Freedom at 21

       The old sayings “dream big” and “shoot for the stars” never had much meaning to me in my early years. In elementary school, my teachers usually had well-stocked classrooms of generic posters preaching virtues like “integrity,” “perseverance” and usually a few dedicated to dreams. Does anyone in fourth grade really have a clue what they want for their future? For example, my nine-year-old self's profession of choice was to be the next Britney Spears (For a Thanksgiving project that year, I first wrote that I was thankful for her, and then for my family.). As a victim of Youngest Child Syndrome (Which I just Googled and is very real), I strove to do everything my sister did- be in Gifted and Talented (I wasn’t chosen), have a super-high ACT score (My score was significantly lower), be in National Honor Society (What was the point of that, anyway?). Name something she did, and I tried my best to do it, too, often with lower results. 

     I really didn't dream much past what Emily had done for herself, so I never quite had any “big dreams” of my own, other than to finish college and then fall off the cliff of Life After College. That sounded about right, considering I had been probably the shyest kindergartner in my class and had cried in fear the first day when my sister wasn't on the bus to go home at noon (“Second graders go to school for the whole day,” My teacher told me.). I even won the prestigious award of “Most Cautious Player” on my fifth grade basketball team, Sharpied onto a basketball and really just code for “the player who is most afraid of upsetting other players.” Lacking any real talent, I still continued until eighth grade. I think I played for so many years because I was tall, liked to run back and forth on the court and, of course, because Emily had done it. Years later, when it came down to mark off a language to study my first year of high school, I put down French. Because Emily did. And that lit the fire of my Paris dreams.

Me in Kindergarten, scared for my life.

            A few weeks ago, I overslept and was in the process of emailing my professor when my phone vibrated. It was an email. I am pleased to inform you that you have been admitted to the MA in Cultural Translation at the American University of Paris for the fall 2013 semester. Congratulations! I wanted to shout it from on top of a mountain, but I didn’t have a mountain, so I called my mom instead. Everyone was extremely congratulatory and now after some time has passed, I’ve really started to think about how far I’ve come since childhood. I don’t think anyone would’ve predicted that little five-year-old Rachel would be living in Paris for five months, let alone another twelve—and voluntarily. I myself can hardly believe it because, after all, Emily didn't go to grad school—though she probably will someday and find a cure for cancer—but after the last several months, it’s to be expected that I would follow this road once again.

            When I left Paris last May, the taxi took me away from the neighborhood I’d just begun to feel comfortable in and I knew it wasn't the right way to go. I sat with my head resting against the window as my eyes dragged over shops I’d browsed through and cafés I’d wanted to try, and for which I'd never quite found the time. We passed memories like jogging and wine-picnicking in the Luxembourg Gardens, impatiently foot-tapping over the copy machines at the shop on the boulevard Saint-Michel, the vélib’ bicycle racks that had saved me from stumbling home in stilettos. My life in Paris was being reduced to the likes of a bus tour and I wanted to shake the driver’s seat and yell “But wait- stop! That’s where I found my copy of Les fleurs du mal! And that’s where I get my cheap pizza! Oh, and we really must stop for the quai!” But instead I just swallowed over the lump growing in my throat as we crossed Le Petit Pont towards Notre-Dame and over the quai where I’d spent so many nights dangling my feet over the glittering water and laughing over bottles of Côtes du Rhône. I closed my mouth and settled into my seat as Louis Armstrong began to sing “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen” over the radio. I literally mouthed “Seriously?” to my mom in the front seat. 

            At home in Minnesota, I turned into a true Miss Havisham. I’ve spent the last several months hoarding old receipts that keep coming out of the woodwork from places like Franprix and avoiding the pictures I took because they make me too sad. I’ve been able to successfully watch Midnight in Paris once. My laptop clock is still on Paris time. I’m physically in Minneapolis, but clearly in Paris mentally. I’ve been a real mess.

            I have many fears and doubts about going back, but I can’t really come up with a good enough reason to not go back to Paris. I’ve heard so many people over the years talk about their life regrets and I know I don’t want to wake up in ten years at 32 and think, “Why the hell did I not go?” I want to make the most of this fleeting freedom that I have right now because what scares me much more than moving to a foreign country is living an ordinary life without adventure. I know this is my next chapter and I’m sure the kindergartner in me would be interested in hearing it.

Rachel