FASHION:

I remember the first time I went to Paris. I was alone. The circumstances were last minute (long story) and I remember that for the duration of the transatlantic flight I felt as though I had an entire butterfly farm hatch in my stomach. I didn't have a place to stay when I got there, I didn't know anyone there, I didn't (and still don't) speak a lick of French, yet none of this really mattered to me as I was 20 years-old and on my way to Paris.

I imagined a glittery-gold Eiffel Tower, Bohemian artists on the Seine, romantic cafes where intellectuals and writers wore berets and sipped cafe au lait while pondering the true meaning of life. It's safe to say that I imagined Paris exactly as any other unsuspecting American who's never been there would.

I was sadly mistaken. My ooh-la-la images of Paris were abruptly replaced by a cold puff of cigarette smoke that was my first whiff of Parisian air at the Charles de Gaulle Airport. And that was just the beginning of the four-day string of disappointments. To summarize my disillusions, I'd ended up staying in the most unsafe, graffiti-ridden neighborhood in the city where I never saw one token beret, one croissant or much less a native Frenchman. When I left the city, the feeling was similar to what I felt the time I packed up and left Lubbock, Texas--sweet relief.

But I'm so thankful to have had that bad Parisian rendezvous. I see my trip to Paris very much a metaphor. Paris certainly was not what I expected it to be. But neither is life, folks. When you raise your hand, filled with high hopes ready to step up to the task, you're almost always in it for the glittery-gold Eiffel towers. You never take into consideration the graffiti or the small detail that you don't even know the language, making it impossible to even order yourself a cafe au lait.

Sometimes I feel like I'm back in that shady neighborhood in Paris wandering the streets feeling jipped, ripped off and pissed off. Wondering what the hell people see in a city like this. Wondering, "Who the devil made me come here?" What was it that made me eagerly and naively raise my hand to sign up for this circus. And most importantly, how do I get the the nearest train station to hitch a ride on the first train out?

I did eventually make it out of Paris, in one piece. And six years later, I actually went back to the City of Lights. By then I'd learned a few things in French (enough to order myself a croissant) and had a decent map that I used to steer clear of the seedy neighborhoods. By then I was older and wiser and Paris wasn't getting the best of me. Instead, I got the best of Paris.

I remember leaving Paris, for the second time. It was the end of February, on an early Sunday morning. It started to snow big, beautiful, crisp, white snowflakes. As my taxi wove in and out of small side streets past closed shop fronts, it felt bittersweet watching the silent city whiz by, a backdrop dusted in snow. I'd come to Paris to reconcile, reconnect and recommence. I was 26 years old, on my way home, back to my real life. It was bittersweet because though I was leaving Paris, I knew that Paris--in all its disappointments and glory--would not be leaving me.