September 2017

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On Remembering, and La Rentrée, and Five Years

Posted on Monday, September 4, 2017

This summer has been both the most exhilarating and the calmest, all at once. Somehow, it felt both like time wasn't moving and like time was speeding by. There are so many moments from this summer, and in particular from my month back home in the States, that I want to hold on to forever, to always remember the sights smells sounds feelings exactly as they happened.
Some of the happiest and those that feel most important include signing my permanent contract at work at the very end of May, and the feeling that a very long and winding road had finally led somewhere that feels right. Watching my once-kitten Molly grow into a little cat right here in our apartment, and feeling a silly sense of pride like a five-year-old with a carnival goldfish. Returning for a weekend to Villanova, a place that still feels very much like home, five years later, and feeling absolutely content despite Bud Light headaches and a lost voice and too little sleep and a non-insured visit to the doctor the following week. Splashing in the wading pool in the back garden with my cousin, Meron, and realizing thanks to her that sometimes the simplest things might be best as we embarked on Wild Adventure after Wild Adventure, and roasted marshmallows, and danced to the Trolls soundtrack. Giggling long into the night, trying to write the perfect wedding speech with the little sister for the big one, drinking craft beers in her bed. The realisation that this 'little' sister isn't so little anymore, as she proudly shows me her plant collection in the backyard of her beautiful Philadelphia apartment, and I feeling proud of and happy for her but like I could cry all at the same time. My big sister looking the most beautiful she ever had and almost-shyly looking at herself in the mirror as she adjusts her veil and wedding dress, my parents' expressions as they both walked her down the aisle, my brother-in-law's face as she reached him. Dancing with family and friends that feel like family as the rain poured down outside. Running with my sisters through our neighborhood and down the main street of our little town, and thinking for the millionth time that Paris France is nice but that Yardley Pennsylvania isn't so bad either. Drinking rosé on the patio with my parents and sisters and aunts and uncle and feeling grateful for our family and its closeness despite the thousands of miles and too many time zones. Walking around New York on my own, happily, and imagining what a life there might feel like for me. Wading into the Atlantic Ocean at Coney Island and eating a corn dog for the very first time and letting ice cream drip everywhere and spending a really good day with a really good friend getting a really bad sunburn. Having lunch with people I wish I could see more often, and trying to catch a year's worth of catching up into a New York City-length lunch break. Drinking wine with my best friend in the park with a view of the Financial District skyline, followed by pizza in our favorite spot in Brooklyn, and savoring how it still feels like no time has passed. Having a few unexpected late night conversations over unexpected Negronis that I will replay for a very long time in my mind. Dipping Shake Shack fries into a milkshake and wondering what's so great about French cuisine, anyway. Hosting a dinner in Brooklyn and looking around the table at people I love very much and wishing it could happen more often. Eating breakfast on the deck and passing around the paper with my parents and driving to Target and doing a million other things that sound unexciting but still carry that special little bit of magic that is home.

And then, of course, kissing my mother goodbye at the line for security at JFK and feeling like a baby for crying, again, even though I'll see her soon, and then boarding the plane and, inevitably, fighting back the tears that always follow such an almost-perfect time at home.

I think that after a month of such spectacular highs, it's not unusual that things felt a little quiet back over here. It felt like I needed the whole month of July to decompress, to think about everything that I got to see and do in those four weeks at home, and find a way for these little moments to stay intact and glimmering and easy to access on any given rainy Parisian afternoon.

And then, all of a sudden after all that remembering, July had passed in a heartbeat and the month of August arrived once again. Right when I felt ready to stop sitting still and start moving, the city began to shutter its doors and close its blinds. The annual signs appeared in windows around my neighborhood, closed for two weeks, three weeks, four weeks. The quiet that I'd been feeling for all of July arrived to the rest of Paris as the sidewalks emptied. Work was quiet, home was quiet, and everything in between was quiet, too. August in Paris feels like the city itself takes a break from being, for a while, and everyone that lives here has no choice but to take a break, too. I spent my August weekends waking up slowly with my little tiger-striped cat curled and purring, as close as can be, drinking coffee before heading out on my own across the city - sometimes with a destination in mind, sometimes without. My group of girlfriends and I talked a lot about picnics, but the weather never seemed to agree, so we did our best without enough sun. One weekend, we drove through the night across three countries to Amsterdam for a weekend and a change of scene and to stroll the canals and drink some really really good coffee. We stopped in Brussels on the way home just because (or because you don't drive past Brussels without stopping for some fries). The days felt deliciously lazy and the weeks melted into each other, but I was glad when August ended.

