Coming into my third week of full-time Boston living, I must admit that I've learned a lot. Between coming to terms with the fact that the weather is a merciless, changeable bitch and telling myself it's okay to layer 6 sweaters and look like Violet Beauregard, I feel as though I'm becoming a real Bostonian. And since so many of you have been kind enough to ask after my well being and what it's like living up in a frozen tundra, I'm ready to share some of the things I've learned on public transportation.
I fell from a dock in the summer / split my hand open like a ripened fig
Walking down the streets of your hometown is a surreal experience. I don't know if that's true for everyone, but this weekend was like some sort of fever dream for me. How is it that a road can send you back in time and make you feel every bit your 16 year old self? How is it that that same road can send you barreling into the future?
I haven't written lately. It hasn't been for a lack of trying or desire. I've been simultaneously busy and bored out of my fucking mind. But let's forget all that. Let's move on and into something wonderful together. My spring was a tsunami of sorrow. My summer was restorative and transformative (is that even a word?). My autumn is going to be the part of my life where I turn into a bomb ass bitch. Gone is the Summer of Yes. Welcome, Autumn of Anything Goes.
When I remember my childhood, it always feels like fall. Let's not dwell on the fact that I grew up in Florida and that it was below 75 for about three weeks a year. For some reason, I remember doing arts in crafts in the front room of my best friend's house with a bunch of other girls while we waited for Girl Scouts to start. It's always fall. If that's not a season of nostalgia, I don't know what is.
I don't necessarily have anything to say, but I do feel obligated to update. Since Paris, I've been getting my ducks in a row for a big move to Boston. There'll be plenty to say about that soon, I'm sure. For now, here's this: moving sucks.
The last full day in Paris is bittersweet. Even after this short period of time, I feel like this little apartment is a home. At the top of the stairs, I find this dorm-sized room more comforting than any place I've stayed in years. Living here would be easy, I think. In six months, I would have some solid conversational skills. In eight? Surely almost fluent. A year? More? I'll be like Gertrude Stein and run one of the hottest salons in the city.
Today was the sort of day where you leave the past where it belongs. I took a hard look in the mirror and said, "Bailey, it's time to be a grown ass woman." Where better to do that than a cemetery? A thousand other places, but we work with what we've got.
When travelling, one rarely thinks about laundry; however, international travel usually requires people to pack lightly and prepare for the eventuality that they will have to throw their knickers in with the wash. Having armed ourselves with a bargain priced liquid detergent and a sack full of euros, Lisa and I braved the unthinkable: doing the laundry in French. That, of course, meaning here we threw some coins into a machine, crammed the clothes into a single washer, and ate eclairs for breakfast.
I start off with my head near a toilet and wishing that I would learn not to take vitamins, no matter how badly I need them. I’ll be equally real about this: Today was not a great day. It was not a, “I am woman, hear me roar,” sort of day either. It was the sort of day where you reflect on your life and wonder how the hell it got to this state. And then you drink a bottle of wine, which is totally appropriate.