Blue shoes, back on board. Destination: Thailand.

When in doubt, escape via travel.

I’ll admit. I don’t really know where the blue shoes are. Stamped "out of service" and likely piled somewhere beneath the mounds of mess in my half of the closet space. 

But blue shoes or not, the blog remains and the adventure continues. This time, for a month in Thailand. 

It'll be just Caitlan and I, a girlfriend I met month one of freshman year. We both tossed the tassel over our caps last Saturday, accepting our status as college graduates and joining the ranks of those unsure as to where the next step would be.

Except for this trip. Because like I said, when the next chapter of a blurred future has yet to present itself, the certainty of travel plans should always be an option.

I returned from London and Paris back in November, still in love with all things Parisian though keen to experience something so radically different than the churches and rivers and bridges of every European city.

And so I let the travel ideas drift off, contemplating a tour of the Greek islands and a trip through South America, (every intention to track down my Peruvian alpacas). The plans didn't thrill me as much as my wishful thinking for a trip to Asia. Which is when Caitlan and I stumbled upon roundtrip tickets to Bangkok, sparing little time to snag our find.

We leave this Tuesday and return next month. All of which was organized two weeks back.

The first eight days are planned—four nights in Bangkok, an overnight train ride up north and three nights booked in Chiang Mai. It’s listed on some Google doc drafted last week, though neither of us are looking to have the month fully organized.

That’s the beauty of backpacking: We’ll take it as it goes.

We’ve checked off the necessary health precautions—shots and pills to proof against malaria, Hep A and typhoid. I’ve stocked up on white V-necks (a takeaway from summers at sleepaway camp), in addition to Tums, for who knows the affect of Thai food on a western adapted, digestive system.

I’ve wanted an adventure for some time, and this--a month in Thailand-- will be just that. Who knows where the four weeks will take us: the people we’ll meet, the stories and memories we’ll create. But I do know that this is the one time--potentially the last time-- we have to take a month away from the responsibilities and expectations that await us come return to the real-world. 

There's a quote that says life begins at the end of your comfort zone. And I agree for it's a combination of doing and trying that allows us to maximize the potential life has to offer. 

We've got this: Four weeks. One tiny suitcase. Infinite opportunities. I'm ready to do and keen to try. The girl and the traveling blues shoes is absolutely back on board. 

Returning to the city where you studied abroad | USA TODAY College

My article, as published on USA TODAY College:
Returning to the city where you studied abroad | USA TODAY College

Returning to Paris

The roar of the engine pierces the otherwise still morning—the dusk haze glazing the view out of the airplane window.

The plane gains momentum, breaking through the air as it cuts into the sky, tipping to its either side as if allowing us a final farewell. Or rather, a bientot. Because for Paris, it’s never completely goodbye.

I’m ok with leaving this time. Three days and back in Paris, and the romantic, picturesque city of the Paris I remember, remains. But for the first time, I stepped back no more than a visitor, tied by memories of my six months abroad in a city I never quite left behind.

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Paris looks no different, save the bare winter trees that replaced the lush greenery I had left last August. I’d forgotten about the pastel sheen that drapes the city, the gentle sounds of the daily flow of life. I’d forgotten how the metro reeks of urine and of the performers onboard the metro.

You lose touch of a city after a few months away; the fluidity of conversation in another language loses its ease, the expanse of vocabulary fades. And the purpose that once structured your day no longer exists.It's been four months since I left Paris and for the first time, I'm strongly aware that I'm no longer a part of this life, merely an observer onto a world I once had a place within. 

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I spent my three days visiting friends—catching up with my closest girlfriends from the summer, meeting for drinks and dinner with a handful of my French friends and a lunch date with a couple from my grammar class.

I revisited my summer homestay for afternoon tea with Madame and her friend. It was lovely catching up with Madame, the creases of her faces as animated as I remember, her hair less ruffled but her warmth no less genuine. My fluency in French isn’t what it once was, but I appreciated her patience as I hesitantly strung my thoughts into testy, French phrases. She took me through the apartment, introducing me to her current homestay student-- a boy from California just finishing his fourth and final month abroad. He lived in the room opposite to the one I’d spent my summer in-- the same one my former apartmentmates, Arien and then Fernanda had taken over.

