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

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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.

Even the Eiffel Tower's light show turns off at 1 am

August 3, 2012 

It’s my last time walking up towards the Arc de Triomphe, the three of us pacing the Champs Elysees as we leave Chabad—headed to Trocadero. The lights, the movement, it all disappears as we step down into the metro. I hurriedly whisk out my wallet, undoing the button as I finger the few tickets left in my coin compartment. I slip my ticket into the mouth of the machine, the bud of the paper sliding out on the end.

It's four metro stops and six minutes left. The thump of my heart is the beat for our steps. It's a drum race with the clock and for the first time, it's me that's in the race.
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I was the only one at work this afternoon—save the two hours my boss, Arnaud, came in. He had called me into his offer, complimenting me on the notes I'd prepared for the future intern. If I ever wanted to come back to Paris, Arnaud said, I should contact him. Of course, no guarantee of a job, but “we’ll see,” he added.

I took my last stroll to the Jardin du Luxembourg for lunch, returning to the office to put my final touches on my work, before leaving a little after 2:45.   

I handed the office keys to a lady in the architecture firm. She asked if I was leaving for my three week vacation.

Something like that.

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I closed my bank account, withdrawing the euros of my paycheck before snipping my French credit card—each slither falling into the haphazard pile scattered in the garbage.

I spent the rest of my afternoon on a walking tour of Paris—stopping into ACCENT (the French organization that coordinated my semester program) to say a final goodbye, before heading to Centre Pompidou for a last overlook of the city. I wandered through to l’Hotel de Ville, stopping to watch the Olympics on a large screen installed just outside Paris’s town hall.

From there, I walked to St. Michel, visiting one of my favorite boulangeries, eating my patisserie in the garden my friends and I used to eat our lunch in before Phonetics. A free shuttle was running in between St. Michel and Invalides (given the RER was down), and I hopped on board, stopping off at the Musee d'Orsay, before walking home, exhausted by it all.  

I had planned to go to Sacre Coeur before Shabbat that evening. But my afternoon walk had left me drained, and it dawned on me that there was no real reason to pay a last visit to my favorite spot in Paris. I've been so many times before. It'll still be there once I come back.

View of Sacre Coeur from the Musee d'Orsay 

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I hadn’t planned to go to Chabad for my final Shabbat—my last evening—in Paris. But a French friend, Julia, had offered to join me and I had agreed, messaging Natalia, a German law student studying in Paris, to let her know of the plans. I had been put in contact with Natalia through my German- Jewish friend, Lili, a few weeks prior. And though Natalia wasn't Jewish, she had expressed interest in joining for a Shabbat.

While Julia ended up canceling due to work commitments, Natalia remained firm on her agreement. Her friend, Sergej—a charming German boy with piercing blue- green eyes and blonde hair-- was in town visiting. And so he too, joined us for the evening.

With the exception of one guy I had briefly met at the Jewish soirée this past Wednesday, I didn’t recognize any of the attendees at Chabad. The Rabbi too wasn’t there—he had told me the week prior he’d have already left for his vacation. The freshness of the faces was strange, yet it’s the ever-constant reminder that the flow of people, the flow of experiences, the flow of connections, come and go in life. In many ways, the fresh faces eased my goodbye to the synagogue that had had such an influence in my six months abroad.

It's tradition to go around and introduce yourself during the Shabbat meal. Strangely, all seemed to be paired with husbands who felt it their responsibility to introduce their wives (not sure why given women aren’t mute). And through the paired introductions, somehow my German friends, the Belgian man at the end of our table and I got skipped. 

I had wanted to say that I've come here for six months—that tonight was my last Shabbat. But no one here knew that this was the Chabad that’s given me home for the majority of my Shabbats in Paris. That it was here that I met all that enriched my experience this summer. I wanted to say thank you. But I guess no one really would have cared anyway, nor had they been here for the six months to follow me through.

I enjoyed the conversation at our dinner table—a couple from London, another from Australia, my two German friends and a man who commutes weekly from Belgium. The British couple spoke of their time while studying abroad in Germany-- the Australian couple inquiring as to the lingering affects of the Holocaust within modern society.

