Today I am returning to visit the place I have called home for so many years. The place where I learned the many lessons that life needed to teach me. The place where I became much of who I am. New York City. A city possessing great energy, movement and life. How will it feel to land on American soil, the soil of freedom and expression and possibility? After 7 months of being planted in Paris. I am looking forward to the feeling, whatever it may be. Elation, nostalgia, perhaps even displacement. Culture shock? Most of all I am looking forward to the cherished faces I call my friends. And the food! Somehow I don’t think I will be dining at the many French bistros I used to frequent. And I may spend my entire days looking up, not at the sky but at the grandness of it all. All the while smiling with the eyes of a tourist and the soul of a local.
I recently spent a week in Monterosso, home to my Italian. My first taste of this Ligurian village, hidden on the Mediterranean coast, was during my year of travel. I’m not exactly certain who or what propelled me to visit this cluster of villages, known to much of the world as ‘Cinque Terre’, known to me as paradise. I fell in love immediately, particularly with Monterosso and it’s landscape. It’s difficult not to, as anyone who has been to this part of the world knows well. I remember during those days imagining the life of a local, living in a population of no more than 1,700, recognizing each face that passes by in the streets, the only foreign faces being those of seasonal tourists. How would it feel living so isolated from the world, in constant familiarity, a lack of privacy in social affairs, the life of a village. At once fascinating and impossible to imagine coming from a place like NYC.
During this week spent eating, meeting, and always observing, the village appeared to wake up from its winter slumber. I began to look from the inside rather than as an outsider or tourist. It was my third visit and this one felt much more like being at home. All thanks to my Italian and his family. I began to understand the people and the way of life, to feel the intimacy that they shared, if not understand what they said. Each region of Italy contains its own dialect, and one day when I speak Italian (after mastering French of course) I will still not understand the Ligurian locals. But I will continue to say ‘Ciao’ in passing and smile as though I have lived here all my life.
There is much to explore in this region, a true haven to hikers and nature lovers. As I did during my first visit, but now with much greater an appreciation and insight, we took the local train to Riomaggiore, the eastern most village.
From there we hiked to Manarola, considered the most scenic of the five villages. Breath-taking!
Back ‘home’ to Monterosso, saving Corniglia and Vernazza for a Summer tour via boat. It was time to climb the terraces, known as ‘poggi’ and pick lemons and oranges in the family orchard….
Do as the locals do. Well, almost.
It is almost one year since I met him. ‘Him’ being the reason I am living in Paris. So much of life is about timing. The rest is up to us. In the words of my mother, indeed the wisest woman I know, ‘everyone is given a moment in life that can alter its course forever, and it’s what you do in that moment that makes all the difference.’ Either the head or the heart must dictate. I chose the heart.
This is my story in short, to inspire those searching for love amidst the chaos and distraction of a city like NYC, or anywhere in the world for that matter. I met with love on the street, on a late evening in early Spring, in NYC’s Soho neighborhood. In one fortuitous moment two smiles were exchanged. Followed by a drink, followed by dinner (which will remain one of the most defining moments of my life), followed by simple knowing. Perhaps it all began with knowing.
Reflecting on my life, have I ever been one to follow the assigned path? To do what is expected of me? Yes, in regards to my academic and professional life. I climbed the proverbial ladder, so to speak, living 12 years of a highly responsible, moderately corporate, decreasingly satisfying life in NYC. Until I disembarked at a rather advantageous height and abandoned the ladder altogether (here begins my story of traveling the world, an experience that undoubtedly contributed to the status of my current life, to be delved into in later musings…) Back to the path, the vast vista that lies ahead in which all the secrets of our lives are revealed. When it came to love, I simply NEVER followed a path. Born a hopeless romantic who at around the age of 15 decided it wiser to live a life as ‘hopeful’, my heart ALWAYS dictates. For this, I thank my parents.
Every day amidst these foreign tastes and yet undecipherable sounds, I feel fortunate. Whenever appropriate I share my story with like-hearted women, those who for years have reputed love to be something only to read about in romance novels or to watch upon the big screen. (One too many heartbreaks can dissuade even the most diehard of romantics.) In our current state of ‘Generation X’ affairs, the mind often takes precedence over the heart. A career sets the path while love only provides temporary rest stops. I agree that we must follow our own path towards fulfillment, and whatever we consider to be success, but at what cost? Is not love the foundation upon which fulfillment and success is built? Beginning with the love of self.
I believe that you get what you ask for in life, what you truly desire. Often this is not so evident as it’s hidden deeply in our subconscious. But in a moment, or sometimes an entire lifetime of reflection, the answer becomes clear. Sometimes it’s as simple as smiling at a stranger.
I have decided to take a break from studying French the traditional way (also known as taking classes), given that I can almost speak naturally in the present tense, delving occasionally into the past and future, excluding certain irregular verbs. I am doing my best to find ways to immerse myself in the culture and learn through speaking, observing, doing…in other words, learn by the act of ‘living’. So far it’s been quite a sensory adventure!
Listen. It’s interesting how much we actually do understand when we need to. I recently had my coffee read by a Turkish woman, an apparent expert in such matters. When someone is speaking to you about your life and relative ‘pursuits of happiness’ you listen! And somehow, I understood. I did have a friend with me to translate, in case I completely misunderstood my fate. It was surely an experience. Do I believe what she told me, (or what I think she told me)? That remains to be decided. What I do know is that surely this is the path that is assigned to me. But I did not need a ‘fortune teller’ to confirm that.
