Bong Bong Bong

I awake.  It is a new day.

Bells are ringing.  Why are they ringing so early?  Do they not have the common courtesy to understand that I am asleep?  It is so rude of inanimate objects not to think of me.  It is 11 o’clock in the morning and they should definitely be aware that I am still sleeping.

… 11 o’clock in the morning.  It is very French to still be asleep.

I get up- groggily and angrily.  I recall I am in the heart of Paris, within walking distance of the Eiffel Tower, The Louvre, and Notre Dame.  I guess I am satisfied.  I guess that will do.  The bells, however, certainly will not.

I walk down our tiny corridors to go to the shower, I get dressed, I open my French windows, and I look to my roommate- “chocolate croissants?” She nods and we know that the day has now officially begun.

We float to our favorite boulangerie on our street- Rue de Sevres, home to the oldest department store in Paris and the effortlessly posh left bank population.  “Bonjour ! Je vais prendre un pain au chocolat, s’il vous plaît” “Oui, Madame ! Avec ceci?” “C’est tout. Merci.” “Merci au revoir!” “Bonne journèe.”  It has become our second nature to speak like this each day.  We are two girls that so desperately live for that hot, freshly baked chocolate croissant in the morning and the French women dedicated to delivering it to us are blessed in our eyes.

We triumphantly walk back to our school, a small building hidden behind a romantic courtyard and bordered by a Catholic Church with ever-present priests singing the day away.  We attend our morning French class which lasts for almost three hours, yet feels like one.  We laugh, we joke, we cry, we sweat- French is a beautiful, yet very challenging language.

Bong Bong Bong

Class is over.  We say our goodbyes to our professors and run to the nearest grocery store.  I buy my beloved 50 cent bread and 2-euro cheese, a bottle of wine, and some water because hydration is always key.  We meet in the center to revel in our finds then walk with passion to a park nearby.  Living in Paris, we are surrounded by areas of refuge for a midafternoon wine and cheese escape.  It is only humane.  We find a bench or lay on the ground- either is suitable.  I sit with all my friends and we talk about life, love, passions, the future- anything.  This is something I would brush off as funny in The States but seems so natural in France.  I know these people.  I look at them and I know each of them like myself.  I am fascinated by them daily, and each person I can meet here is another dimension that I add to myself.  It is late afternoon and the Parisians have begun drinking.  Chefs, retailers, and any workers have gone home to nap or take a break.  We relax, not because we are told to, but because it is a way of life.  We speak, not because we feel we should, but because we desire to know one another.  We dine, not because we are hungry, but because it is an experience in itself to be intimate with a group of people for a few hours in a restaurant.  We sometimes forget that we are human and we were put here to know and love one another.

Bong Bong Bong

It is 10pm, still daylight outside, and the city of Paris is either dining or finishing their dinner meals.  We shower, get dressed, and go out on the Seine, a place that is always filled with life and people no matter what hour of the day.  We sit on the banks and we take in the views.  We sing, we dance, we debate.  Perhaps if it is that kind of night we go out to a familiar bar or club where we are able to meet others and celebrate the fact that we are all alive.

I go home, another day complete.  Each day is one in a million- no experience is the same.  I meet new people; I try new things.  I see the world, and I am blessed to do so.  Each day may be routine, but no day is ever the same.

I fall asleep.  I await tomorrow.

Bong Bong Bong

 

Advertisements

Day in The Life

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s