The Holocaust doesn’t define our people, yet there’s no denying the weight it places on our most recent past. Jews throughout history have been persecuted; Yet through it, we've maintained a sense of tradition within our culture. This Shabbat dinner here in Paris is the same Shabbat dinner worldwide. It’s our shared traditions that provide us with a shared connection, no matter where we are in the world.  Not all at the table realized my German friends weren’t Jewish, and while it’s natural the conversation shifted to Germany and the Holocaust, I felt strongly that I didn’t want my German friends to feel uncomfortable.

I’d never wanted to visit Germany, prior to meeting my German- Jewish, friend Lili. I think Jews come in twos—the ones who are proud of their right to enter Germany freely. And the others, who wish to never step foot in the country.

I’d forever been the latter—regardless of my awareness of Germany’s immediate step to repair the past, the depth of Holocaust education they receive in schools and the burden this generation bears as a result of their ancestors’ past.

It was through Lili that I gained insight into a Jewish family who, following the war, made a home for themselves in Berlin. Who let go of the past—who moved forward, putting behind the pain and suffering of yesterday in starting the new life of tomorrow. Yet, in doing so, her family hasn’t let go of their identity as Jews. They’re Jewish- German, every right to practice their religion as they please. In Berlin, Lili can walk with her Magen David showing.

Which is ironic, in many ways, given that’s not one that Jews feel comfortable doing in France.

_________________

I noticed the time had just passed 11:30. I motioned to Natalia and Sergej.

There was somewhere I wanted to go.
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I remember running from the metro stop with Michelle, racing to get her to Troacdero in time to see the Eiffel Tower's on- the- hour, five minute light show. I recall her smile, her few moments of silence as she stared ahead, amazed by the beauty of the sparkle of the tower’s lights. 

Michelle was my lucky charm this summer. For it was the weekend I had offered to take her around Paris-- given she was traveling alone-- that I had received the party invite from Deborah, the same party I had bumped back into Eric. And it was the following day that I had gone for drinks and dinner with Joh and Phillipe—Michelle with Phillipe, I with Joh. It was Joh that I dated for the two months of my summer— our first date in which he surprised me with an evening boat ride and dinner on the Seine. It’s not everyday you find a connection with another—one that you build so quickly, so naturally. And while our romantic interest slowly faded, it was a remarkably strong friendship that, rather, replaced.

You never know the power of the people that come into your life. That weekend with Michelle changed my summer—what had all started with my suggestion that I spend my Sunday with her.

Which was right before I asked if she had time that evening, for I wanted to take her to Trocadero-- the best spot to see the Eiffel Tower sparkle.

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Mariene, Lili, some random Asian girl (who we had thought we were saving from a man who appeared to be harassing her) and I rushed Ari to Trocadero, after a Shabbat dinner. Ari had been visiting Paris alone, and a camp best friend, Nathan, had put the two of us in contact.

We had made it to Trocadero just as the Eiffel Tower’s light show flickered on—the five us energized by the surge of adrenaline from our race to get to the viewing point in time. It was Ari’s first time seeing the Eiffel Tower’s light show—and it left me with the deepest feeling of satisfaction for having shared the experience with him.
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It was a full moon, my last night in Paris. A full circle, like all within my summer. 

Natalia and Sergej raced with me to get to the Eiffel Tower for the midnight light show. They too had wanted to give me the moment, sitting with me for an hour after-- half in silence, half in conversation, soaking in my last few hours remaining in the city.  

There's no planning to where experiences will take you—to who you'll meet, where you'll go. I don't know how I got so lucky this summer, how everything fell into place so perfectly. I don’t know how I managed to secure a job, how I fell into my summer living arrangements and how I managed to never spend the important moments alone.  

I don't know why I got lucky. But I had it all this summer. Each puzzle fit, everything made sense.

The universe pulls together in helping get you where you’re meant to end up. I had followed my instincts in piecing together my plans for the six months. And where it's left me?

Well, here. Here, sitting on the steps at Trocadero, watching the shimmer of the Eiffel Tower’s lights with two friends.
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The firing lights seemed to blaze off the metal hatches of the Eiffel Tower. There's an urgency to the flickering of the lights—a bulb for each hope, each dream. All waiting to be picked off.

