Despite all your best planning, figuring and dreaming, you never know what you're going to get.
On one very normal day in November, my family was pulling out of the parking lot of a Courtyard hotel in Page, Arizona. We were coming home from two Thanksgivings, one in Logan and one in St. George.
In the hotel lobby, my mom and I ran into people speaking French.
I was thirty minutes into French-teaching podcasts, and I listened intently to the french speakers' conversation. I was pretty sure if I just focused hard enough, I would be able to understand what they were saying. After all, I did have 30 minutes worth of French instruction.
I didn't understand a single word. Well maybe one. Oui.
My sisters and I got into our rental call named Bertha, and we pulled out of the parking lot.
Then my mom said to my dad, "So are you going to tell them?"
"No, you go ahead," my dad said.
If I remember correctly, this conversation was not light. And so I immediately assumed someone was dying. Because that's what I do. I assume someone is dying.
"What?" cries that backseat. "What are you going to tell us?"
My sister's sound excited, and I'm just scared. And while we try to figure out what's going on, my parents sit in the front debating over who should tell us what's going on.
"It was your idea," my mom says. "You tell them."
My dad ho's and hums and then says, "Do you guys want to go to Paris?"
My sisters and give each other sideways glances with half smiles. Because what kind of question is that? Did we hear right? Is this real life?
I can't remember exactly what came next, but basically we asked a series of questions verifying the validity of his statement.
"Is this a rhetorical question?"
"Are you talking about the eiffel tower in Vegas?"
"Is this a trick question?"
"Why are you asking this?"
And most importantly,
"Are you serious?"
After a half hour or so, we had nailed down that this was in fact a real question about the real Paris, and our half smiles turned to full ones.
We decided on spring.
Because summers are busy.
And I committed to learning more than a half-hour worth of French.
Three and a half months later, I am home from Paris.
In a way, the trip was everything I thought it would be.
I expected to be inspired.
And I was.
I expected to eat incredible food.
And I did.
I expected to be amazed.
And I was.
I expected to fall in love.
And I did.
Paris was magic.
And that's exactly what I expected.
My personalities just had a fairly serious conversation amongst themselves about whether I was intruding by still following and commenting on your blog. I mean, I haven't even spoken to you for three or four years.
ReplyDeleteI guess the personalities that like you won, because here I am. And this is what I have to say:
WHAT?! You went to Paris? That. is. awesome. As in, I am literally in awe. That is quite the parental surprise. I can imagine that not even the soul-destroying drudgery of finding this out in Page can destroy the joy.
And here is my little confession: I don't really want to go to Europe very badly. I'd rather go outdoors somewhere cool, like New Zealand or Canada or Chile. I guess visiting the Alps could be cool. But you can keep your statues and monuments and crowds and fountains. "What are men to rocks and mountains?" Although, to be fair, Jane Austen said that about the lake country of northern England, so perhaps my entire argument is invalid.
Colton -
ReplyDeleteFirst, I am so glad Personality A won (is it OK that I just named your personalities that like me Personality A?).
Second, I'm so sorry I mispelled Page, AZ. I fixed it though. (Does that help some of the other personalities that don't like me, like me more?)
Third, back to point one, I think I like reading your comments more than I like writing my posts. (By the way, does writing comments back and forth count as speaking?)
Fourth, after I got back from Argentina, I said basically the same thing as you just wrote. I told people that I liked Buenos Aires, but I was more of a horseback-riding-through-the-Costa-Rican-mountains kind of girl. I'll usually take an ocean or a long hike over cigarette smoke and dirty sidewalks, but for some reason Paris and (incidentally) New York are different for me. I love them--albeit differently. But it's still love.
That having been said, my favorite part of New York is Central Park. And I did throw a fit when we went to a museum instead of the sunny park in London. So it seems the 8-year-old who cried when my family traded in our tent for a trailer is still alive and well.
I'm going to stop now. Since this comment is turning into a post.
But point is, if you ever need someone to hike across the Grand Canyon with you, I'm in. (That would count as speaking, right?)