A love letter to Paris (unfinished)
To my dearest; the city of lights. The city of love.
Six hours later we arrived in Caen by ferry through the English Channel. I have never been too fond of boats, and I know that no future version of myself will be either. In the midst of feeling absolutely seasick, it somehow did not occur to me that I was aboard a French ship. A year and a half of high school french class did me no good to explain my troubles to the woman at the gift store register. She looked at me with a strange curiosity. I figured that she didn't like Americans in the same way that I didn't like boats. I pretended to be English. My British accent was not even sub-par and the charade worsened further when I pulled out my "Bank Of America" credit card to pay for some nausea meds and a Coca-Cola. You cannot get any more bluntly and obnoxiously American than this instance.
We woke up in Arromanches. I placed my head on the bus window with my knees up on the seat in front of me like I would on the way to school as a child. Through tired eyes I watched the sunrise over Normandie coast as we found ourselves in the only other peice of American soil in France aside from the American embassy itself.
It is incredibly humbling to think about everything that has happened on the very ground we walk on. This earth has been around for some 4.5 billion years or so.
A much older version of myself is reading a French novel on a cast iron balcony overlooking the Seine while drinking a glass of Chardonaay. Her hair is long and falls down over her purple satin dress. She has since learned how to dance and how to speak soft and slow and she dreams in fluent French. Her soul has been through territories that I am still far too scared to even venture near the borders of. I fear that she is far more complex than I will ever be.
I do not yet posess the empathy to meet her.