The World Is Full Of Diamonds

I have a neighbor somewhere very close to my apartment that loves reggaeton. But not all reggaeton...oh no, a variety of songs would be too much to ask for. Just the same song over and over again, whether it's 11 PM on a Friday or 9 AM on a Sunday. And all I can here through the walls is the beat of the song and it gives me horrible flashbacks to reggaeton dances in college shows. So now I'm doing my best to blast The Cardigans (oh, so that's where the title to this post came from!) and pretend that Wisin y Yandel don't actually live next door.

Life is slow in a nice kind of way. Not much money, but not too many cares in the world either. I went out today and walked around the city for awhile, enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. I mean, really, 60s and sunny? No winter coats or even scarves yet? Then I went to a book reading at Shakespeare and Co.. Saw an interesting author, a Brit named Tobias Hill. He writes a bunch of historical thrillers which I really don't care about but he writes interesting poetry. If you're in London, you should bother to read his poetry collection all about London. It's nice and rhythmic. Echo-like.

I'm hoping to get a day job on Wednesdays tutoring this girl in English. Just that tiny bit of supplemental income could make all the difference. I'm actually quite enjoying the job I already have though. The kids are actually adorable and can be a lot of fun, even though it is difficult to run around in a park with a 6 month old baby on one hip while trying to sword fight a two year old with a stick with the other hand.

I often wonder if we perhaps all want too much. We are all only capable of doing so much and there is a reason for that. We cannot make every single moment electrically happy. We cannot expect every single person to be world-shaking and life-changing for us. And continually throwing ourselves against the world with all of these hopes and dreams and desires will only cause us to shatter. Sometimes I feel like we just need to stop throwing ourselves. We need to stop thinking that our lives must play out like those that do on film. We need to get rid of that romantic fantasy that life must be all kisses on top of the Eiffel Tower and long-lost friends running into each other's arms on wind-swept heaths in England or whatever other Bronte-like fairy tale you can come up with. It doesn't have to be like that. And I think that life gets angry when we tell it what it has to be. Life doesn't like to be pigeon-hold and bossed around like that. Life revolts if you try to force it too hard.

So yes, still my heart and hold my tongue (thanks, Coldplay). Kicking and screaming our way through life is no way to live. Being bitter about our circumstances is only being bitter at ourselves. Because maybe you can't control your relationships or your job or who you meet or anything. But you can control how you deal with those things. To me, it looks like sitting back, breathing, and smiling again is the way to deal. Not worrying. Not crying. Not fighting. Just being.

You can say you're going to read all of these books, you can say you're going to pay your bills on time, you can say you'll drink less, you can say you'll keep in touch, but will you? Probably not. Oh because resolutions, they come and go. So the best you can do is smile at what you have, smile at what you are, and fully love those that you have while you have them. (yes, this post is ending while I'm listening to Jamie Cullum. I've been so musically eclectic in these last 10 minutes, huh?).

If you look at your cards in just the right light, I think you might find that you haven't been dealt such a bad hand after all.

Ennui.

A sleepy day in Paris. I woke up today at 8:00 a.m., the first time I have been up since before 11:00 since arriving in Paris. I packed myself onto the Metro with about a million other commuters and went to a job interview. I am trying to get a babysitting job at this point, seeing as most restaurant work in Paris requires a working visa and the ability to speak French under stress. Today I went and visited a family with a 6 month old girl and a 2 year old boy. They are nice children, if a little boring. How weird is that? I feel more active and exciting than a 2 year old. But I guess I can't really complain. Aren't most jobs in the world boring? At least, that's the impression I am beginning to get. Anyway, I went and played around with the baby today and now I'm sitting here waiting for the woman to call me to let me know if I've got the job for the next few months. Otherwise, I'll be beginning my job search anew.

Last night, Marc and I walked to the Lourve and watched the sun set behind the Eiffel Tower. Then I went to Shakespeare and Co., met up with an American and a Canadian, and went and drank wine with very entertaining French students by the Seine. It seems as though most of my nights are spent drinking wine by the Seine. I hope that it never loses its charm.

Real life can be kind of boring sometimes. I mean, what do most people do with their days? They go to work, they come home, they figure out what they can cook for dinner, they eat, they sit around, and they go to bed. That's about it. All the time. And yes, I live in Paris, which is fabulous (and also fabulously expensive), but it is still real life. I still wake up, try to find a way to make some money, go grocery shopping, test the limits of my cooking abilities, drink some wine, and go to bed. I do get to see some awesome things in between all of that, like all of the beautiful parks and cathedrals of Paris, but like I said, it is still real life.

I feel like I spend a lot of time waiting for things to happen. Not that life is just passing me by as I sit here quietly, just that I spend a lot of time waiting for the things that I really want. I go out and do things and make some things happen, but the people that I really want to be with are still months away. So although I am actively doing things for myself, I am still waiting for those other people that I love to show up and add some color to my life. Oh, if only it were December already.