The lights are beautiful—the tower, as always, magnificent. 

I could feel my heartbeat getting louder, the weight settling just below the lobes of my eyes. But I held in the tears. Because why cry? With six months of memories, there's nothing to be sad about.

Natalia, Sergej and I talked forever; Natalia and I sharing memories of Paris, our hopes for the future. They laughed when I said my future husband would be taking me here on our honeymoon.

Except, I wasn’t kidding.

Paris is the city of dreams and romance, of class and culture, of life and energy. It's a city that doesn't extend the warm welcome to the visitor; They raise their nose and click their heal as the walk on. It’s for us to tail behind, to blend in (though they know we never will) and go along too.

There's a refinement to their culture, a beauty to their manner of living. Paris is a city unlike any other.

Six months of life in Paris.

I really am quite lucky.

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August 13, 2012 

It’s been just over a week since I’ve been home. And weirdly, my life across the seas doesn’t seem as if it never happened. It sort of feels, rather, as if it’s on pause. Awaiting my return, someday.

Florida seems so quiet, so still in comparison. I’m back to writing in my favorite Starbucks—just down the street from my house. My usual table I like to write at is typically empty. It’s the one right next to the window that looks out onto the parking lot— the scatter of this evening’s yellow lights illuminating the few seated outdoors.

There had been a man, a few days ago, who had walked in, complaining of a group smoking outside. “I can’t sit around that,” he had said. I smiled. I haven’t heard a comment like that in quite some time.

I’ve maintained the contact with my Parisian friends, writing our messages in French in attempt to keep up my progress of the past six months. My mother also speaks to my baby brother in French—and every once in a while I’ll join in on the conversation. But it doesn’t last for long, given it’s a lot easier to speak in French when you’re not used to speaking to the other person in English.

It’s amazing how little has changed in the seven months I’ve been away from Florida-- how quickly all that I had left off has picked back up. I’m back on the journalism track—having just received the incredible opportunity to work as a collegiate correspondent for USA TODAY. I’ve been offered an internship from The Washington Post Express—and am waiting to hear from an internship from The Washington Post before making a final decision. But first, I’ve got D.C. to move back to and a new apartment to settle into.

Every once in a while I sit back, wandering what life is like in Paris right now. And while I’m not always sure of the time difference, I do know that at 7 pm my time—1 am Paris time— the last flicker of the Eiffel Tower’s bulbs shine, before the lights of the entire structure shut off.

Lights have to turn off at some point. But off never means forever. 

Around 6 am, Paris time, the Eiffel Tower will reawaken—shining it’s beauty on the city below. I’d love to turn my lights back on in Paris—to one day move back. I don’t want to give up on my dreams of writing and so if it's meant to be, I think it’ll fall into place. One day, perhaps I’ll have the two.

But first, I’ve got the honeymoon in Paris to take—the future Jewish (Parisian or not) husband to find. The job to start, a year left of school to finish.

As a chapter of my life folds over, a new part takes place. There’s a lot in store as I move forward. Yet in doing so, I carry forth six months of an experience that truly marked the me I brought home.

Everything works as it should— everything in life fits together as it’s supposed to.
Thank you Paris for teaching me just that.

A bientot, Paris. Tu me manques, déjà.

Sacre Coeur- my favorite spot in Paris. From the top of the hill you can see the entire city, below. Picture was taken back in February. 

The summer friends

- Deborah: Had met Deborah at Chabad just before I had left for spring break. She invited me to a party, my first weekend during the summer.

- Amelia: A California native and fellow AEPHi sister, Amelia and I met, as she was finishing up her year working as an au pair in Paris. She returned home at the beginning of July, headed back to start her studies for a teaching certificate.

- Eric: I had met Eric at Chabad, a few weeks before the end of the semester. I had bumped into his girlfriend, Audrey while on a bus headed to Sacre Coeur. She was meeting Eric for coffee—inviting us along? Eric and I ended meeting back up at Deborah’s party. He had spent his summer alone, while interning in Haifa during his college years. As a result, he took me under his wing—calling me often to set me up with plans to got to Jewish get- togethers, drinks with his friends or dinner at various kosher restaurants. I also had the pleasure of joining Eric and his family for Shabbat dinner at his home.

