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On the last night, one year later
Posted on Monday, July 29, 2019
Hello again!
Last time I wrote here, I wrote that I was still finding the words to describe how it felt to be leaving a life behind in just 18 days. And no, I still haven't found the right way to put all the emotions of my decision into writing - but I guess there's no time like over one year later to try.
This day last year, I woke up early on a tiny air mattress that had deflated over night. It was hot on the un-air-conditioned fifth floor, hotter still with the windows closed against the noise of Avenue de Clichy. The cat slept under my chin and the heat made her shed more than usual, but I didn’t really mind. I was dirty and tired and I had too much to do to be worrying about a bit of extra cat hair.
I always knew my apartment, my home for three years, was tiny, but it never felt too small. Filled with my belongings and clothes and food and memories - and, when I was lucky, friends - it felt warm and cozy and perfectly sized for me and my little cat. This day last year, empty but for suitcases and the aforementioned terrible air mattress and some cleaning supplies (no match for three years of my messes), it felt overwhelmingly big, like it might swallow me up. Empty walls, empty cabinets, empty everything.
The weeks before this day last year passed in a blur. There was a heatwave, a world cup victory for the French men's football team, a job offer in Philadelphia, a going away party at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, as much cheese and wine as I could consume, and suitcases. There were hugs and kisses and tears shared with friends as, one by one, I made the rounds of saying "see you later." I'm not sure that I've ever felt quite as exhausted as I did by the end of it all.
On this day last year, I visited my boulangerie for the last time, at lunch time. I bought myself a ham and cheese sandwich and a pastry, and I ate it sitting in my empty apartment with a glass of rosé. I treasured the last moments in that place. I'd lived alone for so long that I came to crave the quiet of it all, the freedom and the secrecy of life when no one's looking. I still remember the sandwich, with salted butter slathered thickly on one side and cool slices of salty ham and cheese between two sides of a perfectly-cooked baguette. It was heaven, for two Euros.
The night before I left, I took a shower and put on a white cotton dress, and I took myself out one last time in Paris. I walked from my apartment in the 17th to Galeries Lafayette and elbowed my way past groups of tourists to the rooftop of the department store. From there, a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower with the greyish Parisian rooftops spread between. The sun was beginning to set and I was beginning to get teary-eyed (again). I took a few photos - as if I could ever forget what that view is - and turned to go back down.
From there, I hopped on the métro across the Seine for my first-ever visit to Café de Flore. I'd always avoided it, turned off by its ubiquity in guide books of all languages, but on this particular day I decided to see what the fuss was all about. I sat and ordered a glass of Champagne that I couldn't afford. I wrote in my journal. I pulled out that journal today and among the things I wrote one year ago, there was this:
"Today in line at the boulangerie I overheard the woman behind the counter telling a customer that they'd be closing tonight for vacation, and that they would re-open in September after renovating. It feels a little bit perfect - they close when I leave, and when they open again I'll be 4 weeks into my new life, and things will be different. Over the past week, it was the smallest things that brought tears to my eyes. Putting my tiny oven onto the sidewalk with a sign that said "Je fonctionne !" ("I work!") only to remember that it is trash day. I watched the workers unceremoniously throw my little oven into the back of their trash truck."
I sipped Champagne as I wrote this and more, mourning my stupid tiny oven and other tokens of a little life, before closing my journal and watching. Tourists, parisien(n)(e)s, waiters. It might be a tourist trap, but it must be said that there is great people watching at Café de Flore. I had a second glass of Champagne that I could afford even less.
The last thing on my last-night-in-Paris list was a dinner at a bistro that's nothing special but had been a favorite over the years. I sat at a table out on the pedestrian street, and ordered snails and then duck confit and then crème brûlée. I savored every bit of it, believe me, and by the time I was finished it was time to go home, one last time, before leaving in the morning. I walked to the métro and the Eiffel Tower sparkled and it all felt like it should have.
