school, I started going with a slightly less conventional approach. For the past 5 or 6 years, I've started giving up more than one thing, mainly because long ago, I gave up on the fact that I could be very sure in February of what I would or wouldn't need to get me through March. Yes, I am a woman of many vices.

Making a mental list, each Ash Wednesday of four or five things I wanted to rid myself of, by the time I got to Easter Sunday, I could be sure to have at least one that I had successfully exiled from my bank of bad habits, so to speak.

The hardest for me is usually diet pepsi. Followed by doritoes and cream cheese (yes, American through and through). But my junior and senior years of high school, those were easy…minus the caffeine headaches (which I now could have easily put to rest with a few cups of coffee)

My favorite (or most effective, really) part of lent, though, is usually to give up something emotional. My freshman year, my boyfriends late night phone calls on weekends only made me feel horrible, so I gave up answering the phone after midnight. In high school, I gave up the internet after 1am, because the conversations i had at that hour were never anything good for me.

Drinking is something I've always thought of giving up- effectively giving up bad judgement- but the problem there is that Spring Break always happens to fall in March, and even my senior year of high school, when drinking consisted of little stronger than Smirnof Ice, the only "bad judgement" would have been going into Senor Frogs in the Bahamas sober.

Anyway, this year, after careful consideration, I've come up with a short list of things to rid myself of. Cursing is one of them. This, I've learned, gets difficult when I am drinking- so taking advice from an old CCD teacher, I now sport a cross most of the time, with the hope that it will help me remember (even through the haze of a Saturday night at The Moose).

I also intended on giving up lying, but that was quickly thrown to the wind after I had to cover up for a friend the other day. And tell a professor that my "older brother" was getting married on Saturday, making it imperative that I miss the midterm scheduled for 3pm that day.

I have also effectively broken that one multiple times this week via what I am going to be doing tomorrow- but all with the best of intentions. I am not very good at things like this, as usually when I am excited about something, I immediately tell everyone I know. I've been very good this time though- so... that's all I am going to say for now

In the spirit of speaking the absolute truth: I cannot WAIT for tomorrow.

A Fair Curve from a Noble Plan

A man named Greg Behrendt once advised women across the country to always assume that they are the rule- not the exception. This stems from the fact that in life, we like to think that our circumstances warrant some extraordinary treatment. In reality though, Greg says that there are certain rules that, like it or not, are universal.

People who work harder should do better. People who want it badly enough should have an opportunity to seek it. People who have talent should be given a showcase in which to display it.

If life was a fair game, those would be the rules.

Time and time again, though, I am reminded of the injustice that often comes with the day-to-day.

From 7th through 12th grade, I slaved away endlessly in order to stay in an upper level math course. I came into school at 7:30, completed extra assignments, and could practically recite the textbook. In the end though, most semesters, I was lucky to get away with a C plus Those around me, however, skated by on a placid sea- claiming the work was "not challenging enough."

However reluctantly, I have learned that the rule, in this case, is that you are graded based on results. Not effort. And to that, I am no exception.

The upside of this rule came in my english classes. In 5th grade, I won a national writing contest with a short story I wrote in under an hour. Through high school, I quickly found that I could get As in english with minimal effort applied. English, for me, always counterbalanced math.

I think that in everyones most formative years growing up (high school) they cross paths with those that influence the way they think and behave for the rest of their lives: for better or for worse. The person I have in mind is the one who introduced me, my junior year, to the concept of cheating: an endlessly complex, seemingly simple act that is a prime example (and the one Greg most often references) of thinking that you are the exception to the rule. "The rule" in this case being that people who treat you like they don't care very much…genuinely don't care very much.

The rule that inevitably comes along with this is that when you do something wrong, you will not learn from it unless there are consequences.

My senior year, I found myself on the other side of the cheating spectrum. When I awoke the next day, I remained in bed, weighed down by a guilt that kept me from moving. I started sleeping in until noon and the severity of the pain getting at my conscious kept me quieter than usual- to the point where my mom started thinking that my problem was not faithfullness but drugs.

