This Must Be the Place

[typaige-blog]

The Appeal of the Doomed Romance

Travel a lot. Never stay in one place for too long. Settling is for the weak. Settling down is for the brave. Meet other travelers. They have a lot in common with you. They are young and free and unattached. They are as unattached as you are - which is to say that they can’t let go of their ex either. Think of your ex while you meet this new and exciting person. Think of your ex, and how you wish that they were there. Smile at this new and exciting and good-looking person. Introduce yourself. Have a beer.

Realize that this new person is intelligent and fun. Have intellectual conversations with them. Discuss art. Discuss where you’ve travelled. Discuss where you’re traveling to next. Talk about philosophy. Talk about something you’ve discussed a million different times with someone completely new who gives life a new perspective. Realize that this new person has beautiful brown eyes. Have another beer. 

Talk about personal things. Tell them something you’ve never told anyone before. It’s ok. They don’t know anyone you know. They’ll never meet your friends; you’ll never introduce them to your parents. Tell them a secret. Tell them something profound. Listen while they tell you a secret. Listen while they share something beautiful about themselves. Listen. Actually listen. Realize that feelings are coming quick and hard. Discover that this new person has a kind smile. Have another beer. 

Have them walk you home. Kiss them in the rain. Tell them that you’re going up to your room alone. Wonder if you’ll ever see them again. See them again. 

Know that your time is limited. Count down the days until their flight leaves. Count down the hours you have left. Tell them more. Give away parts of yourself you never knew you had. Give them something you never gave your ex; give them honesty. 

Bring them coffee in bed. Give them kindness. Refrain from sarcasm. Compare them to your ex. Realize that they are better than your ex. Realize that you are better to them than you were to your ex. Ask yourself if these feeling are real. Doubt your feelings. Doubt yourself. See them smiling at you. Feel something shift in your heart. Wonder why you can’t get over your ex. Wonder why this new and exciting and handsome and kind person can’t stay. Wonder if they would stay with you if they were staying. Doubt yourself. 

Smell them on your sheets when you’re trying to go to sleep. Wonder how long the smell will stay. Think about washing your sheets just so you don’t have to smell them anymore. Count down the days until their flight leaves. Count down how many more times they’re going to make your sheets smell like them again.

Say goodbye. Relish the breaking of your heart. Text them occasionally. Smile when they message you. Stalk them on Facebook. Pretend you don’t look them up on the internet. Stalk your ex on Facebook. 

Meet someone knew. Smile at this new and exciting and good-looking person. Introduce yourself. Realize that you have limited time together. Have a beer.

The tragedy of your romance is that you will never see them again. The truth of it is that you never would have fallen so hard if you thought that you would ever see them again.

[typaige-blog]

In Iceland, daylight means four hours of a weak pink glow instead of direct sunlight

I really should be studying for my language class. I mean, the final is on Monday and I’ve been preoccupied by work and self-pity for the better part of the last week. It’s crunch time now... less that 48 hours to go.

But I’m writing because I think it’s important to get this out. I think it’s important to let you all know, all my lovely friends back home, that my time in Iceland hasn’t been the fairytale my Instagram pictures would lead you to believe. I’ve had major setbacks, and I like to think I’ve persevered rather well, but over the last few days I have genuinely questioned whether I wanted to stay here. 

I got a bad grade. 

I got a bad grade in my literature class.

And I cried.

I thought about quitting. I thought about reapplying to law school. I thought about getting an under-the-table barista job in the heart of Paris. I thought about van-life though South America. I thought about all the things I could be doing instead of getting my MA in Medieval Nordic Studies on this goddamn rock in the middle of the North Atlantic. 

I threw myself a major pity-party, and did a good job driving away a lot of my friends here who were just trying to support me (they have generously forgiven me for being such a raging demon - I hope). Most of them didn’t understand what the big deal is, but I have always - consciously or not - defined myself by my ability to do well in academia. I thought I’d been able to leave that behind after I abandoned law school, but it seems that that was not the case; most likely because I assumed that I would do very well here. 

It was a major blow to my ego when my literature grade came back. I’d done well on my paper, and I’d left the exam with a skip in my step. Everyone else was worried, but I was happy. The class itself had been a frustrating experience with an inexperienced teacher, but I felt that at least I had proven how much I knew and how well I could write.

Except that I didn’t. 

