grateful

Periodically through my day, every day -- I find myself repeating in my head;

you're in paris
you're IN paris
you're in PARIS
YOU are IN paris

in different pitches
with different stresses on syllables
ar-tic-u-la-ting the words
saying it fast
three times fast
saying it s l o w l y
in a sing song voice
punctuating my words
with bravado
almost yelling
quietly
thoughtfully
letting the words slip through
dreamily
matter. of. factly.
almost out of breath
after a pause
with a laugh
with a shake of my head
in confusion
in awe
as a question?
or with deadpanned seriousness --
but never angrily

Why can't I convince myself?
Why is it so hard to absorb?
You should probably be concerned with the fact that I'm talking to myself so much.

I finished my "European Politics" class this afternoon, strolled out onto the small side street and adjusted my sunglasses. Walked a few blocks, grabbed lunch -- a rare steak, that was practically raw -- and passed a parade of teachers on strike. I made my way further down St. Michel and browsed through books at Gilbert-Jeune. Then I finally wandered one street over and found myself people and pidgeon watching -- in front of the Notre Dame.

This is real life.
But I can't convince myself that it is.
I don't remember it being this hard in China.

Maybe it's because I've been to Paris before. Maybe because it's more Western, a highly developed country, and in a million different Hollywood movies. Maybe it's the pre-stages of culture shock. Maybe subconciously I've accepted it. Maybe I'm already just too Parisian (yeah, right).

I'm waiting for the awe to hit me. For my breath to be taken away. At the fact. Because it is.... in fact, a fact... I'm in Paris.

I remind myself so often in my head that it's become a chant of sorts. A rally cry. Under my breath. Hoping to make it a fact, to myself.

I'm incredibly lucky.
And above all, I'm incredibly grateful.

jealous, much?

Let's do a recap of my day:

Getting a presentation over with? .... Nice.
Grabbing a drink after class and people watching?.... Great.
Dinner with my cousins in their apartment in Paris? .... Awesome.
Getting ready to spend my birthday at Oktoberfest in Munich, Germany?.... Amazing.
Booking flights for my fall break trip to Hungary, Austria, and the Czech Republic.... Winning.

Oh, hot damn.
This is my life.

Offrez moi la Tour Eiffel, j'en ferais quoi?

Next big girl crush...? Yes, please.



Donnez moi une suite au Ritz, je n'en veux pas !

Des bijoux de chez CHANEL, je n'en veux pas!
Donnez moi une limousine, j'en ferais quoi?
Offrez moi du personnel, j'en ferais quoi?
Un manoir a Neufchatel, ce n'est pas pour moi.
Offrez moi la Tour Eiffel, j'en ferais quoi?

Je Veux d'l'amour, d'la joie, de la bonne humeur, ce n'est pas votre argent qui f'ra mon bonheur, moi j'veux crever la main sur le coeur papalapapapala allons ensemble, découvrir ma liberté, oubliez donc tous vos clichés, bienvenue dans ma réalité.

J'en ai marre de vos bonnes manières, c'est trop pour moi!
Moi je mange avec les mains et j'suis comme ça!
J'parle fort et je suis franche, excusez moi!
Finie l'hypocrisie moi j'me casse de là!
J'en ai marre des langues de bois!
Regardez moi, toute manière j'vous en veux pas et j'suis comme çaaaaaaa (j'suis comme çaaa)

Je Veux d'l'amour, d'la joie, de la bonne humeur, ce n'est pas votre argent qui f'ra mon bonheur, moi j'veux crever la main sur le coeur
Allons ensemble découvrir ma liberté, oubliez donc tous vos clichés, bienvenue dans ma réalité!

Quick translation for those who don't "French":
Give me a room at the Ritz, I don't want it.
Jewelry from Chanel, I don't want it.
Give me a limousine, what would I do with it?
Give me servants, what would I do with them?
A manor at Neufchatel, it's not for me.
Offer me the Eiffel Tower, what would I do with it?

I want love, and joy, and a good time.
It's not your money that will put me in a good mood.
I want to die with my hand on my heart, together with you.
Discover my freedom, and forget all your clichés.
Welcome to my reality.

