on Paris.

I didn’t want to go to Paris.

My friends probably wouldn’t believe that. To be fair, I talk about it enough that they’ve managed to create a haphazard drinking game that forces me to (theoretically) take a drink each time I say Paris, France, or any derivative of the two. But if you’ve read my last two posts, you should know that it isn’t really a problem to me.

For years, I’d dreamed of going to Dublin, to visit the land where at least part of my Irish/Czech/Scottish/English/Who-knows-what-else ass came from. I was all set, all prepared to spend the fall semester of my junior year there, only to find that the program counselor had given me the wrong due date and everything was a week late. I was devastated.

Spending spring semester there or fall semester of my senior year were not able to work out, for various reasons. If I ever wanted to study abroad, it would have to be over summer in between my junior and senior year, leaving me to the mercy of wherever UC literature professors wanted to teach.

Sadly, there was nothing relevant offered in Dublin or my second country of choice, Norway. I really wanted to travel somewhere though, so it was back to the planning stages.

I don’t know why I still remember that night so clearly, but I do. I was staying at my parent’s house that night and unable to sleep due to a coffee dumbly ordered late in the night. For some reason, the idea struck me out of nowhere.

What about Paris?

The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. I’d taken five years of French classes, it’s a great literary city so there were sure to be classes offered, and hey, it’s Paris. Who wouldn’t mind spending a few weeks there?

I found my perfect program through UC Davis- studying American writers in Paris and doing fieldwork by following in their footsteps to work on my own writing. The day that registration opened, I sent the envelope with all the necessary paperwork up to Northern California and soon, I got an email informing me that my program was confirmed.

Four and a half months later, I’m waving goodbye to my mother for the last time in 5 weeks as I walked through the security line at LAX. The next thing I know, I was wandering around the vast white concrete mess that is Charles de Gaulle Airport. I managed to find my way down to the trains so I could take the required RER B.

Getting on my train was easy enough, getting off seemed a little harder. After forty something minutes, the train pulled up to the Luxembourg stop and I stood in front of the door, waiting for it to open, only to have the train start up again. A lady near me was kind enough to inform me that the doors needed to be pushed open with the giant red button right in front of my face.

The train stopped at Port Royal, and I didn’t push the door hard enough. Finally, at Denefert-Rochereau, I got things right, apart from being two stops south of where I was supposed to be.

My suitcases and I made our way up the stairs so I could buy a ticket for the opposite way, and as I emerged from the underground station, I was stunned.

Bright blue skies with wispy clouds, tall, green trees, and Haussmann-inspired buildings surrounded me. It was beautiful, and I was finally there.

Over the next thirty four days, I succumbed to the magic of the city that has captivated millions over hundreds of years. I fell in love with the hidden cobblestone courtyards and their intricate fountains, afternoons spent on a windowsill with a bottle of wine and a journal, and the smell of walking past a boulangerie. I fell in love with wandering through the cramped streets of the Marais, seeing all the buildings and paintings and monuments that I've learned about for years come to life in front of me, and the way that baguettes would crumble and fall all over my clothes before going out. I fell in love with Paris.

Funnily enough, while over there I booked plane tickets to Dublin and spent two and a half days there after my classes ended, excited to finally visit my personal Mecca. In a day and a half, I was done with it, wanting to go back. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a beautiful city, sure, but it just isn't Paris.

When my last morning arrived, I slowly packed up my suitcase, putting away the last five weeks of my life, the best five weeks of my life. I had my last baguette and coffee, then walked down the street to the RER stop, holding back tears.

That was seven months ago, and in seven months my desire to return to Paris has only grown. I find myself buying everything Eiffel Tower-adorned that I see, searching for bread that will somehow compare to what I ate over there, looking up Boulevard St. Michel on Google maps and virtually reliving some of my favorite walks from my time there. I think that this will all help, but it only ends up making it worse.

If all goes according to plan, I’ll be back there in seven months, finally reunited with the streets and the buildings and the Seine and everything else. Until then, I can only dream.

(By the way, for those of you playing along at home, I should technically drink 10 times for this post.)