- Audrey: (Hopeful future wife of Eric), I had met Audrey at Chabad, the same evening I had met Eric. In addition to coffee, I got together with Audrey for dinner with Eric and Erica—getting to say our last goodbye at the Jewish soiree I attended, my last Wednesday in Paris.

- Mariene: The girl who became one of my closest friends this summer. A British nanny, who I had met my first shabbat during the summer, Mariene had moved permanently to Paris. From spending evenings with her various friends to cooking pasta dinners, watching the fireworks on Bastille Day and getting lost on our way to a Jewish bbq, we shared real quality moments together. She’s promised to come visit the states in April—and I’m truly looking forward to it.

- Lili: Also one of my closest friends this summer. I had been put in contact with Lili through Eric, meeting her at Chabad. She has such a unique sense of humor, a genuine kindness and warmth to her personality. And while I only got to spend about a month with Lili (given she headed home to Berlin for her summer break), I truly savored each memory from our adventures—evenings at Jewish soirees, afternoon in the Marais and shabbat dinners at Chabad.

- Arien: A boy from the Netherlands who lived in my homestay for the first month. We had interesting conversations, typically centered on the differences within our religious beliefs.

- Fernanda: A girl from Brazil who took Arien’s spot in my homestay. She and I became quite good friends, eating and cooking our meals together, spending our morning on the Champs Elysees for Bastille Day, heading to the Jardin de Tuilleries and taking a quick nap before ending our afternoon together at the Louvre. We also spent an afternoon at Angelina’s, me introducing her to the loquid goodness of Angelina’s hot chocolate.

- Alexi: Madame’s 31-year-old son. Often in his own little world, as a result of functional mental illness, Alexi was nothing but warm. I loved our conversations, his touch in making the apartment I lived in feel more like home.

- Madame: The most charming, sweet and genuine woman who I lived with, this summer. I rented out my bedroom in her apartment—a beautiful location in the 6^th arrondissement. Madame was a terrific cook, stirring up home cooked meals for each of the four dinners I paid for. We’d sit for over an hour, during dinner. Wonderful conversations and good practice for my French.  

- Nicholas: The French intern at work. I had thought we weren’t going to be friends, given he didn’t talk to me much back in June. But come the end of my internship, he and I regularly had conversations.

- Eric: My co-worker who trained me.

- Michelle: My summer, good- luck charm. Had met Michelle, a Canadian, med- student, at Chabad—she was traveling alone in Paris for the week before meeting up with friends for three weeks in India. Michelle and I spent a Sunday together—showing her my favorite parts of the city before meeting Joh and Phillipe for an evening in Montmartre.

- Joh:  My summer Prince Charming. From a boat cruise along the Seine to dinner in a restaurant in the Jardin des Tuileries, Joh added quite a different dimension to my summer.

- Phillipe:  A recently, turned orthodox- Jewish man, Phillipe is on the hunt for a wife. But I told him his best bet is not to look. For when you’re not trying is when you end up finding.

- Judith: A chatty, lovely 22- year- old, who I had the pleasure of meeting at a birthday party Eric had invited me to. She had invited me for drinks, two weeks before I left Paris. We grabbed kosher sushi for dinner in St. Germain, my last week in Paris—wishing eachother goodbye at the Jewish get- together on my last Wednesday.

- Julia: Also put in contact through Eric, I joined Julia, a Parisian native, on her mission to take Paris on as a tourist. We met up at free yoga at the Jardin du Luxembourg, in addition to heading up to the Montparnasse Tower’s viewing point.

- David: A native Mexican who spent time living in the states (in addition to studying at Georgetown), David moved to Paris as a result of a job offer. I had met him at Chabad a few months into my semester, meeting back up during the summer. We walked to Pont Alexandre, one evening after Chabad—pretending to be on a guest list for Showdown, the club just under the bridge. David joined Naomi, a camp friend who came to visit during a weekend, for an evening at light and sound show at Versailles.