People flow in and out of Madame's home. Each student has a unique story, yet there's a common thread that ties their purpose for the time spent within her home. Our context shapes our purpose and defines our connections. It's incredible how quickly connections change as life unfolds. 

Madame and I left her apartment together—she had errands to run before preparing dinner for the homestay student that evening. Why didn't I walk to the metro stop with her, she asked. But I shook my head, telling her I wanted to wander into the Longchamp store just around the corner. 

“They’ll go on sale in three weeks,” she said. “Why not stay?”

From L to R: Dinner with Mariene (British nanny), Lili (German-Jewish law student), Lara, Eric and Audrey (my first French friends)

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An elderly woman asked me for directions on the metro this morning.

"Ca va a Denfert?"

"Denfert?" I responded, racking my mental image of the Paris metro map. Line 4. Line 6. I had met Nathaniel there for coffee his last week in Paris. “Oui, bien sur,” I responded.

It used to be a mark of pride having someone approach you for directions. Four months away, the feeling hasn’t changed-- even if Paris is no longer home, however temporary of a home my time spent in the city had been.

It's strange to realize that the life I built during my six months abroad no longer applies as my purpose no longer exists; but my comfort within the city, my familiarity of their culture remains—allowing a base to work off of should it be a life I one day choose to return to.

Revisited Musee Rodin. One of my favorite art museums.

Connections change; it’s with each experience that we learn to adapt, understanding that nothing is permanent. It takes time to feel as if you fit within a context, patience as you slowly meld with the differences of a foreign culture—a lesson important to understand given change in context doesn’t only apply to life abroad.

Life post-graduation will also bring change—the purpose structured by college stops as we accept the diploma that ties our years of an undergraduate education. For then, it’ll be for us to carve a new place within our environment, seeking out a fresh purpose to structure our reason to stay. Unless we move on, adjusting as we create a new life somewhere else. 

I’m grateful for the opportunity to have lived a life abroad, grateful to have returned to Paris with at least an understanding for the culture that shapes the makeup of the city. It’s revitalized my desire to live abroad—to work in London, to move back to Paris. But I’d love to live in New York, test out San Francisco, visit Chicago, travel the world.

My experience in Paris didn’t end in August. But nor does it end now. I’m ok returning home, for this time, life in D.C. isn’t paused; Paris remains and my connections could one day be renewed, but for now I’ve got the responsibilities of my last semester to focus on. Who knows where the next four months will take me. Who knows where the connections will develop, where the purpose will be.

What I can be sure of, however, is that it all changes. Life refreshes. We adapt. And that's ok.

Searching for definition

View from the Cliveden House- location for my grandfather's 80th birthday celebration.

London. Nov. 29- Dec. 3
The five of us squeeze into the back of the car as the cab winds toward our Regent Street hotel, the darkened winter sky cooling the early evening.

My dad chats with the driver, commenting on the winter fair set up in Hyde Park—“a whole lot of money for a whole lot of nothing,” the cabbie said.

“It’s up every year?”

"Of course not," the driver responded. “You’re not from here?” he asked, confused by my father’s accent and taken aback after my dad’s response that the family now lives in Florida.

“I love Florida,” he replied. “How long since you left London?"

“17 years,” my father answered.

“Eh,” the cab driver said, drawing out his answer, a slight twang to his British intonation. “You’re American now, ain’t you?”

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The blue shoes are still snug in their plastic bag, a musty smell from the months stored away in the UPS box. I had bought a replacement pair prior to leaving for Paris in January, but those too had broken while abroad. There’s a holey trend to the shoes; apparently none are meant for walking.

