Be Cool, Honey Bunny — Ginger & Juice

Leaving London was exceptionally difficult. I think I may have allowed myself to spend too much time there. I got comfortable, and that's not really what this trip is supposed to be about. What made my departure easier was the fact that I got to see a friendly face only 48 hours later. I spent 4 days in Dublin with my friend Christine, and it was exactly what I needed.

Christine and I travel the same way. We do not feel any sense of accomplishment from checking tourism hot spots off our lists, from running ourselves ragged trying to see EVERY site in the guide book. Instead we take it slow and do exactly what we want to do. In Christine's words, "we live our best lives." I won't dive into everything we did and everything we talked about, but I will tell you that it brought me back to neutral and mentally prepared me for the remaining two months of this trip.

A quick shout out to Christine - she is unfailingly supportive, wildly funny, and her sense of style is bananas. (For example she has a super delicate, rose gold nose ring. It's so bad ass yet SO chic.) Above all of this, Christine knows herself. She picked up her life and moved to Portland, and she did it all on her own. She didn't move for a man or for a job - she moved because that's what she wanted to do. She is one of my very best friends, and she was such a welcome addition to this journey.

As you can imagine, saying our goodbyes was a total breeze.

I hugged Christine and got into my taxi. I burst into tears as soon as we pulled away from the curb. If you've ever had a cabdriver in Ireland, you're familiar with the volume of questions they ask. I think every driver I had in Dublin knows three things about me - I am from San Francisco, I am single, I am not voting for Donald Trump. They know all of these things because they explicitly ask about them. If you've ever wished that a driver would give you some peace and just stop talking, here's a hot tip: cry until your breathing is uneven and your inhales sound like an AK47 being fired. When I finally calmed down and found a tissue at the bottom of my purse, my driver pointed out a rainbow that had formed over the city. (If I hadn't been so emotional, I probably would have instagrammed it.)

"Where're ya from, dear?" He asked.

"San Francisco," I sniffled.

"And all alone? Oof, you're a long way from home."

This f***in guy. I dissolved. He knew what he had done and turned up the radio. I kid you not, it was the instrumental break at the end of Eric Clapton's "Layla." This song reminds me of my family, particularly my dad, so much. I was overcome with homesickness. I cried. I just let it all out. But this would pass. I was off to my European home away from home, and it was going to be great!

. . .

As you may have gleaned from social media, I've been in Paris for the last 10 days. As you may NOT have gleaned from social media, it could be going better.

This is the view from my apartment... as you can see, my crankiness is clearly warranted.

I posted a photo of this beautiful city the other day; the caption read "second only to dairy, Paris is the greatest unrequited love affair of my life." The word unrequited is key here. To be totally candid, this is the most difficult leg of my journey thus far. At the risk of sounding completely inarticulate, Paris is hard. I love it here. I do. It's magic and it's effortlessly special. But it does not feel the same way about me. Paris cannot and will not love me back. It refuses to reciprocate my feelings. I walk down the streets and I am totally in awe of everything around me. It's the kind of place that motivates me to speak to it under my breath like I'm in a movie. "I love this," I say staring up at the architecture. "How about you lean down and bite the curb," the buildings whisper back.

I lived in Paris about 8 years ago. It was only for a semester, and I never truly felt like I belonged, but it became comfortable. With that said, this feeling I'm experiencing, the feeling of being an outsider, it's something I had forgotten about. It has always been my understanding that all Parisians really want is for visitors to give the language a shot, to break out the pocket dictionary and give it a go. I wish I could remember who I was talking to about this. We agreed that it's the attempt that counts. Parisians will warm up to you, as if to say "thanks for trying... A for effort." And I agree, that's always seemed to be the motto. However, I'm not sure this statement is still accurate. As of right now, the motto seems to be "thanks for trying... Go f*** yourself."

