The Young, The Rich, and The Ignorant

I just had one of those moments when time literally reduces itself to being so insignificant it ceases to represent any true form of reality. I just left my friends' houses and the entire journey home was an experience that only either 1) a mind could track or 2) a camera could track and unfortunately I had not the latter but the former will have to suffice. I felt as though this tiny insignificant portion of my life could have been a protagonist-fulfilling scene from a movie that, at present moment, does not yet exist.

A little joy fills inside me every time I step into a metro car and music is playing. The metro performance could be the worst in the world but anything that dramatizes my environment gives me a little moment of happiness before bringing me to my next destination. Stepping onto this metro made me feel as though every person had been placed precisely by the director or cinematographer that is choreographing my life. There was an Italian guy sitting next to the door strumming the melody to various American songs on his guitar. I kept anticipating lyrics to be sung but, realizing that I was most likely the only person on the train who not only recognized the tune but also knew the lyrics, made me accept the fact that all I would be hearing tonight was the melody. All the people that surrounded the guitar player were so happy. And I don't want to say that I don't think French people are happy, because I know deep down they are, but being able to physically see a cheerful emotion on another person's face made me envious of becoming part of this group's circle. It was contagious.

Sitting across from the most perfect looking boy didn't hurt the setting, either. I always choose my spot on the metro by which cluster of seats has the most available. His having 3 and me always wanting to sit by the window resulted in us sitting face to face. He was a typically French looking boy. Blond mèched hair, piercing deep blue eyes, had not shaven in a day or two, and looking rather sad or at least not displaying any sign of positive emotion. Had I been in this exact situation in the United States (poppy background acoustic music and attractive young apparently single guy across from me) I would have struck up a conversation. I would have commented on any insignificant thing that would have ignited conversation between myself and the people surrounding me, particularly him. But instead we chose to play eye tag, either avoiding eye contact or staring just long enough till the other returned the look and after locking eyes whoever looked away first lost. I always won. But I always win. He (and they, n'importe qui) always looked away first. Whether it be he had a girlfriend, he was gay, or simply he was too shy to hold prolonged eye contact with me, did not signify or take away from the never-ending moment I was experiencing. It was just an additional element adding a sense of purpose to the ride. As if there was a reason I was sitting there; as if I had a goal to achieve.

A group of Americans caught my attention from behind the guitar player. I listened to their every word from both the American and French perspective. I realized how superficial and meaningless their conversation was and how of course they assumed no one would understand them from the American side of me. I noticed how much louder and more noticeable they made themselves from the French side of me. I couldn't help but want to lecture them for being so ignorant to not realize that there were of course English speakers on the train (as there are on every train) so they should have some kind of filter while babbling on in a public space. But I also wanted to simply talk to them, and find out where they were from and try to get an insight on their perspectives, how they viewed this seemingly irrelevant moment in time that evoked so much inspiration within myself.

It wasn't until a crazy old French woman sat diagonally from me that the beautiful French boy and I had any interaction at all. The woman (who was completely decked out in a pumpkin colored hat and plastic dangling red earrings and a giant fur coat) was not from Paris and this was undoubtedly her first time on the metro. She was telling her friend the exact, precise directions she was given on what to do to get from point A to point B. The boy commented to her that said route was not the quickest and her remark was so funny the four of us couldn't keep from laughing. It was at that moment that I realized that the three people surrounding me (the beautiful boy, the crazy old French woman, and her friend) all had no idea that I wasn't French. That I am not one of them. It was a moment between strangers where the reality of the situation was so completely masked by the present front. Four wandering paths crossed that will undoubtedly never cross again. A moment in time shared, but never revisited, never registered, but forever existing in my little moment.

I stepped off the metro to the tune of Fur Elise. It seemed a fitting way to end the scene, till I was greeted by the ever-so-French accordion player in the passageway of the metro station that made me feel as though my entire life truly was a never ending movie. Something about always having a soundtrack no matter how pertinent to my feelings makes me feel as though my eyes are a camera, filming everything I experience. But getting onto my last metro to go the final three stops to my house was finally the reality check. I remembered that my life is not a movie, my thoughts are not a narration to a book, and I am in fact living in the current world. One stop away from my station two guys got on the metro carrying a twin size mattress complete with sheets and stains. They propped the mattress up against the pole I was holding and one of them asked me if I thought the mattress looked expensive. I laughed a little to myself and shook my head and he told me that it wasn't, but he had won the bed off his friend since Algeria had just beat Egypt in a soccer match. And that is what ended it. That is what really brought me back into reality and ended the perpetual moment. He was so proud of his country, so proud of his team, and so proud of his mattress. And I remembered what I recently have been feeling about pride.

