My first trip abroad happened exactly two Memorial Day weekends ago. I had flown across the Atlantic on my own, and randomly met a French boy named Alex while getting lost, trying to find my hotel. Then, for the rest of the weekend, he showed me the City of Lights by foot, bus, metro, and a few times, via piggyback as well. I got to see everything -- Notre Dame, la Seine, Moulin Rouge, le Louvres... I lazily lounged in les Jardins des Tuilleries, enjoyed the warm weather and people-watching in le Parc Monceau... yes, it was truly an unforgettable experience.
Two years later, I still feel incredibly nostalgic whenever I think about those 48 hours in Paris. Not because I fell in love while I was there -- oh no, far from it, that would have been such an unfortunate cliche -- but rather, I still feel a certain sense of sadness whenever I remember how carefree I felt; how utterly alive, and young at heart, I was.
And yet...
And yet, I had also felt so empty, and so hollow that very first night, in that wonderful foreign city, as I laid there by myself, with the windows wide open. I had tried to run away, telling myself I was running towards something. But the truth was that I had come to Paris with a heavy, broken heart then -- a broken heart that shattered into pieces again when I saw the Eiffel Tower light up the evening before I returned home. And as everyone around me marveled aloud and cameras flashed away -- in that moment of laughter and noise and beauty, I realized that it didn't really matter where I was.
All that mattered -- all I wished for and wanted so badly and still so fervently hope for -- was for love to find me and be with me again soon.
1 comment:
I think you and I are going to look back on our respective Paris experiences with such different feelings. We'll see.
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