MEMORY: Overpacking for Paris
or: Trusting the Kindness of Strangers
Fall semester of my senior year of college I studied abroad. If you’re familiar with study abroad, or went abroad yourself during school, you may already know that going senior year is late. I had a moment of “oh shit” probably in junior year- and realized I had not solidified my plans to get myself to France.
It was only ever going to be France. When my brother was in elementary school, our public school (School # 16 forever!) was still offering French, which was the language he chose to study. Anyway, he was studying French and I somehow decided I loved French back when I was just a little girl, at maybe 5 or 6. By the time language class rolled around for me, Spanish was the only option.
Once in middle school (go Lions!) French became available to me. Not only did I get to take French finalement, I got to take it with Madame R! A woman who is to this very day one of the most important people in my life. French continued throughout high school, all the way through to a bombed French AP exam (in my defense the foreign languages APs were notoriously challenging). Along the way a school trip to Paris was presented. The money wasn’t there, and so the trip wasn’t an option. A disappointment, but not a heartbreak.
Now, in college, I decided to keep up my courses. And after my realization that I needed to get it together if I was going to study in France, I considered my options for where to go. The choices were Paris, or somewhere in the south. After some deliberation, the program in Paris, through the Sorbonne (mais oui!) seemed like the better fit. It promised a sort of liberal arts approach to studying French in France as a foreign student- language, pronunciation (my favorite class!), history, art, culture. The catch ended up being that I was in classes with all international students. Our common language? English, pas français. Alors, my French is tourjours rusty.
School in Paris started in late September, so I had an extended time home between the end of junior year and leaving. Knowing I would need money to spend abroad without the income from my (amazing) job at my college’s library, that summer I worked. In a women’s clothing store. With a great employee discount. What did I do that summer? I bought clothes because “I’ll need this in Paris” (and that discount!).
When packing for Paris time came, I had amassed a whole new wardrobe. Did I look amazing 24/7- absolutely. Had I made money- sure, yeah. Would I have made twice as much if I had only bought half of those clothes I “needed”— oh yeah. So I maneuvered all these must have clothes, plus shoes, books, DVDs, a power converter, a borrowed French cellphone, toiletries, and my laptop into three suitcases and a backpack. Three suitcases. Three.
I don’t believe in regrets— I believe in growth. But, if there would be a worthwhile conversation I could have with younger Mary, it would be in late July of 2008:
Mary, mon amour, you are going to Paris. Paris. Do you know what they have a whole of lot in Paris? Clothes. French clothes, oh la la! Let’s think ahead a year from now. Will you be happiest having all these lovely clothes from your job, or a full collection curated after four months spent living it up in the City of Light? Save your money, pack little more than your sous-vêtements, and plan to take yourself shopping your first day there!
So, this is what I actually came here to tell you. When my three+ bags and I arrived bleary-eyed, a little hungover (thanks for getting me drunk off cosmos in Philly mom & dad! (not)), and low-level freaked out, my mission was to find our program director. She arranged for those of us who chose to arrive on that set day to be picked up in a very big bus. How wonderful, right? Making connections with my future forever friends (K & P, je vous aime beaucoup). No need to navigate the RER + metro (or hope that it wasn’t a day for a grève). No need to negotiate a taxi.
Yes, wonderful… jusqu'à we get close to my stop on Île Saint-Louis.
If you know Paris, you’ve probably eaten ice cream on the teeny island in the middle of the Seine I once called home. If you don’t know Paris, it is a very, very small island. With narrow streets. Do you know where I’m going yet?
Picture a petite young American girl, a full set of sienna colored luggage, standing on a small bridge, over the Seine, in the city she’d dreamed about visiting since she was in kindergarten looking more clueless than she maybe ever had before or would again.
My baggage and I got dropped off at the entrance to the Pont de la Tournelle, under the protective eye of Sainte Genevieve. Well, St. Gevevieve, the protectress of Paris and my confirmation namesake, must have seen me there and sent me un ange. Shortly after struggling on my own to make any progress on the four blocks to my foyer, a tall, middle-aged, brown-skinned man wearing a long coat came up and offered to help me. Without much shared language, we negotiated. I allowed myself to trust this kind stranger in a foreign city. He helped wheel my luggage all the way to the block where my foyer was. However, my trust said that was help enough- no need for this moment of kindness to turn in to any sort of situation where Liam Neeson would need a call on my behalf (I have never and will never watch that movie) because this gentleman knew my exact address for the next four months. I made it the rest of the way struggling on my own. Next would be carrying everything up 5 flights on a dark, narrow, slippery spiral staircase- but we can save that for another day.
If you’ve been here with me on Radiant Mary for a bit now, you know building community is a high priority of mine. There was an exchange of community here, stitched together by a decision to trust. That man decided to offer his kindness to me, to welcome me to Paris with generosity for which the city is not associated. And in deciding to trust him, just enough, I allowed him to create community between two strangers.
To that kind man who helped me, thank you.
For seeing me. For offering to help. And for being safe in a moment of deep vulnerability for me.