Whether I feel that I deserve my grade is neither here nor there. It’s stuck to my transcript permanently, and it’s something I’ll have to grapple with during my application to PhD programs. It has effected my feelings of self-worth. It has forced me question whether I actually belong in academia if I am below the class average in my own beloved subject. If I am below the class-average in my literature class, what am I even doing in graduate school? Am I cut out for further education?

This has been especially hard, because I finally felt like I found a niche. I’ve tried law, teaching, theater, nursing... ski bumming... I’ve considered every other option, but the allure of the humanities keeps drawing me back in. A professor once told me that you shouldn’t go into academia unless you’re sure that there’s nothing else you want to do. That has become very true for me. I love history and literature and language. I want to tell the stories of those who came before us. I want to discover everything I can about our ancestors; I want to dig up their homes and examine their bones and answer questions about our past. 

One grade does not make my career, and nor does it destroy it. I do plan on moving forward. I am worried about how this grade will look to schools, and I’m disappointed that my university put such an incompetent, inexperienced and socially inappropriate teacher in charge of a graduate course. But I had two other fantastic classes this semester. I’m looking forward to four more next semester, then a summer in Ireland, and next year in Norway. If I let this one grade get in my way, then I definitely don't deserve to be here. If that professor didn't manage to kill my love for literature with his tortuously dull class, then I certainly won't let the grade I received from him kill my love for academia. 

I wish I could come home for Christmas. I wish I could feel the touch of sunlight again. I wish I could cuddle with my dog and my sister and watch It’s A Wonderful Life with my parents. I wish I could play in the snow with my friends in Tahoe and go skating in Union Square with all my friends in the Bay. I wish that being here didn’t mean that I can’t be with you. But still, I’d rather be here under a weird pink sky without sunlight because it means that in May of 2017 I will have my MA from the University of Iceland and the University of Oslo in Medieval Nordic Studies - and how fucking cool is that?

Merry Christmas family and friends. 

PS - Visit me. 

[typaige-blog]

Althings considered...

It’s raining. The wind blows the branches of the bushes beneath my open window. I sit at my desk and watch the grey sky, wondering how I possibly ended up here - a rock in the middle of the atlantic. The land of Fire of Ice, they call it; more like, the land of Rock and Moss. The wide open plains are stark and desolate- barren of life. They say this is a beautiful summer’s day in Iceland. Ha! This is my nightmare. Where is the sun? Where is the warmth? And yet... and yet I love it here. 

Yesterday I travelled to Thingvellir. This place is famous for two reasons: it was (in simplistic terms) the seat of power in Viking-age Iceland, and it also where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates are pushing away from each other at a rate of several centimeters a year. It is a historical and geographical wonder - and as I touched the rocks and walked over the continental divide, it finally sunk in that I’m here. 

Yet it was in Reykholt, the home of Snorri Sturluson, that the impact of my decision truly struck. A week before I left for Iceland, we found out that my dad has a tumor on one of his kidneys. For several days, I didn’t know if I was staying in California or flying out to Iceland. I spent hours - days, agonizing over whether it would be more selfish to stay and help take care of him or to leave him and my family to live the privileged life of a graduate student. My dad is one of the main reasons I’m here; he fostered and encouraged my love of literature and history. He bought me copies of the Iliad and the Odyssey when I was ten years old even though he knew I couldn’t possibly comprehend them. He recorded History Channel specials on the Dark Ages so we could watch them and discuss Charlemagne’s influence in bringing Christianity to the Germanic peoples. He taught me about the Vikings and proudly reminded us that our surname comes from Norway. We were American (through and through, we are silly, West-coast Americans), but we were Vikings too. So if I got my weird, nerdy love of Early Medieval studies from anyone, it’s my dad.

As we looked down at the remains of Snorri Sturluson’s house, I thought of my dad and what it means to him that I’m here. It’s a beautiful island - unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I’ve completed my first week of studies, and I love my classes and my professors; we’re working with the rockstars of the Viking Studies world. I’m moving forward - exploring , learning, meeting new people. As long as I’m happy, he’s happy. If he’s happy, I’m happy. And I’m so fucking happy.

My dad (you might know him as Robie) is having surgery September 17 to have the entire kidney removed, so offer up your good thoughts and prayers to the universe. 

I’m going to reopen my blog (long dormant since those faraway days in Paris) to keep everyone updated on my adventures, studies and so on. 

