During the 10 1/2 hour flight back to Los Angeles from London I watched quite a few movies and TV shows made available through awesome new technology. Or maybe it's not new, but the individual TV screens, movies and
TV shows that played on demand were totally new and wonderful to me. Perusing the list of recent Blockbuster titles, I settled on "Midnight in Paris." So what I had seen it twice already. What was once more? Turns out the third time was the charm and so appropriate given my just ended vacation to Paris and London.
Since about 18 years old, I've had a real fascination with Parisian culture. First with the Fin
de siècle period when Impressionist art was at it's height. This expanded to an interest in Expat culture circa the 1920's. I had read a few of Hemingway's masterpieces during high school and loved them. Even though I didn't fully understand the subject matter, his style of writing, which he referred to as the iceberg theory-- basically, facts over supporting structure and symbolism-- I fell in love with. This was a big change, coming from the flowery, adjective-filled Jane Austen and Romantic period writings I had devoured during Junior High. Hemingway is raw. And then of course, T.S. Elliott's "The Love Song of J. Alfred
Prufrock," Oscar Wilde's "The Importance of Being Earnest" and later "The Picture of Dorian Gray," (although, he was part of the Fin
de siècle period) and the fantastic F. Scott Fitzgerald's "Flappers and Philosophers" and "The Great Gatsby." During a brief stint with film degree interests my freshman year of college, I learned all about Dali and Surrealism- ate that
ish UP. From there, my interests expanded to French and Italian films, in particular, Fellini and Godard, and then a fascination with 60's culture in general but mostly dedicated to French French French. Looking back at my interests over the years, they border on predictable and cliche, but I'm not embarrassed at all by them. They make absolute sense, and there was a definite natural evolution to them.
I won't say that traveling alone was the sole
culprit in the end of a girlish fling with Expat art culture, but it was a huge contributor. My first visit to Paris at 23 was magical for lack of a better adjective. Sitting at Hemingway's favorite cafe sipping on a
kir, riding a bike to Versailles for a grand tour of it's massive and beautiful grounds. Experiencing the Metro like a true Parisian. I had boy-short hair and wanted to look and feel French. But I was with my family who happens to be very good at acclimating to new surroundings, we are physically fit unlike the stereotypical fat American tourists with fanny packs and big cameras around their necks, and my Step mom speaks French very well, so we fit right in. I was beyond enamored with Paris and went home feeling greatly enlightened and changed by the experience.
I thought I'd feel the same magic the second time around, but something about visiting a foreign country alone changes your perspective of it. You get a more raw, real insight into how people are and what life is actually like. I do not speak French as well as my step mom, so Parisians were quite rude and not at all helpful to me. To walk through the streets dragging a huge suitcase trying to find the apartment you will be a temporary resident in, and not have a single person offer to help or give any useful directional guidance is very frustrating. I arrived at the apartment dripping with sweat, tears welling in my eyes. I had been in Paris all of 2 hours and was ready to leave. My love was soon restored, though, once I got settled in and actually started to explore the streets and beautiful architecture. I visited
museums,
cafes, book stores, flea market (which is unlike anything you will ever experience in the states-- incredible and rare REALLY old stuff), cemeteries, farmer's market...everything. After 2 days I had learned the Metro system and had a fairly decent sense of direction. I felt safe and secure wherever I was. After 5 days of ham and cheese and French French French everywhere, however-- I mean EVERYTHING comes with ham and cheese, even food you wouldn't expect to-- I was ready to get out of there. So I hopped on a train and headed to London to spend a couple of days before it was back to the States.
London is awesome. I can't believe I hadn't visited it sooner. Not only does everyone speak ENGLISH, but they are all ridiculously charming and helpful. The tube system is entirely fool proof-- we're talking arrows and
helpful hints everywhere-- and every single person you ask for directions will stop and help you. I won't go so far as to call myself a
Londonphile, but I will say that the UK challenged France to a dual and won. Pip pip Cheerio!
There is a really great scene in "Midnight in Paris" when Owen Wilson and Marion
Cotillard's characters go back in time to Paris during the Fin
de siècle era. Owen Wilson's character, Gil, has what he calls a "minor"
epiphany that in every generation, there are those who glorify a previous era. People never appreciate the beauty of their own time. I would go even further to say, their home base. We do this because life can be difficult and banal at times. Escapism takes on a different form for each of us, but we all do it, usually coming to our own epiphanies that our life
ain't half bad.
Perception is the key ingredient. It's amazing how quickly our perceptions can change. I arrived in Paris craving the same magic I experienced the first time I visited her, but left feeling somewhat disenchanted. That's not to say I don't still find the city beautiful and enthralling-- I do. But my youthful fascination served a purpose at a particular time, and it is impossible to recapture that. Much like how Disneyland is totally different experience for adults than it is for children. It's a bit sad, when a certain place loses it's "wow" factor, but I think it's just part of growing up. We develop new interests and find excitement in things that probably seemed stupid and boring when we were young.
After a week of travelling I was ready to be home. Every inch of me and my life resides in LA, but especially my heart. In France, locals were shocked at my independence: "you can eat and drink alone?" One girl asked me, "I could never do that. French don't eat alone." I had never thought of drinking a glass of wine with a sandwich and good book in hand as something strange.
Where and how we are raised, the things that inspire us, the people who love us and we love in return...these belong somewhere. We all belong somewhere. I belong in California. I suppose you could say that a week abroad found me in a very special, happy place. Happy with where I am, who I am, and no longer desiring of a faraway residence. Sometimes we need to go away for a little while to get centered again and fully realize and appreciate how blessed we are. I feel incredibly blessed and happy to be home...but thanks to a slight mishap with a flat iron in London (internation plug socket explosion anyone?), I am sporting a boy-short style again after frying a rather sizeable and noticeable section of my hair. I thought about keeping the look with Halloween right around the corner, but decided against it after much deliberation. It seems with all the feedback on Facebook, I made the right choice.
Au Revoir!
