The Transition Artist

Dear Vous,

I see you from time to time from my bicycle when I ride by on my way to work. Some days I pass while you drink water from a makeshift fountain or wind your way around the tents. You talk with friends in a language I don’t understand, or you sit alone in your tent, looking out as I pass by. The other day, you were smiling. I couldn’t tell if you were smiling at me, but it was beautiful to see you smile, so I smiled too.

In that moment, from one smile to another, we were the same.

You, like me, were enjoying the sunshine and the refreshing autumn air that carries a wind just brisk enough to chill, yet swift enough to carry the pollution away. On this day, for the first time in a while, it was warm enough to leisurely roam outside. You, like me, probably come from somewhere warmer, and were bundled up despite the relative warmth. You hung out by the canal with your friends, chatting and sharing, like I have with my friends on countless evenings. Around you pulsed the usual commotion of this city that you, like me, have chosen.

As we smiled at each other, I realized that we are really quite similar, you and I. Each for our own reasons, we have chosen to come to Paris and make a home, and suddenly there we were, in the same place, at the same time, making the most of it.

I, like you, was new here once.

Following my arrival, I began taking French lessons at the Sorbonne. My teachers taught me important words and phrases for my daily survival: how to order at a restaurant, when to use the subjunctive, and what it means to “prendre un verre.” I passed by one of your French classes a few weeks ago, held outside by the canal, not far from the tents. You, too, were learning words and phrases important for your survival here: the terms for the different religions practiced in France, how to tell someone where you come from, and how to ask for directions. Like you, I sat next to people from lots of other countries, and we learned to communicate with each other in a language that was not ours. It gets easier, I promise.

Like you, I downsized when I moved here. I was only allowed two suitcases when I came. I wouldn’t have room for anything else, my program coordinators told me. The studio apartment that I moved into felt like it was overflowing even with the few possessions that I had brought along, but what does it feel like to have all of your possessions packed tightly inside a tent? I moved about seven times before finally settling down here, so I’ve gotten quite good at packing things up quickly and living out of a suitcase. But, dear vous, what did they tell you before you came? Did you know how much to bring? How many moves have you made? Did anyone warn you that your studio apartment would only be a tent by the river?

Maybe you, like me, didn’t plan to come here to stay. Perhaps, like me, your friends and family are still back home in the country you came from, and you still hope to go back there some day. But you, like me, will find a way to make it work, I know you will. You have come this far, and your spirit is stronger than mine will ever be; your smile is evidence enough. Family, you will see, is not only something you are born with, but also a collection of people you love along the way.

I cannot imagine the path you have walked, but I’m glad ours crossed on that day.

In case no one has welcomed you warmly just yet, from one étrangère to another, bienvenue à Paris.

I hope that in your time here, however long or short it may be, you find what you were looking for, dear vous. The road is long, filled with twists and unexpected turns, and paved by lots of paperwork, but it is full of beautiful surprises. I wish you, fellow foreigner, the beautiful sight of a sunset over the Canal St. Martin, warm bread, and a safe journey. Welcome home.

Love,

Kate