I've always dreamt of living in Paris. The City of Lights glowed in my memory from childhood, a beacon that I never understood and never questioned. I followed that light anywhere it led. From my tiny, furthest-point-from-Paris town in the Midwest I did everything I could to somehow achieve
(more) Paris. Everything I learned or accomplished was an extension of that dream.
I learned French early on, of course. I had begged my parents for French lessons at a time that most girls were begging for ponies and princess dresses. By the time I took my first French class in high school I was in very real danger of knowing more than the teacher. I also learned to cook, because Parisians can cook. I studied history and art and architecture because they were all inextricable from that city, just as I wanted to be.
It turned out that my personally pursued 'Parisian Studies' made me the perfect liberal arts student, so I majored in English literature at a small college near home. I couldn't afford to study abroad and even if I could have, I wouldn't have had the time: I worked every day to pay for school myself. (My family really had no money to speak of, so Paris was always a very distant dream.)
But finally- FINALLY- at the age of 25, I had a ticket to Paris in my hand. I floated in ecstasy in the days leaving home, my feet never touched the ground. I had gotten a poorly paid job and a small flat, but I would be there. Being there is what mattered- it was the only thing I could remember ever mattering.
I thought that living in Paris would complete my life... on those streets I would be a whole, satisfied person...
Mais non.(less)
