chronicles

My stomach is tearing itself to pieces. Oh I so want this job in Paris. I’m overqualified (but just to live in Paris for a year before giving into the real world, can you imagine?), and if I could just get the employer’s support for a work permit: boom, I’m in. Punk-ass Polish embassy, all I want is my EU passport, and it shouldn’t take me over three years to get it.

I think the only time I’ve truly experienced heartbreak is when I’m separated from a city (sorry, various boyz from my past and present). I was looking through some photos of my 21st birthday spent in Paris with my friend Felix. It’s actually entirely possible to believe that this was over a year ago. I look like a whole different person. I’m thinner now. My hair is shorter, and it’s blonde. Physically, I’m more comfortable in my own skin, but mentally, I’m far more anxious and stressed and perpetually exhausted. Time, time, time.

Don’t talk to me of love. I’ve had an earful
And I get tearful when I’ve downed a drink or two.
I’m one of your talking wounded.
I’m a hostage. I’m maroonded.
But I’m in Paris with you.

Yes I’m angry at the way I’ve been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess that I’ve been through.
I admit I’m on the rebound
And I don’t care where are we bound.
I’m in Paris with you.

Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre,
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysées
And remain here in this sleazy
Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.

Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There’s that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I’m in Paris with you.

Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris.
I’m in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I’m in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I’m in Paris with … all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I’m in Paris with you.

-

James Fenton

barleywaken:

Nothing really reminds me of how poor I am like seeing everyone on Facebook posting “Paris for the weekend! ;) XD :) “

Oh Bailey, I adore you, but sometimes the people who go to Paris over the weekend have been saving up for it by working minimum-wage jobs since they were fifteen, and then they couldn’t even afford a hostel with a working shower.  My parents helped me a little bit too, but to be fair, it was a birfday gift.

But I did meet some Stanford students who were studying in Paris and just hopping over to cities like Amsterdam & Barcelona for the weekend as if it’s nothing. Like for them, studying abroad is an obligatory trip that they can check off a list and later lament about it like it was some life-changing event, when they’ve written it off as a “little adventure” (exact quote).

I dunno. It’s so disappointing, in a way, to see people study abroad or travel who expect it, you know? They have that privilege, whilst I’m always conscious of the sacrifices that my family had to make to support my living in the UK (in that I devoured that savings account that I’ve been building up for the past six years within two months. On, like, food. And a phone bill. And a winter coat.) Yet living abroad, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. And I am utterly dreading the day when I have to go back to the States, but I can’t just up and transfer to an English uni, because that would completely break my family financially.

I really wish people like you would have more opportunities to explore the world; you know, people who are actually curious and legitimately deserve it (and would be grateful for it). 

This was supposed to be a two-sentenced reply, and it turned into this bit of rambling mess. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I appreciate that weekend trip to Paris, even if I couldn’t shower, ended up ill, and didn’t have time to visit the grave of Oscar Wilde (…I have priorities).

The good thing about going back to the States, though: I get to see my old friends’ dumb faces. Including yours, butthead.