I am doing my best not to become frustrated. I am trying to be patient not only with the Parisians, but with myself. It is insanely challenging. Last Saturday I went to brunch and nearly set the café ablaze. After being abandoned in a side room by the hostess and sitting alone for 32 minutes without a second glance from any of the staff, I got up and walked out of the restaurant. Had I been in San Francisco, I never would have allowed that to happen. The hostess would have gotten SOMETHING from me. Nothing too day-ruining, maybe a stern talking-to or a strongly worded Yelp review, but she would have known I was upset. Instead I resorted to a sassy eyebrow raise upon exiting.

. . .

On the other end of the interactions-with-Parisians spectrum, we have some people who are SO warm and friendly they try to follow me all the way home. They are almost always men. (Except for this one persistent panhandler. She now has 5 of my precious euros even though "10 is the minimum." Whatever the hell that means. What's that saying? Beggars can't be choosers? Turns out in Paris, THEY CAN BE.) I had an experience with one of these 'friendly' Parisians at the post office the other day. I'm still processing it. I want to let it go, but it's proving difficult.

As I accumulate gifts and treasures (read: new clothes) from each city, I send a box of the items I no longer need (read: wear) back to San Francisco. Yesterday I went through my closet and pulled out some pieces I had brought specifically to wear during fashion week: a floral print dress, a pleated leather skirt, my camel coat with the fox fur collar. I also grabbed my sports bras and SoulCycle tanks because cardio is just not a thing that is happening over here. I put all these things in a shopping bag and walked across the street to ship them home. When I entered the post office, I must've looked so confused and lost that help simply presented itself to me. A man pointed his finger in my face and rattled off something in very rapid French. I closed one eye and curled my lips back as if to say "I'm sorry... WHAT?" He laughed. "What can I help you with today, mademoiselle?" I smiled.

"I would like to send THIS," I said and lifted up the shopping bag for him to see the size of it. "It needs to go to the... États-Unis."

"You have a beautiful smile," he said.

Personally I think I have a smile like Mr. Dink, neighbor of 90's Nickelodeon cartoon character Doug Funny. (Now that I've told you this, you will never be able to un-see it.) So kind words about my teeth are almost always welcome, but in this case his compliment was not an appropriate response to what I had said.

"Thank you so much... um, so should I pick one of these boxes? If it fits, it ships? Or how does this work?"

He took my shopping bag out of my hands and over to the counter. He placed it on a scale, made a note of the weight, and grabbed a collapsible cardboard box. He asked what was I sending home.

"Just some clothes. I don't have room to pack them!"

"Of course. I will help you," he said and began to open the bag.

"Oh, no, that's okay! But thank you!"

I did NOT want this man handling my clothing. Something about it seemed so intimate, and I was already getting a little uncomfortable. I held out my hands so he could give back my shopping bag and hand over the cardboard box. But as we have already established, this man did not seem to be a great listener. Instead of handing me my clothes, he proceeded to lift each item out of the bag, tell me what he liked about it, and then place it into the cardboard box. He pulled out the leather skirt.

"Oh! I would like to see you in this dress!"

He held it out in front of me like he was trying to picture it on my body.

"Ha... No, no. It's a SKIRT."

I'm still not sure why I chose to correct his word choice instead of the sentiment behind it. He raised an eyebrow at me and then clutched the skirt against his chest.

"Skirt... SKIRT. Very nice. And YOU are very beautiful!"

He folded the skirt in half and put it in the box. This was becoming so painful. I felt like I needed to go home and take a shower. But instead of saying anything, I scrunched up my nose and clenched my teeth. I didn't know what to do. He had about $500 worth of my clothing and 100% of my power. He finished packing everything and looked at the shipping label I had written.

"Colleen... Oh-Nell... I have your phone number now. And you live very close - Rue Pierre Lescot!"

"Kind of! It's my boyfriend's house! I'm just visiting," I lied enthusiastically.

