I’m in a country called France. You may have heard of it. The baguettes, the Eiffel Tower, the trains — sacrebleu.
An important thing to realize about Paris is that it’s magical, but not in the way you think. There’s actually a syndrome that involves mental degradation due to unrealistic expectations of Paris. The magic isn’t some sort of sparkly sensation as you fall in love at first sight with some incredibly suave French man, woman or thing. The magic is in the music of the cramped streets, the movement of vehicles on wet roads and the shuffle of people moving past you. But you’ll never hear it unless you are listening for it, and once you do hear it, you become part of the performance.
To be honest, this trip tied me up, stuck me in a cannon and shot me clear out of my beloved comfort zone. It turned out to be a good thing, except for that one ambulance ride — I have a life-threatening dairy allergy, so instead of seeing the Versailles Palace, the director and I got to see a hospital.
Our first two weeks here consisted entirely of hopping from plane to plane and from train to train, being in a new town day after day. I learned about myself, about the other people on the trip, about France and about life.
One thing I learned is that, much like this article, life is messy. People make messes. Families are messy. The world is messy. The French are messy kissers, Italians are messy planners, and Americans are messy eaters. I suppose my point is that messes can be incredibly annoying but quite beautiful in their own way.
Next issue: Sophomore Sydni Sansom from HULA.