California, I miss you. But I’m not ready to come home just get. 

[typaige-blog]

The Start Has Been Made

Well here I am. Five months after my return from France and I’ve finally settled into my own place.

In Reno.

Now let me explain. And I feel like I have to explain, because every person I’ve told is demanding an explanation. Reno? Wasn’t I supposed to end up in Oakland? That’s where all the cool kids are. That’s where my friends are. That’s where the life I was “supposed” to lead is.

Except Oakland wasn’t meant to be. There are a number of reasons. For one, it isn’t safe. Sure it’s hip, and gentrifying, and “so much is going on,” but people kept telling me to get used to having my car windows smashed in if I moved there. That is NOT comforting. So it isn’t safe, and it’s expensive. It’s so hip and cool and everyone wants to live there, and suddenly I found the cheap rents everyone was talking about to be horribly inflated, and then there just weren’t enough rooms for everyone trying to move there. If I wanted to move to Oakland, I would have paid too much for too little, and it would have been a full time job finding that room. Then there’s the question of finding a job. I had no real job options open, except waitressing which is good money, but just something I don’t want to have to do if I’m going to have to struggle monetarily for it.

But it would have been worth it, right? I would have been where my friends are - except when I came back from France I was a different person. They were different people. Their lives had moved on, gone forward. They’d grown up. I felt wrong-footed around most of them, and I’m still trying to figure out who I am as the year speeds to an end. I’ve come to find that I’m exceptionally good at burning bridges.

That explains Oakland, but why Reno? The name alone conjures images of crumbling casinos, meth heads, and the barren desert. What in the world could Reno have to offer?

I’m going to start with the cheap rent. I’m renting half a four-bedroom house for less than I could have rented a converted closet in Oakland. I have a bedroom and an office. That’s right, an office. Where I can write. I truly have a room of one’s own. I’m in a safe neighborhood in a good part of town, and I’m in walking proximity to everything going on here - and there actually is stuff going on here. I’m close to Tahoe. If you’ve met me, you know I’m from Tahoe. The mountains are in my blood, and I’ve missed the lakes and the snow. I’m feel at home for the first time in years.

I feel like I’ve done a lot of apologizing, maybe more so than necessary, but still I feel as though I’ve been judged for this decision. I’ve been made to feel that choosing financial security is wrong. That I’m somehow less than because I’ve decided that struggling in the big city is not for me.

But the thing is, I’m scared. I’m scared that I’m going to be a waitress for the rest of my life. I’m scared that I’m never going to have it figured out. What if I can’t find a real job? What if I never want a real job? What if I wander forever, from city to city, with no real purpose? Because that how it feels sometimes. All I can say is that Reno is a good place for me to be right now. I don’t see myself settling permanently here, and it’s a solid place to put my feet while I’m trying to figure it out. Reno is a good place for me to grow up.

[typaige-blog]

What do you do when your French boyfriend surprises you by rooting against the US in the World Cup?

You root for Germany on July 4.... Well doesn't that just feel so wrong? There are a lot of things I do in France that I don't do in the US: Eat bread Watch soccer religiously Think that riding on the back of a scooter is cool I have 10 days left before I go home, and despite the news that there will be heightened security in the airports due to terror warnings, I'm pretty stoked. It has turned out to be a bittersweet leave taking after all though. The kids seem genuinely sad to see me go, and I even admit to a twinge of sadness in leaving them behind. Paris will no longer be a train ride away - goodbye free access to the Louvre. I will miss you smelly Metro! I have learned patience and resilience during my stay here. I have had my heartbroken and I have begun to take into account my own self-worth. I am no longer afraid to tell people that I'm writer; not a waitress, not a nanny. I am a writer - not a successful one, but a writer all the same. I take pride in my craft. I have 10 days left before I go home, but I am six months closer to figuring out where it is that I need to be. Because that's the problem, isn't it? I know what I am, I'm so close to figuring out who I am, but I don't know I should be. I'm working on it. I'll have two weeks at my mom's in Napa, and I'll spend some time at my Dad's in Tahoe, and at my sister's in Seattle, and on the couches of my friends' around the West Coast. I have no doubt that pieces will come together and that opportunities will present themselves. I've led a very blessed life - not a miraculous one, but life has been relatively easy for me. Sure, I struggle under debt, but I've accomplished everything I've ever set out to do! I got into law school, and I've traveled and lived abroad. I've been backstage at Coachella with my favorite band and I've had romances worthy of the movies. My life has been incredible, and it's only going to keep getting better. So even if my boyfriend was happy that Belgium won, and I have no money-making job lined up when I get back to California, I'm still pretty stoked by the way the last six months have gone - all the baguettes, and the endless rain, and the janky RER A train. It's all led up to one incredible experience.