- Naintara: A classmate from my time in French Grammar. I had always quite enjoyed talking to her during class—both on the same page as to how confusing our teacher made the lessons! Naintara and I got together for drinks with Astrid, a fellow classmate. Naintara joined me the following Friday for Shabbat dinner (although she wasn’t Jewish), ending our evening at one of Joh’s friends, Benjamin’s apartment just on the Champs Elysees. Naintara met me for lunch one afternoon at work, the two of us spending my break at the Jardin du Luxembourg.

- Astrid: Out of the hundreds of people at a free concert at l’Hotel de Ville, I happened to bump into Astrid and her boyfriend! We, along with Naintara, went for drinks an afternoon after work.

- Naomi: A camp friend who came in town to visit. We spent a lovely weekend together—starting as just over acquaintances and ending off as truly good friends.

- Ari: A friend of a friend who I had been put in contact given he was traveling in Paris, alone. I spent the weekend taking Ari around the city-- from Chabad Friday night to a Gay Pride festival at St. Michel on Saturday. 

Warm Words

The woman onboard the metro

She made it on board just as the metro's doors closed-- the click as the doors clamped shut, the still image of the metro stop outside transforming into a steamed blur.

She turned away from the car's door, facing those seated onboard.

Her face was round, plump around the cheeks, a faint dab of freckles spread across the bridge of her nose. Her ebony hair was clipped into a twist behind her head, leaving only a few slovenly curls hanging out in front. She wore a pale pink sweater, zipped to the collar. 

She spoke softly, almost at a whisper. “Excuse me, ladies and gentleman,” she said. “I have a presentation.”

And so she began, a gentle song barely audible amid the rattle of the metro as it winded through the blackened tunneled. None watched, none could hear. Yet she carried on, closing her eyes as she let the notes ring through—her small plead for help. 

She finished as the metro stalled, slowing to enter the oncoming stop.  Retrieving her purse, she made her way through the metro car. “A small donation for the performance, please.”

None gave as she shuffled around the passengers, making her way back to the center of the metro car. But she had gotten back too late and the car’s door had closed, leaving her trapped behind with the passengers who averted the eyes of a woman in need of help.  

It felt like forever, as she stood still, shifting her body weight as she waited. The florescent lights of the next stop finally came into view, the individuals awaiting the oncoming train quickly becoming larger.

She didn’t look around as she lifted the metro car’s door, merely gripping her purse as she stepped out, blending into the swarm of passengers all making their way towards the exit.

From the outside, no one could have guessed that a few seconds prior she had stepped onboard, letting open a part of herself in song, hoping to receive a few coins in return.  She looked no different than the others as she transformed into the rush of the many. All too on their way through life. All too with their own stories to tell. 

I'll have dinner plans for when I come back, whenever that will be.

The French intern and I are the first to get to work, now that he decided to start arriving 30 minutes earlier. It's nice because it gives us time to chat before the others arrive.  And so this morning, our discussion centered on the French way of saying "I love you." The French use “Je t'aime" for both I love you and I like you. My argument, that had gotten us to the conversation of Je t’aime in the first place, had been that the French have, in comparison, quite a smaller range of vocabulary.

Which is when our boss walked in. Exactly at the point that the French intern said "I love you." Which, taken out of context, clearly explains the look we received as our boss strode through the office. 

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Madame's been out of town this week, spending three weeks of vacation time in between her countryside home in France and a rented home in Spain. I've had the apartment to myself-- neither a pro nor con. Although, I'll admit, I like the freedom of being able to walk from the bathroom (on one end of the apartment) to the sink (on the other side of the apartment) in my underwear, if I so please.

I’m only paying rent this week, rather than the additional costs for my weekly four, home cooked meals. The plan had been to fill my last week with friends, and so it had worked out that I wouldn’t be eating dinner in.

Monday rolled around and, as I left work, it was the only day I had planned. It's Thursday now, and everyday's been filled with a friend to spend the evening with. As will continue for tonight—as I enjoy my last dinner with Joh—and tomorrow, where I'll cap off my six months with Shabbat at Chabad.

Really, quite fitting.

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It's 9.50 euros to access the Montparnasse Tower viewing point-- my Monday night plans with Julia and her friend. Parisians despise the building-- a jarring scar in the otherwise skyscraper clear horizon. But it's the view that makes the tower worth it; 360 degrees of all of Paris, the Eiffel Tower included.