In my professional life, there are a few French words and expressions that I dread coming across, because they lend themselves so poorly to English: "I'm suddenly feeling really tired" doesn't sound quite as nice as "j'ai un coup de barre," one of my favorites. This time of year, I find myself frequently having to translate another one: "la rentrée." I guess "back to school" comes close enough, most of the time, but it doesn't quite cover it. Over here, la rentrée is that transitional time in between the last long rosé-soaked afternoons in the sun and the pick-up of the daily grind, the week or two that everyone comes back to the city from their country escapes or from beyond the border, rested and revitalized and ready to begin a new year. But if you ask me, it's more than just a word for the time itself. I think it covers a whole feeling, one of those tough to pin down feelings that we've all felt, without knowing what to call it.

Remember when we were in school, first grade or tenth grade or senior year of college? Remember how the beginning of the school year felt full of promise and potential? Remember when we swore that this year would be the year we'd change that thing we'd been meaning to change? Remember when the first chilly breeze felt like it might be bringing something new? La rentrée feels like that, for everyone.


This year, I am embracing la rentrée and its quiet optimism more than ever. On Tuesday, I'll celebrate the fifth anniversary of leaving home for Paris. Though time has flown, five years still somehow feels like a very long time all the same. This "Parisversary" feels momentous in a new way. It's longer than I lived in the UK or in Ireland, longer than I spent at Villa Victoria for high school, longer than four years at Villanova, longer than I ever thought I'd be here. Five years feels important.

These past five years have felt, at times, like wandering along a winding road without a map. I think about the person that I was when I boarded that plane in 2012, and I admit that sometimes she feels like a lifetime away. Lots has happened since then - mostly good things, with a few bad things too - and this place has changed me profoundly. I think about everything that I've done and seen, the places I've traveled and the people I've met, the food and wine I've enjoyed. I think about how Paris looks on a sunny day, and how it looks in the rain. I remember a day in 2010, during my college semester abroad, walking around the fifth arrondissement in the rain, treading on soggy fallen leaves and listening to Erik Satie and feeling filled with wonder at how a place could be so beautiful and melancholy all at once. I think about how hard it can be to live here sometimes, how fist-clenchingly frustrating this country can be at times. About the impossibility of explaining certain things, or understanding others. About the stubbornness and the slowness to change and the "ce n'est pas possible, Madame"s. But I also think about the rhythm of life that made me fall in love with this place, the charm of it all, the people I've grown to love, the traditions that I've embraced. I think about the smell of bakeries in the morning, the cosy sounds of bistros in the evening, the expert flick of an aproned waiter's wrist as he sets down a coffee, the way the light catches the trees in Parc Monceau in the morning or slides across the Seine at night, as the Eiffel Tower twinkles in the distance.

When I think about the past five years in Paris, though, I don't just think about this place - I think about myself too. I think about the person I was when I arrived, so young though I thought I was so old. I think about the places I've lived, the tiniest studio and the beautiful Haussmanian apartment, and now here in my own place. I think about the hundreds of miles I've run on these streets in the pitch black early morning, the races I've trained for, the tears I've shed crossing finish lines. I think about the heartbreaks I've healed, the hard realizations I've come to, the falls I've taken, the mistakes I've made, the family and friends that kept loving made it possible to get up and keep trying and trying again. I think about the late nights en terrasse and the one-too-many drinks and the salty taste of a hot ham and cheese crêpe on the early morning walk home. I think about the people that I have met that have changed me for the better, the things that I have learned about myself from others, the friendships I have made that I'll always be grateful for. I think a lot, too, about being alone. If I've learned anything at all over the past five years, it's how to be alone. Somewhere along the way, somewhere in the past five years, from all the uncertainty and the foreignness and the heart-aching loneliness, I've managed to make myself a life that feels just right.

I recently came across a journal hidden away on my bookshelf, not even half filled out but with entries from when I was seventeen and twenty and twenty-two. I laughed at myself, reading it, and thought for the millionth time that I can be so dramatic - and that my handwriting really IS terrible. But then I found a page, written on March 15, 2008. It's not a long entry, just five lines written quickly: "I just want a simple life: a French apartment, a cat that's friendly and welcomes me home. I want to meet interesting people and drink black coffee and try to solve some world problems."

I don't know about the world problems (especially not in 2017), but I know about the rest. I've got an apartment that's tiny but filled with light in a neighborhood that feels like home. I've got little Molly, who greets me every day when I get home, and tucks herself into bed when she gets tired at night. I have met interesting people, here and in other cities and at home and everywhere in between. And the black coffee - well, I've never been great at remembering to buy milk.
The past few months have been incredible, but now that la rentrée is upon us I'm ready for the next part. I'm ready for this new year in Paris, because each year  has been better than the last. Tomorrow I'll buy myself a glass of wine and sit at a café and people watch and write down - maybe in the same decade-old journal - a few things that I'd like to start doing, to change, to try. I don't know if I'll be any good at them, I don't know if the resolutions will stick, but after the past few months and the past five years over here, I know that I'm excited to see what comes next. xx