[typaige-blog]

Being American in the wake of -

Even though I’ve traveled expensively around the globe, I am always - ostensibly - American. That means different things to different people around the world, but it means I’m treated differently than say a Canadian or a Brit or a German. Our politics and world views are so prevalent in world news; every single person I have talked to during my travels has known who our president is, knows about Clinton and Clinton, and Bush and McCain. They know our policies better than I do. I’m constantly being asked if I’m a democrat or a republican - and there’s always a sigh of relief when I swear that I voted for Obama in both elections. In the end, if I’m with Anne she lets me pretend to be Canadian too. I know very little about France and the way it works, and I’ve lived here for five whole months now. I know the president is Hollande and I know he had an affair. I couldn’t tell you the prime minister of Canada, or even the UK. I know the Netherlands and Norway still have monarchies (that must count for something!) My point is: as a whole, the world seems to pay more attention to the US than we do to it. The UCSB shootings have been a big deal over here - at least to the French speaking with an American. It’s a big deal because France doesn’t really have that much gun violence. They don’t have that much violence in general. So when something like that happens, the French are shocked. The depressing thing about the whole thing was that I wasn’t. Yes - I was shaken, and sad and angry. It was terrifyingly close to home, and my heart went out to everyone I knew who attended UCSB. But it didn’t shock me like Columbine did as a child, or even Sandy Hook did in 2012. At this point it’s a shoulder shrug. It happens, I say. But it doesn’t have to happen. It shouldn’t happen. It doesn’t happen anywhere else in the world! I’m not against guns. I believe in the second amendment. My stepdad’s a hunter and he brings home some delicious venison - but his guns are hunting rifles, and he keeps them locked away until he goes out on his trips. When we watch the news and another report of a shooting airs, he’s the first one to say that civilians don’t need automatic weapons. Why would you sell guns to civilians that are designed to kill people en mass? So then this twitter trend started going off - #yesallwomen - reading the feed almost made me cry, because the sort of struggles that women go through are not exclusive to America the way guns are. I hate walking alone at night. I’m constantly afraid of the solitary figure, the pack of men and the passing car. I don’t even like walking alone in the streets during the day - in the forty minute walk it took me to get to my friend’s house on Tuesday I was wolf-whistled at, honked at, cou-coued at, and openly leered at least eight times. And before you ask what I was wearing - as if it should matter - it was raining and I was bundled in a coat, with full pants and boots. I invited nothing. If anything, I’ve experienced more sexism here in France than I ever did in the States. Personally, I think French men as a whole are about ten years behind men in North America as far as the equal rights movement goes. Still, they are markedly less violent. So what does that say about us Americans? Look - I’m proud to be ‘Murican, and prouder still to hail from California. It’s just frustrating that I feel I have to explain myself wherever I go. Last summer in the alps, on the eve of an impending war with Syria, I was asked many questions on the stance of the US and my own beliefs on the issue - and maybe this is where Americans get such a bad reputation as travelers. Many Americans not only don’t know a lot about other countries, but they are surprisingly ignorant about what’s going in our own country. I try to stay up to date - I read the news every morning and check it again in the evening. What’s going on around us matters a great deal. Today in Calais French armed forces broke up an Afghani migrant camp whose poor people were trying to seek shelter in the UK. Boko Haram killed 33 and as far as I am aware has not returned the young women they kidnapped. A pregnant Pakistani woman was stoned to death outside of a courthouse by her relatives and ex-fiancé. So no, the US doesn’t have a monopoly on violence, but I would argue that as a developed nation and the star of the world stage, the US really needs to get its act together. PS - thank you Maya Angelou for your words which will continue to inspire even long after you’re passing. You have taught us all.

[typaige-blog]

Enough

Enough.

That word is packed with so much subtlety. I wish you enough. I've had enough. You are enough. It's never enough. 

Enough.

I can tell you one thing: it is not enough simply to move abroad. Paris is not the end all answer, as much as I would like it to be. One must have purpose and determination. I suppose I lack both. 