The morning dawned bright and hot. I crossed the last items off my to-do list (or as many as I could, given the infuriating fact that the post office was inexplicably closed... Vive la France !) and got ready to go.
Into her travel bag went the drugged-up cat. Down the stairs went my three bags. I started to cry as I went back up to lock my apartment for the last time. What stories those four walls could tell - they held some of my most favorite memories and closing the door on it all was something I don't think I'll forget.
At the airport, things went speedily downhill when I realized that the cat's drugs were not having the desired effect. Exhausted and too hot and weighed down with bags, I made my way to the gate with a yowling cat. I thought I'd have time to finally gather my thoughts but I was sorely mistaken. She cried the whole time, thrashed the whole time, invited concerned and/or disapproving looks from strangers the whole time. Once on the plane and tucked below the seat in front of me, she did not stop. When she finally did stop, an hour into the flight and at cruising altitude, it was not a good sign.
I quickly realized that she was no longer in the bag - she was loose in the airplane, making a run for it. After a stressful few minutes involving a confused man asking "Is this someone's cat?" and an air hostess informing me - as if I did not know - that the cat needed to stay in her bag, I shoved Molly back in the travel bag and realized that she had chewed her way out and left a gaping hole behind. Taking bobby pins from my hair, I fastened it together as well as I could and settled in for seven hours with a wailing cat in a pee-soaked bag on my lap.
In the end, we made it. Somehow. My parents picked me up, and we drove home.
That was a year ago tomorrow.
A year ago today, though, I said goodbye to many things that I loved intensely. It was the end of a challenging, rewarding, unpredictable, infuriating, unforgettable six-year journey. When I got back last July 30th, I was not the same person that I was back in September 2012 when I left the States. Today, I'm not the same person I was a year ago. I'm still working on figuring out who I am now, here. The transition back to American life has been downright hard. There have been a few tearful meltdowns on the couch, some serious introspection, a large amount of anxiety, and lots of re-learning once-familiar peculiarities of American life - America may be the only country in the world where it's "a thing" to tease someone for having a non-iPhone? Why does it matter what color your text messages are? I digress...
Readjusting to life here has been complex and tiring. There are moments when my heart aches, nostalgic for what my life used to look like. I miss the friendships I made and cherished there. I miss good bread and affordable wine and conversations held at a volume that won't shatter your eardrum. I miss the "Bonjour !" from everyone and anyone in the morning - when I first started my job here, I got funny looks in the elevator when I tried a friendly "Good morning!" There are so very many things I miss, big and small.
But then, there are so many things to love here, too. My last Parisian apartment would easily fit into the kitchen of where I live now. There's the rooftop garden that I love to water every morning, taking in the Philadelphia skyline as I do. There's my sister, six blocks away. There's the heart happy feeling of having someone to come home to, and knowing that there is someone who loves to come home to you too. There are trips to my parents' house on weekends, exploring a city that has newly been made home, quiet nights on the couch with the cat and cups of tea and a feeling of love all around among the twinkling lights of the living room. There are many many good things about my life here.
I think it will continue to be a give and take, a push and pull, at least for a while longer. I am nostalgic by nature and so it doesn't take much for me to get lost in memories and see it all through rose-colored glasses. But there will be more trips to Paris and, hopefully, many other places. There will be more memories, more day-dream fuel.
Now, though, one year later, I am grateful for the whole wonderful adventure, even through its ups and downs. Grateful for the lessons learned and the mistakes made, for the friendships made and even those that have been lost. I'm grateful to have lived so many of my dreams, to have tried and sometimes failed but sometimes succeeded. I'm grateful for the heartbreak and the tears and the belly laughs and the late nights and all the little in-betweens. I am so very grateful.
Since I left Paris, one year ago tomorrow, it has sometimes felt like I'm getting to know myself all over again. And that, too, has been a wonderful adventure. xx
