After 36 hours of continuous travel, 2 hours sleep, 3 flights, 2 taxis, tiny elevators, oversized luggage and poorly timed rain, I had finally moved to Paris.
I consider myself an independent woman, and I take pride in it. Moving myself across the Atlantic to a country where I am not a native speaker is the pièce de résistance. Let me say how much sheer stubbornness it takes to move three massive suitcases, made heavy by my extensive book collection, up even a single flight of stairs of an old Parisian building. While settling in hasn’t been without it’s road bumps (I learned that groceries close at noon on Sundays in France and so I dined on chocolate one night), I am adapting to the itty bitty studio and unique pace of the city of light. From runs on the Champs de Mars, to expanding my vocabulary at my internship, to a café and an eclair as the afternoon sun gilds the boulevards, I no longer have to pinch myself that it’s real. Every morning I wake up and look out my balcony doors to the rooftops of my dream. And so, given persistent jet lag, I am curled up in my bed, ready for 10 hours sleep and my first weekend in Paris. Flower markets and art museums, here I come!