I thought it would be enough to cross a continent and ocean, but alas. I'm still running in circles - chasing my tail, as it were. Ha, chasing tail. If only. 

I'm awash in nostalgia this morning. I opened my iTunes looking for a particular song and ended up playing A Boy and A Girl instead. And crying. Because I sang that song, once, so many years ago. And I think it meant something to me once. I think I believed in something once. 

So what do I believe in today?

That's a terrible way to start this blog entry, isn't it? So much negativity!

I have so much to believe in.

I believe in the strength that both my mother and grandmother exhibit as they fight daily against Lyme disease. I believe in my sister as she struggles through adolescence with growing maturity. I believe in my friends, who like me are trying to figure out what it is they want to do with their lives. I believe in those still in school and those pick-axing their way into professional territory. As long as we're still moving forward, we're okay. 

It's only when we get stuck, going in circles, that the dangers arise. 

I was being hyperbolic when I said that I'm not going anywhere. I'm inching my way forward - clawing my way out of the mud. I have a plan. I have a goal for the first time since I scrapped the idea of law school and ran away to Paris. And having a dream feels really fucking good. 

It's going to be a tough journey though, and involves another year in Napa at home so I'll have enough money for graduate school fall 2015. I worry that people will look down on me for living with my mother at the age of 24 and 25. I worry that people have given up on me - a girl who once seemed to have a promising future and instead has bounced around restlessly since I was 16.  I worry that my friends sigh each time I tell them what I want to be when I grow up. 

Enough.

Except... I'm just me. And I can't be anyone else. And there are those who love me, and there are those whom I love, and everything will eventually work itself out. 

[typaige-blog]

New memories of old lovers

I had a dream last night that a young man from my past pulled me to the grass and held me - that’s it. I just laid beneath the moon, wrapped warmly in his arms and I asked him where he’s been. He didn’t have a reasonable explanation for me, but did I expect him to? Then he rose, brushed off the dirt from his jeans, and went home. I was left feeling alone and abandoned, and I wandered for a time looking for another pair of arms to wrap myself in.

This is not the first time I’ve dreamed of one of my old flames recently. In fact, it seems to be a reoccurring phenomena to which I am not at all appreciative. Perhaps this post is a letter to my subconscious begging it for amnesty. 

Someone told me recently that I need to forgive myself, though I’m not sure what it is exactly I’m supposed to be forgiving myself for. There are certainly enough people out there that I need to forgive - all these unwarranted grudges that I hold! Who am I to be so judgmental? Who am I to care?

There is the perpetual fear that I am not enough - that I have never been enough. For me love has always felt like some kind of game, and you only win when you have proven to the object of your affections that you ultimately care the least. What fun it is to win the game of love! What greater joy can there be in watching the loser limp away, clutching at his dwindling pride…

The game isn’t fun. It’s lonely. Maybe that’s why my dreams have been haunted by all these old lovers. I guess the game isn’t over, it’s just on hold. It’s waiting for me to come back to the United States and take my rightful place as a manipulative wanton once again. 

[typaige-blog]

That one time in Amsterdam

There's so much to say about this trip - it rekindled my love of travel and adventure. It helped me remember why I'm in Paris - and that I do genuinely love Paris as well. Yes, four days in Amsterdam did that for me. Thanks Holland.

Anne and I traveled by bus on the night of the nineteenth and arrived early Easter morning. (It also happened to be 420, but that's only a major American stoner holiday. Dutch stoners were unaware of the significance of the date.) After setting up camp - yes, we camped just outside the city - and after taking a quick nap, we set off on conquering museums and monuments. 

To our credit, Anne and I managed to fit in a lot in just four days. We saw the Dutch masters: Vermeer, Van Gogh, Van Loon and Rembrandt. We saw Chagall and Pollock. We learned about the history of Amsterdam, starting from its early days as a village in the 1200s into its golden age during the 1600s, and its actions/inaction during War World Two. We took a canal cruise and a walking tour. We even went to the zoo and I fit in a nap at the Planetarium. 

We accomplished so much, and we still didn't even get to see it all. 

We never rode a bike while we were there, nor did we visit the Red Light District by night. We didn't visit a "coffee shop" either. Still, we had our own adventures. At the campsite we made friends with some Canadian gentlemen who supplied me with free beer, hot dogs and various other goodies (ahem). I appreciated finally being in male company again, for after four months of spending my time exclusively with women and children I rather doubted my ability to talk to the male gender. 