For something totally off-topic: it's so strange to be living in a foreign country at the moment. So many historic things are taking place in my own country right now, and I'm not living through them. Presidential debates that will be forever referenced in politics, an economic crisis that my children will study in textbooks at school, gas shortages affecting the lives of millions of people in the South...I only read about these things in newspapers. I don't know what it's like to be living through them. I can understand them, and my heart feels all of these things for my country. But I don't have to live with them everyday, I don't see first-hand what is happening and what people are thinking and how the country is reacting. It is an interesting time to be in America and yet somehow I find myself on the outside looking in.

Alright, I should go figure out what to eat for dinner tonight. I'm trying to live on 7 euros a day the whole time that I'm here. Now, that might sound easy, and it's not impossible to do, but it does require some careful planning and thinking. And nothing can go to waste. All the food we buy has to be used somehow, because we can't afford to throw things away. Poverty makes you very creative and resourceful. It's kind of nice.

Hard Times. (but not really).

It's quarter past 3 on Friday night (or is it Saturday morning?) and I'm sitting here in my little blue and yellow apartment in Paris in the middle of a bout of insomnia.

It's strange to know that all of my co-years are off at university already, growing up in a very different way than I am. I am not looking forward to university in many ways. Yes, I love meeting new people. Yes, I want to sit in a real philosophy class again. Yes, I want to walk around on a campus again (eventually). As for the other stuff that is generally a part of the university experience...thanks, but no thanks. I don't want to sit around while you all try to figure out how to cook dinner. I don't want to watch while you all test your limits of alcohol intake at some frat party. I don't want to deal with you all while you try to figure out how to live with other people, how to date like a normal person rather than just randomly fuck, how you figure out how to transition from whatever high school you're coming from into what you think is the "real world". I've done that. I'm doing it now. I don't want to do it again. Now, how pretentious is this of me? Very. But it's the truth, or at least the truth for my pessimistic self at the moment. I am dreading sitting through years of beer pong and awkward relationships until everyone figures out how to be themselves again.

You know, I was so anxious for "real life", for this time in Paris, that I thought I would relish a few hard times. I romanticized it. Now, why I ever thought that doing piles of dishes and paying bills would be fun, I don't know. It's not, if you didn't know. But at the very least, I wanted this time to change me. I wanted it to bring me that step closer to my full self. And it is doing that.

What have I learned so far? Hm.

Living with someone is hard. 30 sqm gets dirty very, very quickly. Not everyone is sincere. Cooking dinner every night is a pain in the ass. I'm a very stubborn person. Getting a job is difficult. Being the person that I want to be is difficult. It's easy to be bitter.

How is that for a superficial yet honest summary?

Before I word-vomit any more cynical rhetoric, I should go to sleep. Waking up to a sunny day in Paris will surely make things look a bit rosier.

Volunteering in Bookstores and Other Unuseful Things.

So, to be more concise than the last post (which I fear verged on the point of unreadable)...

Life is wonderful. I have probably never drank so much coffee and wine or eaten so many baguettes in my life, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

I've started to set down roots here in Paris and I've begun to make some connections. It is wonderful.

I've found Greek and Latin classes to attend for free at the American University in Paris, I've found courses in Eastern Philosophy (taught in French, though) just a few steps from my apartment, I've got a few volunteering options through the American Church in Paris...and now I've become quite comfortable at Shakespeare and Co., so much so that I think they'll just offer me a room there soon. Shakespeare and Co., for those who don't know, is a ridiculous bookstore in Paris, right across from Notre Dame, that is quite close to the most perfect place on Earth. It is an English bookstore, full of random new and used books. Travellers and poor writers alike often board in the lofts above the bookstore for any amount of time and the place is run entirely by volunteers. I've met other foreigners in Paris through the store and I have a feeling that my life in Paris will, in many ways, radiate from the bookshelves at that place.

I spent today having coffee with another American on a gap year spending some time lost in Paris like me. Then we went back to Shakespeare and Co. (where he's living for the moment) and met up with another American and the three of us ended up sharing a bottle of wine on the Seine as the sun set. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

I met an artist today on a bridge in Paris who quickly became obsessed with my blue eyes, telling me he was going to paint a picture using my "blue energy" and that I must come back and see it. I love Paris.

I also found a couple of restaurants I may try getting a job in. There are apparently many places in Paris run by English speakers that don't really care whether you have paperwork and a legal visa or not. I think it would be a good way to really feel like I was living in Paris, rather than just going to a few random classes and hanging around the bookstore. I want to connect to the city in some way, and working in a restaurant seems perfect.

Alright, so much for concise. I should stop now because in reality, I could ramble on about Paris forever and ever.

Observations in Paris.

Right now, I am procrastinating getting out of bed and getting dressed. I am meant to go and see the Pope at Notre Dame today but I am not looking forward to the 7 hours I will spend camping outside the cathedral just to see him. It is gray and looks like it may rain, which only makes matters worse. And to make matters even more worse, my eye is swelling shut from some allergic reaction to God knows what (I'm assuming a mosquito bite) and therefore it looks like I am the victim of domestic violence or a BDSM enthusiast. Seriously. Not exactly the face I want to have when meeting the Pope.

