Hey. So. I haven’t written anything in a long time. Schoolwork has been hectic. Shockingly enough, studying abroad involved studying and homework! Who would have guessed!? To make up for it, I would like to recount the story of a night in Paris.
Last Wednesday found my friends and me going to scour le Marais for vintage clothing stores. In our quest to do so, we managed to get lost trying to exit the metro, eventually found a place that sold clothing by the kilogram, and threw our own personal dance party in the store. We gained lots of odd glances, but after five weeks we were claiming our loud, American roots.
However, that night we returned to our Parisian nature. We stopped at a Carrefour for shopping (for those who are unaware, Carrefour and Monoprix are food and shopping centers very similar to Target that basically make up the backbone of this city). We filled a basket with avocados, beans, cheese, pepper, crepes, a raspberry tarte, and more. The goal: fajitas. Armed with groceries, we walked down the streets to the apartment of a friend. Her host family was away, but they allowed her to have guests over. Let me tell you, this apartment was absolutely beautiful. Bright, big, and even a balcony with a view of the Eiffel Tower.
The five of us conglomerated in the kitchen and divided out the necessary tasks for our French-Mexican dish. Me, I was responsible for preparing the beans, slicing some tomatoes, heating the crepes (our makeshift tortillas), cooking the raspberry tarte, and playing music. So, with 50’s style covers of famous pop songs filling the apartment and the Eiffel Tower outside the kitchen window, we made fajitas in Paris. It took a couple hours, but with friendship and music to keep us company, the task was more than manageable.
With all prepared, we sat down at the dining room table. The open window let in a bright, joyful light along with a view of the Parisian skyline. As we ate, we laughed and joked, passing dishes over and under each other’s arms with the familiarity of those who has spent five weeks together across the ocean.
With fajitas finished and a raspberry tarte in our stomachs, we embraced the Parisian way and slowed down. Collin and I pulled out a guitar and took turns filling the apartment with our own music. As we cleaned the table, someone pulled out a phone and played Disney’s “I’m Almost There.” I danced around, lip-syncing, light and free, and as the last “there” rang out, I danced onto the balcony and looked out at the incredible steel structure standing high above the skyline. Music video worthy.
At 10:00, with the sun setting, the tower lit up with an orange glow and sparkled like hundred of twinkling stars. When the sun had disappeared behind the horizon, the glow lit the inky black night. We sat in the apartment, playing music, calm and content.
I would say that counts as a good Parisian night.