I returned from Paris early August with two weeks in Florida before heading back up to Washington—a semester to tackle among job and internship responsibilities to balance. I'd laid my life abroad to rest, never expecting I'd return across the Atlantic so soon after six months of life abroad. But the call had come about a month ago, the telephone ring having replaced my morning alarm-- my parents asking if I’d be interested in a four-day trip to London for my grandfather’s 80^th birthday.

Any chance to travel, really. Might as well just buy me the ticket and tell me to pencil in the dates into my calendar.

Which is when it came to me; why not extend the trip. A side trip to Paris? I asked.

Sure, my parents answered. But that, ma cherie, would be out of your own pocket.

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I love travel—the rush of lives across the globe, the challenge of observing without judging, accepting the differences in culture among the similarities within the daily pace of lives around the world.

I met William, my 19-year-old brother, at customs in the Heathrow airport. We had arrived 30 minutes of each other so as to take the train into central London together, flagging a cab at Paddington to get to our hotel.

We haven't gone to London as a family since getting our Green Cards twelve years ago. I’ve been back on my own since, having spent my sophomore year spring break at my grandparents’ central London home, tackling the city through tourist goggles.

I had used the trip as a means to discover my place within the city, leaving with a stronger understanding of my British heritage yet still feeling American, above all else.

I visited London this past summer for a few days during the Queen’s Jubilee. The national pride ran rampant throughout the country, my grandparent’s having draped their front window with two Union Jacks bearing the Queen’s face.

It’s strange to have ties to a place nowhere near the environment you grew up in, yet an understanding it’s a part of your definition. It was through my summer and spring break trip that, for the first time, I faced my own challenge of understanding where my British nationality fits within my own identity. 

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My grandfather, on the left. 

The celebration for my grandfather’s 80^th spanned the course of three days: Friday night, Shabbat dinner at my grandparent’s home; Saturday morning services and Kiddush at synagogue; and Sunday afternoon’s luncheon at the Cliveden House, a historic home just 45 minutes outside of London.

We began the afternoon with drinks in the library, moving into a separate room for the meal. My mother, uncle and former ambassador gave speeches—honoring the man who had inspired so many in his service to the country as a British diplomat to Paris, as a grandfather, father, friend and husband.

  

My grandfather's speech was last, using snippets of memories from his 80 years to emphasize the value of leading a fulfilling, promising and enriching life.

I can’t completely put to words how incredible it was to celebrate such an honor as a family. Perhaps it’s because I didn’t grow up surrounded by family outside that of my parents and brothers. But to sit at a table with my aunt, uncle and cousins, to watch my mother and uncle speak such warm words of my grandfather and to see my grandparents surrounded by some of their oldest friends- it truly was special. 

On the other side of the Atlantic, there’s a connection that binds my family, the strongest reminder of the British roots that tie to a part of my definition.

I've come far in my own discovery process over the past three years, and it with this trip back to London as a family that I had the opportunity to apply what I’ve learned into where it all began.

The birthday boy!

Identity is a tricky term, yet it’s one I believe is structured by the connections we develop within our context. I’ve realized I won't ever have a set answer as to who I am. But in the search, I come away with a stronger grasp as to what of my roots build to create who I am today.

This trip back was the most British I’ve ever felt, watching how at home my parents seemed within the environment they grew up in. My parents pinpointed landmarks during our drive home from the luncheon—a countryside, quaint restaurant in which my mother’s family had eaten an egg brunch; the King David room, “where all the young Jews get married,” my dad said—my parents included. 

It's comforting knowing that at a point, my parents too had to redefine their place as they created a new life in America. There's a sense of a nomad existence to their living: to not really being an American, yet having lived in the states for such an extended time to warrant the title. The trick: to not merge the worlds, my mother said. Context shapes behavior, frames connections. Her American life relates little to the norms she applies to that of her British roots.

Life isn’t a single definition, but rather a series of defining moments that we build and continually renew over the course of our lives. For now, the hardest part is not seeing ahead. My friends and I are at a crossroads in our lives—graduating school in a semester, the blur of the future hazing the comfort as to where we go next.