Watch. Since I don’t have a TV at home, and that seems to be a great way to learn French, I decided to try the French Cinema. (In my opinion one of the best in the world). My first film in French was Coco Avant Chanel. Thankfully Audrey Tautou is expressive enough to be understood without words! I was deeply moved by the scenes, by what I imagined was taking place, and as soon as the film was finished I read the history to better understand the story of this impressive woman. Was this experience a success? More or less, or less than more, but it was surely an attempt! Ironic that once upon a time I would only watch foreign (mostly French) films and now I am limited to Hollywood blockbusters, another motivation to learn French!
Read. I grew up reading the The New York Times and look forward to the day when I can read the French equivalent. Does it even exist? Meanwhile, whenever I pass a 20 Minutes journal, found in most metro stations, I pick it up, and attempt to read it. This seems to be the best way to learn a language, by understanding the literary construction. If it’s an interesting enough article, preferably about art, travel or the state of affairs in America, I will do my best to decipher this linguistic puzzle. This too is a great way to understand the people and culture, as the written word is taken quite seriously in France. Next on my reading list is Les Enfants Terribles by Jean Cocteau, my first (adult) French book….
Look. I spend a lot of time walking around the city, exploring, reading the signs on streets, in store windows… Everywhere I look I am learning, searching for words in my dictionary. To understand, for example, why the trendy Cambodian restaurant is closed on a Saturday night. ‘Partir voir la neige’ read the sign. Ah yes, the owners have ‘gone to see the snow’. (Only in France!)
Taste. This is surely a great way to learn a language, considering Paris is a gastronomic capital of the world. Taste the menu, to be certain of what you are eating, fearlessly of course. Coupled with a good glass or two of wine the conversation is sure to flow more smoothly!
Speak. As often as possible I express myself in French, rather creatively I might add, to whomever will listen. Simply leaving the house provides many opportunities in which to practice. My conversations with the woman at the local boulangerie are rather limited, as with the friendly man at the vegetable stand (though I am learning a lot about herbs!). I suspect it’s my hairdresser who notices my progress most of all. We almost speak as though we were friends, versus when I first arrived to Paris I would simply point and smile. Most of all I speak at home, with the most patient of teachers who has himself experienced what it feels like to live in a world of misunderstandings.
What great sensory experiences am I missing…
Before moving to Paris I could not get enough of the Parisian bistros found on nearly every corner. To sit and imagine my life as a French girl. These days, I no longer need to imagine as I sink further into my mostly blissful reality as an expat in France. I still revel in the cafe culture and often find myself sitting at a cozy cafe with every intention of studying French but much too preoccupied with studying faces and street style of the passersby.
Recently, on my way to such a cafe I discovered a doorway leading into a hidden paradise. A place to hide from the world and that could quite honestly be anywhere in the world (apart from the fact that there are floor to ceiling shelves of used French books lining the walls, a minor detail). This is my new haven. A place of tranquility and refuge in my beloved neighborhood of the Marais. A place to study, meet a friend or make a new one, peruse a French comic book (that’s about my level these days), splurge on coffee and cake, or simply dream. And should you need a new designer shirt, a Liberty mug, a dining table to put it on, or a lightbulb, voila! To the creators of this conceptual one-stop wonderland all I can say is Merci!
Passing the Fiat Cinquecento and stepping into the 3-story loft space that creates Merci, you feel like you are entering someone’s dream, if not your own. In fact, Merci is the realized dream of Marie-France and Bernard Cohen, the founders of the famous children’s clothing line Bonpoint. What makes this store so unique and even more highly venerated is that that all of it’s proceeds are donated to a co-op for young women in Madagascar. Thus, it’s impossible to feel any guilt while shopping! Not to mention that much of the unique, fashion-forward men’s, women’s and children’s clothing has been designed exclusively for this space and cause.
I’m wondering if they would mind if I moved in…
Merci, 111 Boulevard Beaumarchais, Paris 75003 http://www.merci-merci.com
I grew up listening to my parents tales of journeying around France, during those seemingly endless summer months when they would leave my brother and I in Poland to fend for ourselves. Well, not exactly. We were in good company with a dozen or so cousins and plenty of aunts and uncles who took delight in temporarily parenting the ‘American’ cousins. Summers were spent building houses out of haystacks and learning the difference between the variety of pretty and poisonous mushrooms on our frequent walks in the woods. I’m still not certain whether elfs really do live inside trees? As well as being a gullible child, I was always very curious and knew one day I too would run wild amidst lavender fields in Provence and drink copious amounts of Champagne in where else but the Champagne region. Those dreams have yet to be realized, though I did travel around Luberon during my year of exploring the world. Most recently I lost myself (literally in fact) in the charming village of Honfleur during a romantic weekend escape. I imaged to feel the charm of this intimate coastal town much in the manner that my parents did so many years ago, considering it has not changed for centuries.
Honfleur provides a setting in which to dream, to become lost within the tangle of cobbled streets possessing brightly colored buildings evoking a historic Normandy. Impressionist masters such as Gustave Courbet, Eugene Boudin and Claude Monet found inspiration within this scenery, immortalizing it forever upon the canvas.
Much of our time was spent sitting on the Old Harbour in peaceful observation. Time moves at a slower pace, surely allowing one to waste more of it!? As in most regions of France, you can easily live off of the local produce in Normandy. Had I not already been a gourmand I surely would have become one! We feasted on local oysters, scallops and an assortment of freshly caught fish, each meal ending with a cheese plate, camembert being the regional speciality. Evenings called for a well-aged calvados, necessary for digestion, of course.
It is here where the oldest wooden church stands, Eglise Saint-Catherine, a perfect place in which to seek refuge when caught in a sudden romantic rainstorm.
Before returning to Paris and concluding the dream of Normandy, we stopped at Étretat, known for it’s twin cliffs. This, another scene of inspiration for Monet, a natural splendor rising from sea to sky!