"Oh no! So you cannot get a drink with me tonight? How else do you know your clothes will make it to America? What if they disappear?" He winked.

My face reads like a book. I've been told it's like Kabuki Theatre without the masks. My mouth opened and my eyebrows furrowed involuntarily. My head jerked back so far that I had not one but two chins. "Haaa..." I said. This particular "ha" lasted about 2 whole seconds. I think it was weakness leaving the body. "Are you serious? Well... I guess I just have to trust you to do your job! May I have a tracking number please?" I smiled again but this smile didn't say "please help me!" This smile said "I'm capable of ruining a life, and it might be yours." His energy changed and he handed back the appropriate paperwork.

"Ms. Oh-Nell... your receipt, here is your copy, and there is your tracking number. You are all done. Bonne journée."

"Ah, merci beaucoup! Thank you! BUH-BYE." I said loudly.

I'm fairly confident that my bitterness surrounding this experience will only subside if/when I know my clothes have made it safely from Paris to San Francisco. Until then, this post office employee will continue to be on my shit list. And you know what, even after my clothes arrive... he'll still be on my shit list.

. . .

I've been texting my mom about my recurring frustrations with this city, and she suggested I take myself out for a "royale with cheese." This made me feel better. My mother knows I have the tendency to turn to a certain line from Pulp Fiction in times of need, and it's not "English, motherf***er, do you speak it?"

No. Instead it's what has become a kind of personal mantra for me: "Be cool, Honey Bunny."

This is something I say to myself a lot. Like last month when I got lost in the dark, armed only with a phone at 4% battery and a light jacket? Be cool, Honey Bunny. This past Thursday, when I was almost run over by a speeding motorcyclist on the sidewalk while I was walking home? Be COOL, Honey Bunny. And, as you probably know, when I split my jeans open and wound up halfway across town in a misguided effort to replace them? TELL THIS BITCH TO BE COOL. (If you haven't seen Pulp Fiction, I probably seem mildly psychotic. But I promise you these are Quentin Tarantino's words, not mine, and they work.)

I think I'm having such a hard time with the language barrier because it makes me feel so powerless. I feel powerless when people don't talk to me and I feel powerless when they do. Words are everything to me; I am going to sound so foolish right now, but I just realized this. Not being able to say exactly what I want to say is painful; not having language as a tool is like being a toddler or having unbridled road rage on a fast paced highway. I have all this frustration and I can't express ANY of it sufficiently. I have to rely on broken sentences, unintelligible sounds, and exaggerated gesticulating and pantomiming. I pride myself on representing my thoughts and my feelings well, and it's rarely an ability I have to live without.

I am truly embarrassed by how naive I sound.

This post has been so challenging to write. I keep reading it back to myself and thinking "how the hell can I publish this? I sound so ignorant." But perhaps I sound that way because I can be ignorant. I have friends with grandparents and mothers and fathers, PEOPLE THAT I KNOW, who walk through life like this every day. They don't speak the native language of the country they live in and they simply handle it. And what's more, they handle it with warmth and a smile. I am in awe. Trying to overcome a language barrier is extremely difficult. It's emotionally draining. It's verbal cabin fever. I've dealt with it for less than two weeks, and to quote the movie French Kiss, "it makes me COMPLETELY INSANE."

It's like asking "can I just say something?" Without fail, someone who is undoubtedly a twerp will respond "I don't know, can you?" But the thing is I CAN'T. The answer is NO because je ne parle pas bien Français. I am trying to handle my frustration with poise and I am trying to handle my frustration with grace, but right now... Ugh. It's just really difficult.

I've always known that communication is a luxury, but I've always looked at it through the lens of censorship, a matter of freedom of speech. I never stopped to consider that for some people it's a matter of personal capability. It's the difference between may and can. May I speak my mind? Sure. Can I speak my mind? Nope, not even a little bit. So I take a deep breath and do my best to let it go. Be cool, Honey Bunny... just be cool.