We develop an identity in order to understand our role within today’s framework. But with tomorrow’s changes, it's for us to reevaluate where we stand. And in doing so, identity and and definition adjusts.

It’s not about letting go. Nor is it about a new replacing the old. It’s about building, constant acceptance of the experiences that shape how we approach what lies ahead.

I bid my parents farewell Sunday evening given I’d catch an early train to Paris the following Monday morning, my father headed to Switzerland, William headed to New York and my mother and Adam back to Florida.

My grandparents would stay in London, my grandmother under strict medical orders to put the travel to rest until her health betters.

But they too will be back off.

We’re a unique family, I’ve decided. Jet setting the world in search of our place within it.

Though maybe if we stayed in one place, we wouldn’t have the challenge.

But then again, life wouldn’t be as exciting.

The family

French and friends

I met up with Chris and Jamie for lunch, the Wednesday of my visit back in Paris. We had agreed to meet at Shakespeare & Co, just outside the garden my friends and I used to eat our boulangeire lunches before our phonetics course.

I had gotten to know Chris and Jamie in my French grammar course, a warm pair who moved to Torcy, a surburb just outside of Paris, about 14 months ago in effort to learn French while pursuing their Christian, missionary activities. They’re a lovely couple, exuding such positive energy, genuine care—a good outlook on the world, their lives and purpose within.

I asked after their process of developing friendships within the French community. The difficulty exists, Jamie had answered.

The French, in large part, are a closed off culture, heavily guarded. It takes prodding to break into their circle, for them to warm up, to accept you into their lives.

My grandmother likes to tell the story of the time she had planned a birthday party for my mother, having invited families from my mother’s class during the time they lived in Paris. The day of, however, and no one had showed—my grandmother to find out later that none had verified, in a way, that my grandparents were “acceptable” to mix with.

The French are weary of the stranger, hesitant to allow space within their social lives to welcome the unknown face. I haven’t come to understand the reason they do so and I realize that from an American viewpoint, it seems rude.

You won’t have a scatter of acquaintances in France, Jamie said. But the effort it takes to develop friendships with French individuals, eventually guarantees the few, quality friends.

Friends for life, she said-- a cultural difference that I have yet to understand.

Dinner, for when I get back

Called it: as Eric and Audrey had driven me home, passing through Paris’s Place de la Concorde on our way back from my last, summer Jewish soiree, merely a few days before packing Paris away into two suitcases brimming with the memories, the stories, the adventures of my six months abroad. I had assured myself leaving Paris was merely a pause-- a life I could pick back up,  should it be a decision I chose to pursue. 

I’m sitting at the desk of our London hotel room emailing French friends, arranging the evening plans I had, but four months ago, toyed with in hopes of coming back to Paris.

But I never guessed return would happen so soon, however quick of a visit this Monday's trip to Paris will be. I never imagined that Paris—my summer social circle—would welcome me back so warmly for the three days I've booked in a city I never quite left behind.

But first I’m in London, having arrived early Friday morning. It’s my grandfather’s 80^th birthday and for the first time since my eight-year-old brother was born, we're here as a whole family. I was nine the last time we were in London-- but then as a family of four to collect our Green Cards, a step closer toward what would eventually lead to an official new nationality. 

That, and a massive case of identity crisis.

The six months I spent tracing the roots of a European background I left at the age of four, piece together this trip back with my parents and brothers. As for Paris, to have created a life for myself--a group of friends, a daily routine-- to have left and now to return: I'm excited to see how it all applies after four months away. 

I probably should get to writing a complete blog post, jot down the thoughts, document the excitement and unearth the tale of the traveling blue shoes-- the legacy of a pair of five-pound Primark fake keds. For the two years they've symbolically followed on my journeys abroad: the ever-reminder of the adventure that forever lies ahead.  

An open mind to cultural differences while studying abroad | USA TODAY College

My article, as published on USA TODAY College
An open mind to cultural differences while studying abroad | USA TODAY College