His pride inspired him. His country inspires him. But what really is inspiration? What suddenly provokes thoughts and ideas out of a person unintentionally? What is it that inspires me? And that exactly is what brings me here. The little insignificant moments that I come to appreciate bring more satisfaction and happiness to my life than I feel many people ever get the chance to experience in their own. And it's these little moments that I fear are overlooked, that people will never appreciate fully, that people will continue to blind themselves to their surroundings. It's a shame that people tend to stray away from solitude, and don't enjoy every moment they spend alone with their thoughts to the fullest. Because even though our lives aren't all captured on film and not every single moment is significant, we create our own soundtrack, and it's always worth it to keep on listening.

Club USA

Paris is so peculiar in all of its little nuances and attitudes. Americans have this reputation as being so proud of their country and being completely dedicated to the USA. When people tell me this and ask why we are SO proud to be American, I never really know how to answer. My general response has always been, "Well aren't you proud to be French?" I've never particularly noticed that Americans are any more or any less proud than the rest of the world. But the French have pointed out to me that it is just so bizarre that every morning before school American students pledge their allegiance to the American flag. Quite frankly I had never thought twice about doing it, and I never questioned the purpose of such an act. I never even associated the pledge of allegiance with pride to be an American, it was just something that we did no questions asked no justifications needed. Once all this was brought to my attention I started to subtly observe demonstrations of French pride in Paris and tried to figure out what it is that is so starkly different in the United States. And what I've been finding wasn't exactly expected, but not surprising either. Just different.

Point blank the French aren't an overtly proud people. Rather their pride is expressed through the things in their culture that are exclusive to France (the gastronomy, their scarves, etc). You would never see a French person running around yelling "I LOVE FRANCE IT'S THE BEST COUNTRY IN THE WORLD" but instead the occasional eye-roll or bof to things or acts that just aren't (and never will be) French. However, that is not to say that I particularly find that Americans are vastly prouder than the French. Yes we are a prouder people in general but compared to other countries Americans might as well be French. Compared to Egypt, for example, Americans look tame and indifferent to their country at all.

Last night while walking down the Champs Elysées with one of my friends we saw riot police everywhere; patrolling the sidewalks in groups of 5 or 6, police cars and vans driving up and down the Champs Elysées pulling people over and trying to contain the public. I don't know how this event manifested itself, but I swear every single Egyptian on this side of Egypt bombarded the Champs Elysées running around chanting "Egypte, Egypte" raising havoc and making chaos. Everybody was hanging out of their cars waving giant Egyptian flags, honking their horns ceaselessly. It felt like we had just walked into a giant Egyptian parade on the streets of France. Stores were closing their giant metal doors to prevent them from entering, people were throwing their babies in the air. It was contagious, really. Had Brittany and I not been the only fair skinned, blond haired girls on a street full of Arabs I would have sworn that I too was Egyptian, just SO proud of my country for whatever reason.

The mood and the vibe that radiated from the scene is really impossible to explain. I have never experienced anything like that in the states, and I honestly don't know if I ever will. As it turns out, the Egyptians were going crazy because Egypt had just beat Algeria in a soccer game that put Egypt back in the running to qualify for the World Cup next summer. I guess being proud of your country in terms of a sport is a whole other playing field than just being proud of your country on a daily basis for no reason in particular. But even so, America loves its sports teams, but only on a national level. We don't really care how or what our country does on an international level, we care more about what goes on inside the border. Call it American ignorance but I think that is the defining difference in American pride versus the rest of the world. We're obsessed and proud of what we Americans do but not if other countries are involved. America is like its own exclusive little club that shuts the rest of the world out, literally. And personally, I'm not sure if that's something to be proud of.

Interdit

As if the French needed to give me any more reasons to think that they are absolutely insane and totally bizarre, I came across a sign the other day that of course one would only find in France. It translated to No Singing in Public. Um . . . excuse me? Can you repeat that please, sign? No singing? I acknowledge that the French are against other normal human activities such as smiling and speaking, but what do they have against singing? Is it even allowed to publicly forbid such an act? I am curious as to who walks around Paris patrolling the singing pedestrians like that's even a job. And you know the French consider that a valid profession too. I don't even know what I would do if a French law enforcement official stopped me on the street and tried to give me a ticket for singing. I wouldn't be able to take him seriously. I legitimately wonder how the French even take themselves seriously sometimes. It's almost as if France specifically creates jobs to suck all the joy and life out of its people: Hi, I'm the no-singing-in-public law enforcer. Oh hello, I'm the man who febreezes the metro station. Hello there, I'm the little green man who picks up all the cigarette butts off the sidewalk. It's no wonder the French always seem so down in the dumps, their faces are always 15 centimeters away from the gutters. But even so, I can't help but to aspire to one day be able to execute such a distaste for life with such eloquence like it's my job. Cos you know that's a job too . . . in France.

One Night In Paris . . .

Now that my Parisian life is finally coming together - friends, school, speaking, the works - I have found that I am able to get along quite well in France, and I'm beginning to slowly but surely blend in with the French. Well, I was beginning to blend in, that is, until a series of recent events put me right back into the "stupid crazy foreigner" category.