I went for kosher sushi in St. Germain, the following Tuesday, with Judith (a French friend I had met at a party a friend, Deborah, had invited me to my first weekend during the summer)-- ending the evening with drinks at a chic restaurant/ bar in Odeon.

Judith had told me of a Jewish soiree Wednesday evening, and, come Wednesday, Eric and Audrey had too texted me to texted me an invited. But I hesitated to accept given:

a) the entrance fee cost 10 euros. And that’s just under my week budget. (So I compensated by buying a bag of pasta. And for the meager price of 1.48 euros, that bag provided dinner for Wednesday, in addition to lunch Thursday and Friday and leftovers for 5:30 am breakfast this Saturday.)

b) Jews are cliquey-- and when speaking another language, it’s harder to break through.

But the French let their guard down if you’ve got a hand to ease into their tight knit group. Eric introduced me to a range of individuals, and within 30 minutes we had both branched off-- him with his friends, me making new ones. I spoke with a girl named Arula for quite some time-- a girl about a few feet shorter than me, who moved in closer every time she wanted to talk. Judith found us, beelining her way over to say hello. She was accompanied by her friend, Ilan, a 22- year old law student who, as another man I met later that evening claimed, beared an uncanny resemblance to Richard Gere. Which I had scoffed at, turning to look at Ilan-- until I stopped. Because the man was right—Ilan had Richard Gere’s eyes.  

And then Ilan asked me how much I had drunk.

The evening continued, surrounded by such a spectacular range of prospective, Jewish husbands (of course when I only have two nights left)-- all apparently enamored with my, what they all like to tell me, Canadian laced French accent. Several expressed interest in my life back in the states-- half responding that they had already visited D.C, the majority of whom had loved the district. Of course I invited them all back to visit, offering my shared, one bedroom apartment as available lodging.

Eric and Audrey drove me home, later that night. They're my first, real Parisian friends-- having met the two back in May during Chabad, Shabbat dinner. I had bumped into Audrey, the following Sunday. She had been on her way to meet Eric for coffee, inviting me to join. It was then at the party Deborah had invited me to, a few weeks later, that I bumped back into Eric, spending the evening chatting-- him leaving me with a rundown of Jewish events I could join him for. And it was from there that it all spiraled and my summer social life had begun.

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Eric drove us through Place de la Concorde, the grounds just opposite the Jardin des Tuileries-- the Louvre’s palace gardens. It was a full moon last night, the moon’s vibrant white light highlighting the clouds around.

My SuperShuttle driver, the day I had landed in Paris, had taken a detour to drive through Place de la Concorde. But then, all I could muster was a little more than merci, given my French vocabulary only barely extended past the basics.

That had been six months. Six months ago, when I had arrived, hopeful of improving my French, of immersing myself in the European life I had grown up without. I had no idea what was in store, six months ago; How my semester would affect my summer—if there would be a summer—how my experience who influence my future. Paris had been foreign. The experience, new. And what it all would hold, unknown.

Six months ago, Paris was the beginning.

I recall so vividly my frustration of possessing complete French comprehension but little ability to articulate. That too was six months ago. The French intern told me this morning, that I’m a lot easier to understand now-- and I feel it; in context, I speak without thinking. I rarely stumble if I can’t think of a word. I don’t worry about speaking to strangers and words I’ve never learned, somehow come to me. I think I’ve got the 17 years of my mother speaking to me in French, to thank for that.

I’m proud of having reached my goal of returning home speaking French. I am proud of where these six months have taken me-- grateful for all that has shaped each step along the way.

A friend had asked me what of the experience would I bring back. It was over Skype, and at the time, I had fumbled, trying to explain how different the two lives are-- how I don’t know how Paris me translates to D.C. me. But the real answer was that I wasn't sure what parts of me had changed, although I recognized that in the time I’ve been abroad, there must be some level that has.

Life abroad has taught me the meaning of possibilities: the possibility of adapting and the ability to achieve. I recognize the process of adjustment-- aware of the wavering periods of comfort and the eventual passing of doubts once all settles down.