But enough about that and more about Paris.

Parisians are an entirely interesting bunch of people. You think that you all "escape the bubble" when you leave college but to be honest, the whole world is a bunch of bubbles. Yes, they are different than Flekke and no two bubbles are exactly alike, but every corner of the world is a little strange microcosm of being not found anywhere else. Paris is an enormous, enormous bubble, but still a bubble.

After a long trip that finally ended at Charles de Gaulle, I was sarcastically dealt with by customs officials (eh, americaine...) before being allowed to leave the airport and meet Marc. We carried my two bags, both the size and weight of dead cows, all the way through the city's metro system and off to our little corner of the world. When we exited at our Metro stop, I was amazed by how French the street was. Now, that might sound stupid, but seriously. It is just so French. Exactly what you see in high school textbooks. Bakeries everywhere and cobblestoned streets and everyone smoking at tables outside of cafes. Apparently, Parisians never carry lighters even though they all smoke like chimneys and they did not hesitate to ask us for lighters as we carted the two dead-cow-bags through the neighborhood. We finally got to our building, wrestled the bags up 3 stories of spiral staircases and into the apartment.

The apartment. It seemed small at first. Now it seems normal. We have a full kitchen, our own bathroom, an enormous bed and a pull-out couch...really, everything we need. We have lots of windows and they are always open. There is a primary school near my building so all day I hear screaming French children on the playground behind the apartment. The apartment only has one sink that is apparently supposed to double as the kitchen sink and the bathroom sink. At first it was a bit awkward to have to move dishes aside to brush your teeth, but we're used to it now. You have to light a fire in the oven to make it heat up (seriously) but it's kind of cool. We don't have a table to eat at yet, but the couch is working out just fine. We buy baguettes in the mornings for breakfast and eat them with goat cheese. We always have wine in the apartment. We don't have enough storage space for all of our clothes so there are random piles of things all over the place, but I'll sort that out soon enough. The apartment has white walls with yellow trim and doors and blue curtains. At first, I thought it was a little ugly but now I would say that it has a kind of retro charm about it. We have managed to put up one picture (Picasso's "Don Quixote", a birthday present from Pilar) but I'm working on doing a little more decorating. All in all, the place is really starting to feel like home.

I have done almost all of the touristy stuff already. Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc du Triomphe, blah blah blah. Don't get me wrong, it's all lovely and I will re-visit all of these places many times. But the most interesting insight into Paris has come from just walking around or sitting at cafes.

Parisians have yet to discover the wonders of air conditioning. I swear, it just does not exist in this country. Which really would be okay as open windows are nice, except for all the mosquitoes that fly in through those open windows.

Also, in Paris, anything can be a parking space. I have seen people park mo-peds in the tiny little spaces between cars parked along the curb. Yesterday, I even saw someone park their car next to a median in the middle of the road. As in, he just kind of turned his car off in the middle of driving and got out and went walking around. No one even bat an eye.

Parisian men are very good at staring and winking at any woman within eyesight, but I think that most of them would pee their pants if one of these women actually approached them to talk.

All Parisians smoke and they have absolutely no qualms about asking for a cigarette from a complete stranger.

Parisians will applaud equally as loudly whether they are watching an American ex-pat juggle flaming batons at the Centre Pompidou or whether they are listening to a German street musician make his way through a heavily-accented version of "Knocking on Heaven's Door" on the steps of the Sacre-Coeur.

Paris is a very normal city fashion-wise. The people who try the hardest with how they dress seem to be foreigners. Parisian women don't look like they think twice about what they throw on in the morning, but most of them still look fabulous even if they are just wearing jeans and a cut-out t-shirt.

There is an unofficial uniform for Parisian men. For one thing, a respectable Parisian man has long-ish hair that is a little messy. They always look like they have not shaved in a couple of days. They wear jeans and tweed blazers or jackets and always have a cigarette hanging out of their mouths. If they want you to notice them, they push their long-ish hair out of their face and smile, wink, or possibly even offer you a cigarette as well.

Alright, that is all about Paris right now as the Pope waits for no one, especially not me. I have finally gotten a French phone so if you ever feel like calling, I'd love to listen. +33 06 76 07 76 96.

In Paris, finally.

Life feels a bit like a dream. I am poor, I live in a small apartment, I only eat bread and cheese, and I spend my days walking along the Seine or perusing used bookstores. It is all, in fact, wonderful.

My address, in case you are interested, is:

Valerie Bondura
30 Rue Geoffroy St-Hilaire
75005 Paris
France

As I write, a French waiter is trying to kick me out of the cafe I am at because apparently I am abusing their free internet because all I ordered was a coffee. And seeing as I am not about to spend 10 euros on a salad so I can keep sitting here, I'll have to write a proper post some other time.

Going...going....gone.

The next sign of life will come from a cramped apartment on Rue Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire (or perhaps a Parisian internet cafe).

Until then, bisous d'une americaine perdu.