Though I eventually told Bryan what happened, the fact that there were no real consequences in our relationship (he, like most people in that situation, blamed himself) made it difficult for me the grasp the magnitude of betraying another person on that level. Though I was able to imagine what could have happened- the fact that nothing actually did is what took precedence in my mind.

No consequences came with my completely unnecessary, selfish actions- making me the exception to the rule.

If they had let me keep my job at Old Glory, I would've been overjoyed: I loved that job. But truthfully, it would have been unwarranted. Yes, I was sorry- but sometimes sorry really isn't good enough. Consequences are what help to shape new actions into better and wiser actions.

Over time, I have learned that I am one of those people who needs to push the limits in order to see why they are there. I cannot accept things as they are. The only way for me to learn something and have it stick is the hard way.

There are many people that are not like this- and of them, I am endlessly envious. Their ability to always appear composed, calm, and on the pinnacle of sophistication because of their lack of errors is something that I will always be jealous of.

One of these such people, let's call her "Natasha" (excuse that blatant sex and the city reference- yes, my point being that "some women are simply better") was a close friend of mine in high school. It seemed like everything that I wanted came easily to her. It seemed like every time I messed something up, she did it the right way. She was attractive, smart, and quick witted. She was one of the best cooks i've ever known and she knew a lot about art history- as those people usually do.

There are a lot of things that I will never be: I am not a good artist. I am not well organized enough to plan events. And in the face of an emotional crisis, I am not adequately composed.

Yes, there are those people that seem to always be the exception to the rule- but I am not one of them.

Not to be down on myself, though: given the opportunity, I can recognize any country song released within the last ten years after about 5 seconds. I play a mean game of pool- and after approximately infinity summers spent working at day camp, I can organize sports games and beat anyone I know (besides my brother) at tetherball. I suppose you've gotta take what you can get.

Another thing I can do is write a good english paper.

As a rule, my english grades are usually the ones that lift my GPA.

This semester, I signed up for a Hemingway english class in order to counter the difficulty of my other courses. I participated in and attended all class lectures through the date that our first paper was handed back- when I saw something I have never seen on one of my english papers: a C+.

Confused, I didn't want to be the obnoxious GW student who blames the teacher or cries to their parents, so I just worked harder on the next one. I did background research, reread the books, and underlined passages- things i hadnt done since they were mandatory in 7th grade. Sure that I had outwitted the professor, I came into class excited to get the papers returned a week later…only to be let down.

…a B minus.

Turns out, I was no exception to the rule that "effort" is not always what is represented in grades.

I'd like to say that my response to this was to go to the professors office hours and send her emails and slave away endlessly on the final paper…but I did none of these things. In any other class, I would have- but when I am sure of something, like my ability to write a good essay, I can be pretty stubborn.

My GPA far above what I needed to go abroad anyway, I basically decided to give up on the class. With one paper left to write in the semester, I figured all I needed to do was crank out the 5 necessary pages in order to attain the "C" usually granted for simply handing something in on time. And so I ignored the research papers we were supposed to read, didn't attend a good portion of class lectures, and didn't even buy the last assigned book.

Around midnight the day the paper was due, I reluctantly set up camp in Gelman, planning on being there until 5pm, the due time of the paper. Talk about grace under pressure. (Yes, forgive me. That was a Hemingway reference)

Due to decisions against my better judgement, I abandoned an incomplete draft of my paper around 4am in favor of greener pastures.

The next day, I quickly wrote the last 2 paragraphs of the paper about half an hour before it was due. At this point, I walked into the class, dropped my sorry-excuse-for-a-paper on the professors desk, and turned right back around to get some much needed rest before the nights festivities began.

Yes, the priorities of a college student are a wonderful thing.

I suppose you can guess how this story ends…I got an A on the paper.

