Two years ago I was living in absolute misery and looking for any way out of my tropical version of hell. I picked up and moved to Paris to live a life concerned only with art, theatre, music, travel and glamour. I intended to leave that village of sin and never look back. In my fantasy, I thought I would live in a small yet fabulous flat with a view of the Eiffel tower, adopt a pug puppy, go to shows every weekend, meet tons of new interesting people and bump into an Arab prince to live happily ever after.
Reality knocked my head out of the clouds rather early on. No Arab prince, no view of the Eiffel tower, 2 friends, and an addiction to macarons+rose’+croissants. Despite all this,yesterday was the first time that I doubted my decision. Yet another rejection from yet another job I really wanted, sent me spiralling downwards into a flurry of emotions; rage, sadness, disappointment and finally, resolve. I decided to pack my bags and head home. Wash my hands of this dream life. It was all just too damn hard.
My finger on the button to purchase the plane ticket for August 1st, something stopped me. Do I leave or do I dare? My fantasy, still, is to call Paris home as long as it will have me. I will not be deterred by a buck toothed bitch telling me I don’t meet the requirements for an entry-level position (sidenote I have ; two degrees, 4 languages, and a charming personality with sparkling smile–> Girl!!!!! She tried it!). I will not be deterred by a poorly dressed realtor telling me the flat I want does not exist. I will not be deterred by naysayers that urge me to give up.
I. Will. Not.
I moved to Paris to live my truth, to see beauty, experience a new culture and to find that of which I believe in above all things : myself.