I'm sick of your good manners, it's not for me.
Me, I eat with my hands because I'm me.
I talk too loud and I'm blunt, excuse me!
Done with hypocrisy, I'm taking a break from that.
I'm sick of bullshit
Look at me, I don't want all that you are, because I'm me.

I want love, and joy, and a good time.
It's not your money that will give me a good time.
I want to die with my hand on my heart.
Let's discover my freedom together, forget all your clichés, welcome to my reality!

the French diet

I'm losing weight not because I don't eat, but because I can't afford to eat. Fact.

Rambling, rants, and ridiculousness

I told myself I wouldn't write in this blog until I finished my rough draft for the Truman -- but I have writer's block.... Shit, merde... Fuck. (I hate swearing but sometimes this word is necessary. No word quite as concise, succinct)

They say it's easiest to write about yourself. Some of the greatest pieces of literature are autobiographical to a certain extent -- take Sorrows of Young Werther, David Copperfield, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, On the Road etc. A fold of the writer's personality. A fragment of their life they wrote to get out of the way, that needed to be shed, told to anyone listening...we're all inherently narcisstic after all.

Wrapped in our own little worlds. Moving forward and forgetting to look back, or pause the present. Completely self involved. Our problems, worries, and anxieties consuming our daily existence. Being fired, broken up with, and having that deadline hanging over our heads -- all seems to be apocalyptic.

Some writers, you can tell immediately, just like hearing themselves talk -- so to speak, err type. For some, it's therapy. For me, everything I write in this blog works as a bit of a rough draft. Thoughts I want to use for later -- for what? Who knows. I sure as hell don't.

So, here I find myself -- listening to jazz, chain smoking, rereading old entries for inspiration, and thinking procrastinating -- in a small apartment in Paris. I keep looking outside wishing my rough draft would spontaneously start typing itself.

I guess the reason why it's hard to focus is because I'm not writing about myself -- but about the person I want to be. The person I should be. This imaginary person who has yet to come into existence, five to seven years after graduation (that's the prompt I'm working on now). But who on earth ever knows who they want to be at any given point in time?

I try my best not to lie -- but I need to write as if I know what I want to do with my life.

Bahumbug.

In reality, I have dozens of plans -- and I'd be happy with following any of the paths once I get to that bridge, crossroad, moment, point. I have enough trouble deciding what word I want to use in a sentence, let alone choosing a career path. Making a decision now seems meaningless at best. It's so far in the future!... That's not true, but that's how I feel right now. Am I lazy? Unmotivated? Bullshit.

People who seem completely confident, know what they want to do -- I promise, it's all a bluff. Or at least, I think it is. It would surely make me feel better to think that it's all an act.

I want to go explore the city damn it! It's my second day here for god's sake... but I can't justify leaving until I have at least 4,000 characters written.

Where is my muse? Is she exploring Paris now without me? Come back to me. Save me.

Sorry for this half-baked entry. It'll get better. Promise.

Paris.

13 hours of horrible sleep later.
on an overly air-conditioned flight from Kuala Lumpur.

I find myself waiting in line.
blue passport passed around. stamped.
no more than a "merci" passes my lips.
followed by a walk through frosted-glass doors.
towards baggage claim.
I grab my rucksack and small duffel bag.
hesitate towards a 60-year old woman with a placard --
my name hastily scrawn across a piece of paper
Thérèse Vu.
introductions ending with another "merci"
small talk, car, and then the highway --
as my gaze turns to the Eiffel tower in the distance.

am I really in Paris right now?

my host mother interrupts my reverie
"... and I smoke."
she says this almost timidly.

I reply (a bit sheepishly) back --
"ah...well, me too."

(which is half the truth.
i used to.
okay fine --
it wasn't that long ago.
Beijing was bad for my health... but
don't we all relapse at points?)

she breathes out in relief,
"well that makes things easier..."
a pause.
"welcome to paris" she says,
as she hands me a cigarette.

i can't think of a more parisian welcome.
yes, this is paris.

.....so... about how I quit smoking...
i'm doomed.
that's a factual statement.

do all parisians smoke?
or did i just get (un)lucky?

oh, paris. how i've missed you.