“blow
a kiss, fire a gun”
I learned in both my AP Psychology class in high
school and my college General Psychology class that smell is an important part
of memories. I remember a few different smells. The smell of Chloe, the perfume
my aunt had on when she came to retrieve us from the airport, in her leather
jacket with all her beautiful long hair up with chopsticks. She’s one of the
most beautiful people, along with my mother and their other sister who is as
funny and cool as she is beautiful. Then there’s my cousin with her love of
Michael Jackson. Playful. Mischievous. Curious. Adorable. The smell of what I
believe is the flowers in the trees around the city, but I’ve never been able
to pinpoint where it comes from. Sometimes the smell will just hit you and take
your attention away completely. The mechanical grimy wet smell of the metro
eventually disappears after a view rides. The smell of the delicious food my
grandmother would cook for us. I have so much to thank my family for,
especially my mother.
My month long trip to Paris was unreal, beautiful, and
comfortable. When I say comfortable, that translates to something unavoidable for
me; I felt as if I belonged there. I belong there with the brick roads and the
yellow streetlights and the cafes covered by ruby red awnings with the café name
in beautiful cursive. The little cars and the sound and the breeze of the metro
and the eternal roar of the cars in the street. The leaves lying on the
sidewalk, women in beautiful dresses and heels doing their errands or laughing
and having a cigarette with an equally as beautiful comrade. Everything about
this city made me want to abandon my home in America, abandon all the material
things I left behind, and melt into this city. Become a permanent part of
France that is as unmovable as the Eiffel Tower itself.
I hardly felt homesick. I felt the opposite of
homesick, I wanted to stay. This is where I have family. This is where the love
of my life got to come with me and explore and eat immaculate food and drink
wine in gardens overflowing with flowers and pigeons and lime green chairs. We’d
laugh, and I’d say so often “We’re in Paris right now…” because it wasn’t real
to me. The sunshine on your face feels different. I think this is the feeling
of loving a place more than you love yourself. Maybe my euphoria seems weird to
someone else who vacationed in Paris for 6 days with a strict itinerary, to see
all that they could in the time allotted. I am the luckiest lady in the world.
I got to stay for a month. I got to experience this place id experienced twice
before, but very differently. I think a fear of mine is going back and not
getting on the plane when it comes time to come home. An even bigger fear is
what if I never go back?
I came home and Florida became mundane. Predictable. I
go to French cafes to eat a fresh sandwich on a baguette and drink Orangina. I
go to places with long streets and parks with little shops to try and find the
closest thing I can. I get bored easily of places I’ve been too many times. Paris
and my family left a void I keep trying to fill. If travel was cheaper id be
leaving all the time. Id actually be missed because Id never be “home”. “Home”
would cease to be a home for me, it would just be a place to keep my thinks and
visit the people I love who never leave Orlando. I don’t want to be stuck here.
I feel very much stuck here. I’d love to move somewhere else, even if it was
just another place in Florida. Moving to Paris will just have to wait.
-B
