I remember pacing back and forth in the kitchen common area of my sophomore year dorm. On the second floor in my second year with my second roommate sleeping less than 20 feet away, I convinced my dad to foot the bill for a class that would take me to Paris over spring break.
A month and a half before I was set to depart, I remember being dumped by my first boyfriend in the middle of the cafeteria in the middle of lunch on a Sunday. I remember exhaustion after spending the night in the hospital, after driving my roommate there and staying with her while she was monitored after taking too many sleeping pills. I remember right before he dumped me, I wanted to tell him I loved him for the first time.
Going back to my room, defeated and crying, I remember queuing up a series of Audrey Hepburn movies. Distractions. And I remember, for the first time, hearing Sabrina say, “Paris isn’t for changing planes, it’s…it’s for changing your outlook, for…for throwing open the windows and letting in…letting in la vie en rose.”
I remember looking up the song “La vie en rose” and playing it on repeat for days.
Then I remember getting off the plane at Charles de Gaulle and feeling a different continent beneath my feet for the first time. I remember sitting in the front seat of the taxi van wondering why I couldn’t see the Eiffel Tower on our way into the city. I remember clenching my teeth and fists over how quickly we were driving and how closely we missed hitting other cars, stone blockades, buildings. I remember cobblestone roads and flower vendors, wrought-iron balconies and green roofs. I remember the smells of pastry and cigarette smoke.
I remember the tiny hotel, tucked out of sight. I remember the outdoor spiral staircase that led to our rooms, the heavy iron key I’d keep track of all week. I remember twin beds separately made, pushed together, and the tiniest bathroom and bathtub I’d ever seen. I remember itching to get back outside, to take in the whole city.
On the blue and yellow seat of a tour bus, I remember finally seeing the Eiffel Tower but not before I saw the Arc de Triomphe. Then I remember crossing a bridge over the Seine and seeing Notre Dame in all her glory. I remember getting off the bus and the gargoyles staring down at a bubble blowing street performer on roller skates. All the architectural terms I’d learned in art history classes came flooding back as I stared up and thought, once again, what a funny word “buttresses” is.
I remember getting the song “God Help the Outcasts” stuck in my head.
Later I remember crossing another bridge — on foot this time — to Shakespeare and Company. I remember it immediately becoming my favorite place in the world. I remember whispering that to the shop cat lounging on a stack of books as I walked out with my purchase.
I remember walking and walking and walking. And I remember walking some more. I remember a day spent at the Louvre and a day spent at Versailles. I remember riding the metro and seeing posters everywhere for a new movie starring a French actress I only knew at the time as Johnny Depp’s wife. I remember how cool I felt saying, “the metro,” and feeling even cooler when I started to feel comfortable navigating it.
I remember stumbling through the college district after drinking cosmopolitans for dinner one night because it felt more Parisian than eating. I remember another night at a bar nearby that wouldn’t make White Russians and their hidden staircase to a hidden basement with a jazz band. I remember standing off to the side with girlfriends before being whisked out onto the floor by a graying French man, who swung me round as my grandfather did at weddings when I was little.
I remember an afternoon when nothing was scheduled and roaming the city alone, my only companions being my iPod, journal, camera, and a baguette.
I remember the second to last night, buying a bottle of Haitian rum from a bodega. I remember bringing it back to the hotel and being barely able to stomach a shot it was so sickly sweet.
I remember 3 of the 4 guys on the trip trying to get me alone to tell me they’d developed feelings for me in the City of Lights, as if anyone could be there and not fall in love with something. But I didn’t want to be bothered with such things. Instead, I remember wanting to write and eat and drink and smoke and see and hear and experience everything I could; I wanted to continue falling in love with the city; I wanted to never think of going home again.
I remember the last night in a crowded metro car on the way back to the hotel from Moulin Rouge. I remember being pressed up against a stabilizing pole by someone I didn’t know and not wanting to offend him. I remember his face as he called to his friends on the other side of the car to get off at the stop before ours. Then I remember getting off at our stop and feeling my camera missing from my jacket pocket.
I remember a small group of us going back to where we got on to see if I’d left it sitting anywhere and knowing at the time our search was futile but being grateful for their support anyway. I remember wishing he’d grabbed my wallet instead, the one that was in my pocket right next to my camera, memory card 98% full.
It was all I could think about on the way back to the States. How if I’d done any number of things differently, I’d still have my pictures. If I’d put all my pictures on my back-up hard drive the night before like I’d thought to do. If I’d shifted the weight in my legs so the pickpocket wasn’t pressed right up against me. If I’d checked my pockets right after he left or yelled or something. Anything.
If only.
If only.
If only.
On that plane home, I remembered the mirror selfie I’d taken in the Hall of Mirrors. After taking it, I remember thinking it didn’t look like me. It looked like who I was on my way to becoming. I looked like the version of me who not only could but was changing my outlook, throwing open the windows. Letting in la vie en rose.
And I remember that’s when I made myself a promise to one day get back to her. To Paris, to Versailles, to the person I will become.