I also managed to go Stand Up Paddle boarding my final evening. I went with a local group that heads out every Wednesday on a lake in the suburbs, and they kindly invited me along. It was a quiet, warm night, and as I stood out on the water with a red setting sun I couldn't even believe how awesome my life truly is. 

If anyone has any questions about my trip, feel free to message me. Amsterdam was awesome and I definitely recommend going. 

[typaige-blog]

If the French don't shower, then why should I?

Recently, I haven't had the energy or the ambition to put my face on every morning. Not that I've ever been a heavy makeup wearer, but now it's becoming a battle just to convince myself to apply a little bit of mascara to my eyelashes. Who am I trying to impress anyway? The kids? The French men who must spend 90 minutes a day perfectly crafting their just-woken-up/post-sex coif? The French women who already sneer at me for having big boobs and lacking the necessary thigh gap? Yeah, no thanks.

Here's a fun fact for you: I'm considered a hefty girl over here. I'm tall and wide, and therefore I'm supposed to be hideously unattractive. But even while I receive those judgmental lip-curls from the French women, it hasn't stopped the French men from being their usual skeezy selves. I mean, what au pair hasn't experienced the requisite Metro Grope?

Now please, this is not some desperate cry for the internet to tell me I'm beautiful. This is more a kind of personal documentation on the state of my finances and just how lazy I've become. The truth is, I'm too poor to buy more makeup even if I wanted to. I'm used to the expensive shit, because I used to make a lot of money prostituting myself *cough, waiting tables*, but now my salary allows me two options: either look pretty and sit sadly in my room, or enter the world barefaced and have some pretty rocking adventures. 

Which brings me to my next point: How do women manage to look so damn fantastic hiking through ancient runes and medieval cobblestones in wedge sandals and sundresses? I mean, sure ladies, you're going to look great in your Facebook profile pic, but aren't you in PAIN? Was that selfie WORTH IT, 'cause I'm pretty sure your toes are bleeding? I gave up style for comfort a long time ago, which doesn't make me better than these girls in any way, but it sure does save me the agony of blisters and a limp (usually).

But then again, I'm not someone who takes a ton of pictures. I used to be, definitely - I think I took over 500 pictures when I was in New Zealand, but the more I travel the less necessary a photograph seems. My memory hasn't failed me yet, except for the names of small towns or exact dates, but that's why I keep a journal. A photograph won't help with that anyway. I AM NOT DOWNING PHOTOGRAPHS. I have a couple friends who are incredible photographers, and I really think that they have a future in the industry. I'm speaking of my own amateur photography that never seems to do justice to what I'm seeing or experiencing, and what would be better left to my memory. 

For me, it's about living in the moment. It's about touching the sun-soaked rocks of the Temple of Apollo, or kneeling on the cold stone floors of Notre Dame. It's about lying in a park and smelling in the fresh-cut grass, or eating an exotic meal where I can't pronounce the names of the dishes. Even if I take a picture of these moments, I don't want to end up in the photographs.

Probably because I'm not wearing any makeup.

[typaige-blog]

Must. Go.

[typaige-blog]

On love and friendship

There’s that scent again in the evening air - that whiff of earth and lawn cuttings and perfumed flowers that means that spring has really started. As I closed the shutters on our front terrace I caught it, and I couldn’t help but smile. I forget that smell when it’s not there, but now it’s back and I feel like I’m coming to life again.

I just spent the last hour and a half discussing with my eleven year old charge the joys and struggles of growing up; she’s at that age when girls start to get catty and mean and cut each other out of friend groups. She’s struggling right now. Her friends aren’t being nice to her. Her friends don’t want to be her friends anymore.

I started off a little exasperated - I’m fully aware that that was the wrong approach, but she’d been arguing with me for thirty minutes about getting to play on the iPad. When I realized it wasn’t about the iPad at all, it took me some time to cool down. My first attempt to calm her included telling her that I was eleven once (eons ago) and that I’ve spent a lot time discussing this with my middle school-aged sister. “Girls do this. Girls are mean. Get over it. Move on. You’ll make new friends.”

But there’s more to it than just making new friends. You’re able to make these friends because of the person you’ve become in the presence of your old friends. You’ll carry the names of the people you’ve cared about in your heart forever. And when people you care about hurt you, it matters. When you hurt those you love, it tears you up. 

