I remember my first night in Paris like it was yesterday. I arrived on this inconspicuous street, in an unmemorable arrondissement, far away from the bustling center. A little rough around the edges; at least the type of street you wouldn’t want to be wandering late at night. The noisy cot in a large room with a single communal bathroom close to the entrance and six beds. I was sleeping in the upper bunk which resembled a literal rectangular ‘box’, just large enough so there were a couple of feet over my feet and above my head. I slid in like a little slug, throwing my purple messenger bag in the corner, the only thing that fit. I turned on the light and saw the walls scattered with cheesy “I Love Paris” posters and an electrical outlet on the side of the wall above my head. The jet lag gnawed at me, and I stayed up an hour texting with him on the phone. I came overpowered with this insatiable sensation: motivation rippling through my skull like the twinkling lights that doused the Eiffel Tower, making her shine brighter than the moon at night.
I had to make more money.
I needed more than this sad existence.
When I look back at that experience I still feel queasy and uncertain about how I was able to put up with that cheap 30 euro/night hostel, in the corner of that unknown arrondissement (was it 12th? 11th? I could not remember for the life of me.)
The second time… well that experience went a lot better… You can read about that here.
And now it brings to to today. I am currently in Spain, and I just spent the day eating and sipping on whatever I wanted. Korean for lunch (because cravings), a glass of red wine at the terrace of a five-star hotel, and finished off at the Four Seasons lobby for dessert. I found myself in the presence of the ritzy class this trip, seamlessly blending in…perhaps so much that servers would often forget to bring me the cheque, not assuming I would quite literally forget and walk out. People looked at me with something I never felt this intensely before. Respect. This was the last thing I would expect to feel in Paris, but that’s precisely the feeling. I don’t know if it’s the people and the environment that have changed in the past two years, or was it I who has changed?
Have I somehow metamorphosized from that girl staying at 30 euro hostels and living off 5 euro baguette sandwiches and set meals at non-assuming establishments to this somewhat more refined, polished woman who spent her afternoons with a personal rep at Louis Vuitton, and spent the majority of the time catching on sleep in the 4 star hotel?
Change feels nice honestly. It feels liberating….
Liberty is walking down the street at night not feeling an ounce of anxiety because the neighborhood you’re staying at is so safe. And it’s walking up to the chef at a hotly-rated restaurant and saying “Surprise me.”
But as I sit here writing this, fresh out of a hot bath (I’ve been taking one daily here at this Airbnb), feeling more content as to be.. I can’t help but feel a tinge of terror at the thought of going back to the office and dealing with my boss. My life at home feels so small and unpleasing compared to the life I’ve lived this week. Walking into a restaurant without a budget. Drinking just because I felt like it, not because I needed to. No gaps in my heart, loneliness, or the desire for a stranger’s body intertwined with mine. Just simply enjoying the radiance I feel pour out of my soul and onto the streets of this delightful city. My financial situation has changed since Paris, two years ago… but my reality back at home feels stagnant.
My next goal perhaps is to change my reality so that it doesn’t prompt such grief and trepidation with the thought of coming back to.
These cities have changed me forever..and I am internally grateful for my inner will and resilience to pursue my European fantasy. And with that, I leave an unfinished poem.
Because I know my story in Paris remains unfinished….
Until next time….au revoir.
Paris
like a dark whisper lingers around my soul
Its darkness-filled mystique and neon red signs burn in the back of my consciousness like ink spilled over a diner napkin.
A city that never sleeps, with mysteries around every corner. Love stories and broken hearts splattered along the sidewalk like the remanence of a booze-filled Saturday night.
Girls in skimpy black dresses, long winter coats; big gnarly bouncers with motionless expressions. Chains of smoke oozing around with no particular direction.
With all your flaws, nooks, and crannies, Paris exists in my mind like a half-written love letter, its ending unpredictable and indefinite.
Walking the streets aimlessly only to wind up back at the start. People piling out the doors, grabbing a smoke. Lost in translation.
A city so brash but have shown so much mercy to a foreigner like me.
Kind, twinkling eyes, genuine concern.
Explanations, pleasantries, and alertness.
The humanness in Paris is often missed. The multiculturalism of people from all walks of life, just trying to make a living in the City of Lights.
……
Secret Prose 
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