I finally come to terms with my self-inflicted solitude over a tartlette citron (which I'm pretty sure that I'm supposed to eat with a fork, but there's none to be had, and I'm a dirty American tourist so who really cares) and five fresh manuscript pages. Both of them are so good that I say, "Fuck you" out loud. No one is around to be embarrassed. Something about that is freeing. And when I inevitably get lost without my GPS and wind up stomping up and down an avenue I can't pronounce with no one to witness both my failure and my triumph? There's something freeing about that, too.
I start the day later than expected, but this is understandable when one considers the night full of fun and pho (another shout out to Victoria and her patience with me and my glorious introduction to picone beer). My hair is at peak fluffiness, I'm feeling strangely energized, I'm optimistic about what the day will bring. Then again, I feel this way a lot and sometimes wind up being nearly arrested, or lost on a train, or drop my food on the floor, or I'm accused of being a "snitch" by some rando on the street (I'm still highly offended by this bold claim. Mama didn't raise no snitch). Perhaps today really will be a good day. Or better yet: Today will be as good as I make it. Optimism is the secret to all good things in this life. Where better to be optimistic than in the City of Lights?
Today begins with success: waking up at a reasonable hour. While it takes a full thirty minutes to get out of bed, I still make it down to the lobby by 8. I go ahead and bite the bullet and buy breakfast (coffee, fresh orange juice, pain au chocolat, and as much bread and jam as I can eat), but only because I want to squirrel away some food to prevent myself from completely Hulking out later this afternoon. In hindsight, this may be the best decision I make all trip.
The journey to the airport isn't as dramatic as I expect it to be, which is disconcerting. My big ass backpack and I catch all of the trains and buses right on time. Even after waiting for an hour in the bunched mass that is the Primera Air check-in line, getting through an extra handsy security checkpoint, and eating an overpriced chicken sandwich, everything was fine. In less than 12 hours, I'll be back in Paris. I can do whatever I want to do. Anything. Nothing. I'm my own master.
We will begin by saying that I don't want to go to Paris. It's for a lot of reasons, both practical and anxiety-related. Why am I afraid? Ultimately, I don't want to go alone. I don't want to be without distraction from my thoughts. I don't want to be my only source of satisfaction. But, in order for me to grow both as a person and as an independent woman in this day and age, I can't be afraid to leave my comfort zone. The last time I was in Paris, I really bossed up, and I fully intend on doing it again. Buckle up, kids.