I’ve spent a lot time bouncing around since I was sixteen - I spent most of my formative years in a small mountain town and I can count on one hand the people I’m still in contact with from my childhood. The largest percentage of my friends come from Napa, where I graduated from high school and spent a couple years going to community college and working. I have very few friends from Santa Cruz, but those I’m in contact with I hold very dearly. I only spent three months in Seattle, but I probably talk more to some of them than I do with my own parents. Not to mention all the people I’ve met travelling the globe - there’s always a text to send or a snapchat to shoot. And of course now I’m in Paris, forging new friendships, and I’ll never forget these girls.

What was really surprising was to see who actually wanted to know about my life over here - who sent me messages or letters, or who just wanted to say a quick hello. More surprising are those who have faded into the distance - who don’t answer my texts, or put off our Skype dates. Sometimes I’ll be telling a story about someone I (until recently) considered to be a close friend, and I’ll realize I haven’t talked to them for three months, or six, or a year even. It’s made me realize who I’ve grown up with is sometimes someone I can grow out of - and that’s not a negative thing. That’s actually a really, really positive thing, because I’ve struggled with low self-confidence and low self worth all my life - sometimes I measured myself by the love I was receiving from my friends. Now I’m able to hold myself accountable for my own emotions. I love my friends, but I no longer need them to hold my hand, and I think that’s part of the glory and the agony of growing older. 

You never really stop loving your friends though. You’re caught between never forgiving them for the hurt they’ve done you and having already forgiven them the moment you made that unspoken contract to become friends. We humans are a complicated species, but it all rather simply boils down to our ability to love. 

"Love? What is love?" he thought. "Love hinders death. Love is life. Everything, everything I understand, I understand only because I love. Everything is, everything exists, only because I love. Everything is connected only by that. Love is God, and to die - means that I, a part of love, return to the common and eternal source." - Tolstoy

So I’m sitting out on the back terrace, breathing in that fresh scent of earth and spring, and I can’t stop thinking about all of you. Even if we haven’t talked for ages, you were there for me at one point, and I’ll always be grateful for that. Thank you for helping me become the really awesome individual I am today.

It’s funny how an eleven year girl can open my eyes to the wonders of growing up and moving forward. 

[typaige-blog]

Skipping with an eight year old on her way to school is guaranteed to produce instant euphoria.

[typaige-blog]

Onward!

[typaige-blog]

Resolution

I flew to Paris on January 1, 2014, so I didn't really do any of those New Year Resolutions that everyone makes and never follows through with. I mean, I moved to Paris - wasn't that resolution enough?

Now I'm finding myself in that quarter-year loll when I look into the mirror and think, "Hmmm, something needs to be done here." I survived the winter buried beneath layers of sweaters, jackets, scarves and hats - now I'm physically and metaphorically peeling off those layers. I mean, I wore shorts yesterday. Yeah, shorts. It felt glorious.

I already took the first step in my quarter-year transformation by cutting off about five inches of hair last Monday. I've literally cut away the dead weight, and I'm pretty stoked because now I don't look or feel like a mangy lion anymore.

I'm not going to bother with my constant battle to have a "bikini-ready" body. I run, I do yoga, I walk EVERYWHERE. I should cut down on my baguette consumption, but who am I kidding? I love bread. And beer. And pasta. I don't think that my happiness will ever be measured by the inches (or lack thereof) of my waistline. Would I like to lose some of my belly? Sure, but I don't really care that much. 

I have bigger battles to fight.

First, I really have to discipline myself. I should be working on my French everyday - that's why I'm here right? I should ask my host-dad to speak only French with me, and I should get on Duolingo more than once every three weeks. I also need to make sure that I'm writing (working on one of my novels) at least an hour a day. I really, reallly lack discipline. 

Second, I need to stop caring so much about what people think of my life choices. I had an excruciating conversation yesterday in which someone asked me what I planned to do when I got back to the states. 

"I'm not really sure," I said. "But my friend talked about hiking the Inca Trail, so I think I'd just like to work and save up to do that."

A beat.

"Well that's not very professional, is it?" he said.

I've really got to stop caring if people think I'm career-oriented, or professional enough, or focused on the bigger picture. I got the degree I was told I needed to get, and then I was told that my degree was irrelevant. The system has failed me (as of the present moment), so fuck the system. I'm having a blast. I just had a great weekend in Paris. Ahem, I LIVE IN PARIS. So don't tell me I'm doing something wrong.

