A Bittersweet Farewell

Well, my time in France is painfully coming to an end. As I've looked back on my amazing experience here this summer, I have nothing but gratitude for the diverse group of friends I have made here, young and old, all different nationalities, all walks of life.

A couple of weeks ago I had the opportunity to accompany a group of elderly people out to Morainvilliers to a beautiful house in the countryside. We spent the afternoon laughing and talking and singing together, and I truly felt as if these people, though at a different phase of life than me, were my dearest friends.

I had the opportunity to sing "Hallelujah" by Jeff Buckley to them, and it was a truly moving experience. Sharing my talents over the past couple of months has brought me so much joy. Though I can't always communicate perfectly in their language, I have been able to share my love for these wonderful elderly people in so many profound ways, be it service, singing, and even dancing ballet.

I have been amazed by countless stories of triumph, stories that you don't think of when you see the elderly in their lonely state. I met a woman who was the only woman in a philosophy class full of men at the Sorbonne. I met a woman who had been blind for nearly 50 years and had hardly ever relied on the help of another human being. I met a man who left his whole family behind in Algeria to make a better life for himself in France, who slaved and worked until he could make something of himself. I met a man who spoke five different languages, was an editor, and knew how to speak Hindi.

The people I was blessed to know have changed me forever, and though they might forget me even in between visits, I feel as if we are truly friends.

The beautiful Yvette. Blind nearly all of her life yet undeterred. 

And now a few final words on my home of the last eight weeks:

How am I going to tear myself from this beautiful dream? When will I ever lead a life like this again, sitting on a park bench with a view of the Eiffel Tower that could very well have come from a scene in Amelie?

I have loved in Paris, I have been loved in Paris. I loved Paris, and Paris loved me back. I wish I could wind my thoughts back down to the root of my love for this city, peer behind the curtain of where it all began.

Everything I have dreamed of in my life has almost disappointed me when it became my reality, but not Paris. It holds me captive at every turn, takes me down timeless alleyways and stonewalled lanes, shaded streets, loud streets, streets walked by the great and the nameless.

Did I choose Paris, or did Paris choose me? I feel like such a foreigner, and yet something tells me that I belong. I am not a tourist, I am an admirer. I am not here to amuse myself, prove that I was here. I make my mark in the quiet walks around an unfamiliarly familiar city.

I love the acid stained stones, chipping paint on benches. I love the sweaty, greasy grip on metro handles, upholstery that came from the 90s plastered to chairs grimed by numberless travelers.



I make my mark by loving what makes the monument. I love the smell of sweat and luxurious perfume trapped in the same hot metro car, spices that cling to the clothes of Algerians, Congolese, Chinese. I cringe on the garlic odor that clings to the chicly dressed French.

I'm warmed by smiling tourists and their selfie sticks in front of the Eiffel Tower, a reminder that I too sometimes am more preoccupied with getting the proof rather than indulging in my moment with the icon I have longed to filter through my own lenses.

What I say I say in solidarity with the dreamers and lovers of love: I love Paris. The cliché "Paris, je t'aime" rings in my ears, echoes when I walk on dusty cobblestone under a merciless sun. Paris, je t'aime. And yes, I do believe Paris loves me back.

 Catch you later, Paris. Au revoir.