I come back with a refreshed notion that the world is ours to choose from; My dream remains to pursue a career as a feature writer, yet the future is an open book and my years post grad don't necessarily need to lock me into work in the states.

I’ve reinforced my belief in the strength of connections in leading us all to where we’re supposed to be. I understand the importance in the constant changes within our lives-- and I want to believe that all that’s meant to be won’t fade, rather follow.

I understand more than ever, how nothing-- the good, the bad-- lasts forever. I’m conscious of the importance of appreciating the moment rather than wishing to extend the moment into the future.

And so in response to the question my friend posed-- what will I bring home-- the answer is simply, me.

When taken out of the context of the familiar, forced to rebuild in the surroundings of the foreign, you apply the parts of yourself that are you. The parts of me I’m aware of both here and at "home," are the parts that are real-- to me. The hopes and dreams, the worries and doubts. My time abroad—as does every experience I embark on—leaves me with a greater grasp of the core beliefs I use to structure the manner I view, live and experience my life.

It’s a constant process of self- discovery, life is. It’s why it’s important to keep moving forward, to not get stuck in the familiar of the comfort. We learn a little more about ourselves each time we set out onto something new—the challenges that test our character, the experiences that strengthen our beliefs.

I had been nervous for the summer, nervous of staying in the city without my friends from the semester-- nervous that I’d be staying alone, rather than on a structured program. But my plan to find a summer job had worked out, and my goal of befriending the stranger had happened. It sorted itself out, as it should, because I believe that’s how life works. What feels right, what’s meant to be, will somehow always fall into place.

I don't where this will take me, but I do know Paris isn’t one I’m letting go of. I have foundations laid into my life here, one I’m confident I could pick up should I ever find my way back.  And, as I made Eric and Audrey promise as Eric turned into the side road that leads to my apartment building, they better both still be here once I return.

So the good thing is, I’ll hopefully have dinner plans the day I come back.

Whenever that will be.

Taking a leaf out of Eat, Pray, Love. The word: Moment

My mother had emailed me Sunday evening to say her childhood best friend, Raphael, would be in town. Would I like to meet her?

I had met Raphael’s parents back in March, during the few days my parents had come to visit. It had been incredible for me to see Raphael's parents glaze back into the memories of my mother as a child. Our parents have a life before we become theirs—and I find it thrilling to discover a part of who my parents were before they had each other-- before they created our family.

And so I met with Raphael, her son, Theodore, and her parents for drinks at Le Select, a café just next to Rue Vavin. We sat and talked for an hour and a half.

Odeile, Raphael’s mother, turned to me, near the end of our time together. There’s a fierceness to her gaze, emphasized by the dark liner that shapes her eyes. She peered over her rimless glasses, her burgundy hair gleaming as the sun poured through the area around the outdoor seating.

“What will you take away from your life in Paris?” she asked—a deepness to her stare as she looked me straight on, complete attention for the answer I’d provide.

It had been a question I had thought of a few days prior, on my walk home from work. And, as I often do, had jotted down my thoughts onto the notepand on my phone. My answer, as a result, was immediate.

“The moment,” I responded “Life in the moment.”

Because that’s what Paris—this life, these people—that’s the word that describes this existence. It’s the appreciation of now, a desire to maximize the present wtihout too much plan for what lies ahead. They take the days off when they want (if possible); they spend their evenings after work in the company of others-- hours at a cafe over drinks (orange juice and coca cola among the favorite choice-- typically one of the more expensive drinks on offer), continuing for a late dinner before ending the evening with a final drink. They use their hour for lunch to go somewhere, be it to read a book in a park or go for lunch in a cafe. The weather too adheres to life in the moment-- changing from gloomy to gorgeous in a matter of minutes.

Odeile nodded her head, slowly-- as if taking in my answer-- asking how Paris compared to London, to the states. “Which is better?” she wanted to know.

The answer rolled off my tongue; “None,” I said, confident in my response. “There isn’t a better.

It’s one world, with thousands of ways to live our lives-- and for me, it's what makes travel so appealing-- living abroad, so thrilling. It’s the differences that captivate.

It’s not better here, nor there. Just different.” 

She leaned back, taking a sip from her glass of orange juice—satisfied with my response.