Because this feels pretty right to me. 

I just have to keep doing what I'm doing, and everything's going to turn out just the way it should. 

[typaige-blog]

Today I met Anne early at the St G RER and we took the 9am train into Paris. Our first stop was at the AntiCafé where prices are charged by the hour - it’s effectively an all you can eat coffee shop. We stayed just one hour to collect ourselves and I managed to eat half a baguette, 3 cookie/scones, 2 kiwis and 4 pieces of pound cake - not to mention 2 cups of tea - all for 4€. I definitely got my money’s worth.

We came in to shop, but we’re cheap, so we’ve been going to this little hole in the wall near Centre Pompidou where used clothing is thrown in a pit, you have to sift through mountains of smelly material, but you can usually manage to find thrift gold for just 1€.

Next we hopped on the metro and visited the Père Lachaise cemetery where several celebrities are buried. I applied a thick layer of lipstick and kissed Oscar Wilde’s grave; it was a totally awkward experience because there’s a fence and to actually kiss the monument you have to stand on Mr. Wilde’s neighbor’s sarcophagus. We tossed him roses, found a bench and chowed down on some delicious sandwiches we’d picked up at a boulanger.

We’ve been meaning to see 300 for ages, but have always prioritized other films/activities. Today was the day we were going to go, but we stopped at 3 cinemas and apparently it’s out of theaters here in France. Defeated, we wandered back to St. G and now we’re lying in the park. I’m all napped up, Anne is reading and we have music playing as we lay sprawled beneath the (partially hidden) sun. From here we can see La Defense and the Eiffel Tower in the distance. A crowd of segways just rolled passed with their neon-helmeted passengers. Other young people surround us, smoking cigarettes and tossing rugby balls back and forth.

These are the days I cherish, and these are the moments I’m going to miss. What a beautiful spring day in Paris.

[typaige-blog]

Why do cigarettes always seem like a good idea when you've been drinking?

The Parisian au pair is a unique individual - no two of us are the same, though we seem to share a decided air of restlessness. I cannot speak for everyone, but this is what I’ve gathered from talking with my friends: We don’t want to be where we were, we’re not completely happy where we are, and we’re desperately hoping that when this is over we’ll feel better about where we’re going.

I’ve grown particularly close with a young Canadian woman named Anne, and she’s given me permission to talk a little bit about her. She’s my age, 24, and a recent art history graduate. Like me, she’s here because her degree has done little to better her chances of finding a well-paying job. She has nothing in particular to return to in Canada, but she’s hoping that by the time she does return a solution will have presented itself. Grad school? A job? Any job? We were asked to stay on another year by our families at around the same time - while I gave a resounding no thank you, Anne thought over it a bit and decided that she would like to stay. This makes her a braver, stronger person than me - neither of us particularly enjoy the monotony of nanny-life but she’s going to better her French and really take her time in deciding on her career-path.

Meanwhile I’m going to go back home and pretend like I know what the fuck I’m doing.

That’s not true - I’m going to go home and wait tables somewhere because a friend suggested the Inca Trail over New Year’s, and I’m not someone to say no to an adventure like that. The truth is though if I were to die in a year, or five, or ten, would I be more likely to regret not hiking the Inca Trail or working a steady 9-5 job? The answer is obvious - I’m going to save up enough money with my temporary job so I can set out exploring again.

Travel doesn’t make me a better person - I’ve never pretended to be an open, understanding individual. I’m actually kind of judgmental and selfish. I don’t travel because I like to learn about different cultures - I travel because I’m a dissatisfied young woman who needs to stay in constant motion.  

So I work long enough to allow myself to keep moving. I’m not happy staying in one place for too long. There was a surprising amount of relief that I felt when I got dumped - I mean, yeah, I cried and I still feel pretty down about the whole thing, but there’s a lot of relief as well. I wanted to settle down with him, but maybe settling down just isn’t in the cards for me yet. Maybe I can’t find a real job because I honestly don't want one.

And there it is… How am I expected to be an adult when I refuse to assume the responsibility of a functioning member of society?

I can’t - so until I finally give up and give in to what society has dictated as the well lived life - the American Dream, so to speak - I’m going to go have more adventures. And you’re all welcome to join me.