Sometimes, despite the rules- the way things are supposed to go- we get lucky . As my dad likes to say- even a blind squirrel finds a few nuts.

Maybe Greg is right, and it is naive to hope that you are the exception to the rule.

Yes, they say 'the house always wins- so why gamble?' but the casinos in Vegas are packed as I write this- packed with people who want to be the exception to that rule.

Because to every rule there is an exception. Yes, we can sit back and assume that we are just like everyone else and that life is an inescapable pattern of stark realities that we cannot change- but in doing that, we ultimately accept defeat. With that in mind, we would never take chances, we would never make mistakes- and we would certainly never learn. In order to win big, I have heard you that have to play big. You have to push the limits. In order for tomorrow to be better, you must gamble with the security you live with today- willing to sacrifice a part of what you have in order to get something bigger, something better.

Because you never know who is hitting the jackpot.

Moon River

I am not a very cultured person.

I can't appreciate art, I prefer ranch dressing and vegetables over any foreign fare, and before this trip, my travels consisted mostly of excursions only to various tropical islands.

For the past six or seven weeks, though, I've been battling this. I've tried not to be more excited about the fact that i knew which bridge Liam Nieson jumped off of to rescue his "daughter" than I was about stepping foot into a thousand year old tomb…I tried not to order fries and a club sandwich whenever I went to lunch….and I tried to speak french to waiters- even when I knew they'd understand english. Honestly, I think I've been doing pretty well.

Today, though, my lack of culture came back with a vengeance. Yes, I have been to the lourve. It was nice. I see the eiffel tower every day. Very pretty. I've strolled down the same streets as Hemingway and I've sat in cafe's historically frequented by artists that line the walls of museums. And I can appreciate that.

But today…today, I REALLY saw it all.

I was walking back from campus and got lost (shock) only to find myself on a bridge over the seine, headed towards a huge building with a big gold, circular tower. I glanced up and breathed a sigh of relief: the building was familiar, I would be home soon.

After a few more paces, though, it came to me in a wave of embarrassment. Yes, I had seen the building before…but not in real life. No, there I was, standing on the very bridge on which the greatest scene in the FINAL episode of Sex and the City took place.

sidenote::(If you are a true fan, you will now understand the song title I chose for this blog- from the episode that the quoted line of this entry is in)

I'll be honest- I stopped. On a scale of seeing the eiffel tower to jumping into the great barrier reef…this was a ten in my book. If you know me at all, you know that I can literally recite every line of every episode of that show (no, I'm not bragging. yes, i realize this is overwhelmingly pathetic)

I stood there- now facing away from the big building (which probably holds some historical significance) and could picture the scene happening right in front of me.

Really, I laughed at the stupidity of it all…sometimes it takes something as simple as that for you to realize just where you are- and just how lucky you are to be there.

No, I didn't have a Mr. Big to come to wrap me in a long peacoat and take me home. And like Carrie, my Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha weren't there to walk back home with me.

But that was okay.

In the past seven weeks, I have done something that I have never had to do: completely started over. Even going into college, I had people I already knew, and I was never more than an hour long flight from home. When I came to Paris, I was taking a risk. Now, I'm a "regular" at the cafe at the end of my street. I can walk into The Moose on Friday (and usually saturday and thursday…and sometimes sunday) nights and say hi to Charlie and Dotan, the bartenders. Melanie and I have frequented our fair share of historical locations and alone, I have become a master at navigating this city. I have developed a whole life here: new people, new places- new everything. It just took awhile for me to be okay with that. I am now living a new season, a new chapter, of my life.

And as "Carrie" once said in my absolute favorite episode, sauntering down park avenue in a beautiful pink and gold coat and a pair of destroyed Louboutin's from the night before-

People come into your life-and people go. But its comforting to know the ones you love are always in your heart- and if you're very lucky, a plane ride away.

I, it seems, am very lucky.