The Transition Artist

There are a lot of things I’ve been meaning to write about for the past few weeks, but it’s been a very consistent difficulty for me to find time to write about some of the things that have been the most incredible because I get so caught up living in them that I forget to reflect. It’s a really beautiful problem to have, but every now and then I sit down and want to just let the words tumble out to share.

Yesterday I spent some time by myself (the best therapy in the entire world), and got to reflect on the past couple of weeks as I reveled in the peace and beauty of the autumn afternoon. It’s started to get fairly cold here, and I felt the chill of the breeze even through the two shirts and jacket that I wore. I walked along Canal St. Martin, a really lovely area of Paris that, in my opinion, could easily trump a walk along the Seine because of how cozy the area feels. I felt the damp, yellow leaves shift under my feet, looked around at the vibrant orange and red colors on the trees around me, and watched groups of friends sharing bottles of wine and men smoking cigarettes as they talked animatedly. A homeless man sat on a bench taking inventory of the change he’d picked up, and a child rolled by on his little scooter, screaming at his parents to hurry up.

I passed a couple bundled in their scarves and jackets, holding hands as they strolled idly, and a waiter popped his head out of a cafe, scanning the street for customers. Traces of muttered French conversation tickled my ears, and shouts from a nearby basketball court echoed across the canal. I kept walking and smiled vaguely, content to be walking in my own company.

I popped into Artazart, a bookstore filled with books covering topics from photography to graphic design, to the least visited places in the world, to the most exquisite cabin homes. I spent an hour pouring over these little treasures, and hungrily flipped through their pages, as though I hoped their words and pictures might satisfy something I seemed to be missing. Without buying anything, I stepped back outside to meet the wind, and continued walking down the canal as the sun set.

I caught myself in a moment of pure comfort, at home in my surroundings for no particular reason. It was my first time in the area, yet I felt entirely at ease and at peace, not feeling the need to look intent on the destination I was headed to, nor consulting my ever-present pocket map. I just walked. I noted restaurants I’d like to come back to, and let my eyes drift where they pleased, even allowing the corners of my mouth turn up as I gave a slight nod to passersby. I had nowhere to be, and nothing to do, and I tried my hardest not to burst into a fit of pleased giggles when I realized that not only was the day mine, but the city was mine as well.

I knew what metro lines I could take to get to any art museum my heart might desire. I knew what I would order if I were to pop into a cafe. I knew that, if the occasion arose, I could hold a conversation. But mostly I knew that I was home.

I used to pretend to be comfortable in my skin in these surroundings, longing to understand what it was about the Parisians that made their lives look so enviable. I turned away from the couples kissing on benches or over-affectionately looking into each others eyes as they walked hand-in-hand. I pretended not to notice how much fun the groups of young people sitting around laughing and drinking were having. I glossed over my surroundings as I walked, determined to look like I knew where I was going as it appeared everybody else did, and made sure to harden my face into the perennial stone of the Parisian visage. I was certainly not a tourist, I knew that much.

Or maybe I was. In trying to fit in and blend in, I was depriving myself of truly living and enjoying. I forgot the “joie” that there is in “vivre” (the “Joy of Living” – my favorite French expression), and it took a lot of letting go to finally feel those things that those people around me were feeling. It’s a strange thing to let go in order to step back and put things in perspective and realize that I’ve been hindering myself by trying too hard, whispering my English and avoiding eye-contact, as though I was afraid I would be singled out as a fraud.

The truth is, you don’t have to be pure-bred French to love this place, and even to blend into it. The pleasure I took as I strolled was not simply from the beauty of this particular autumn day, but from the understanding that I was living my dream. I don’t wonder what the Parisians feel like as though I’m looking in through a shop window anymore, but I get to experience those things myself. I feel comfortable replying when someone asks me a question, and understand that my mistakes are acceptable. I go out with friends, and have favorite places to hang out and get great food and drinks. I laugh at jokes made in another language, because I understand them, and I know what it feels like to unabashedly kiss my sweet French boyfriend on the street and not care who saw.

It’s for these things that I let myself drift; for these things that I smiled like a kid on Christmas when I saw the sky turn pink against the colors of the fall. I’ve been on more adventures that I ever could have imagined. I have quite literally been to the mountains and to the sea and to a few places in between. I have faced challenges and made mistakes, and all of it has been a grand adventure, at the end of which I get to come home. And it’s getting to have those moments and reflect on all of them when I’m here, home, that I cherish.