*Disclaimer: for those of you who are unaware, I can in fact legally drink in Europe, so please do not be alarmed by this story because things do get a little out of control . . . but hey, you're only young once, right?*

It was this past Friday night, the night before Halloween which also meant the night before Rema's (one of my best American friends in France) birthday. Naturally she wanted to go out and celebrate so that she would be partying as the clock struck midnight. We started our night in typical Rema and Laura fashion - we bought a €5 bottle of rum and sat on the Champs Elysées people watching and making cheeky conversation with the passersby who just couldn't resist us. We met up with her boyfriend and one of his friends (both French) and headed out towards Le Tania club (one of my personal favorites because all the boys are rich and spoiled and there is no cover charge). Unfortunately, we didn't get in (damn boys!) so we headed down the street to Le Régine which is an even classier club right off the Champs Elysées. We danced, we celebrated, we made light conversation at our own private table and had a fabulous perfect little night to welcome Rema into her 22nd year of life. It wasn't until we decided to leave when things took an unexpected turn.

After leaving Le Régine I thought it would be fun to see if we could get into Le Tania now that it was a little later. I bypassed the line, went straight for the bouncer (again, typical Laura fashion - who waits in lines anymore anyway ?) and got in sans problem. Unfortunately for me, I didn't realize that Rema and the boys didn't follow me in and failed to pay attention to my phone AKA creating a major miscommunication with my friends. By the time I did think to call them, however, I had no service whatsoever and reluctantly left my new friends (read: new bottle service table) to search for network. Of course, I had a hundred missed calls from Rema and her boyfriend but I also had 3 missed calls from my friend Olaf (my one and only Parisian friend, because there is a HUGE difference in being French and Parisian as I have learned). I don't know what Olaf's family does, but he is the richest person I know. His house is out of control huge over looking the Eiffel Tower and the Seine River (on Quai d'Orsay for those of you familiar with Paris, classy), marble stair cases everywhere, two kitchens, two entire floors, 4 terraces - everything about him just screams "made of money." He told me he was having a party that night and that I should come. Intrigued, I accepted.

Walking into his apartment was like walking into a party straight out of Gossip Girl or The OC or The City or The Hills (if you are familiar with any of those shows). Everyone was young, beautiful, well dressed and so stereotypically French I could barely stand it. I made friends with one of Olaf's friends and he was absolutely fascinated by my American life and couldn't stop asking me questions about it as he scrolled through the thousands of pictures I have stored on my camera. A majority of the party migrated out to the biggest terrace for a smoke and my new friend suggested we climb on the roof for a better view. The two of us sat up there for close to an hour as dawn slowly approached us. We discussed politics, the French and Americans, the different cultures before finally deciding to head back inside because, oh hello ! I live in France and it was FREEZING !

However, we discovered as we climbed our way back to the terrace that everyone had already gone inside, and all the windows, doors and shutters had been locked shut. Our initial response, call Olaf, wake him up and make him let us inside. However, as we called we could hear his phone ringing on the coffee table inside which was no where near where Olaf was sleeping. Naturally I told the guy to call somebody else since obviously Olaf wasn't going to answer. It wasn't until then that we both found out that neither of us knew anybody there except for Olaf and therefore had nobody else we could call to come save us. By this time, it was 5 in the morning. The coldest part of the day. It was windy, it was wet, and I was miserable. We pounded on the shutters, screamed at the top of our lungs, we even climbed around and over the roof to all the different terraces before finally coming to terms with the fact that we were completely, and helplessly stuck on this terrace.

At first we didn't think too much of it, then an hour passed by, another hour (mind you we had been up there for an hour before that already), we kept hoping that somebody inside would wake up and realize that we were out there, but another hour passed and still nothing. Somewhere around 8 or 9 in the morning I start to get genuinely pissed off at everything that is going on. I started picking fights with the boy I was with, telling him he's French he should know how to get us off this building. I then start calling every French person I know. My friend Alex picked up and all he did was laugh at the situation, and suggested I call the pompiers aka the French firemen. I told the idea to Frenchy and he agreed, called them, was told to call the police, who told him to call the concierge of the building, who's phone we could hear ring to no avail, to which we decided to call the police again. It wasn't until 10:30 or 11 that the police finally found us from a terrace across the way. They told us not to move and help would be coming shortly. After over 5 hours maybe 6 of being stuck, FREEZING COLD on this terrace, the shutters finally open and we make our way inside. I gave the police my information as did the Frenchie and the police left. I then continued to yell at Olaf in the meanest French I could muster and spent the next five minutes getting lost in his house because I couldn't find the front door.

I can't remember the last time I was so angry. I spent the entire 15 minute walk to the metro screaming and venting on the phone to my friend Jessica, turning heads and no doubt reinforcing the stereotype of a crazy obnoxious American. I finally got home at 11:30 in the morning after not having slept a wink all night and nearly missing my stop because I had in fact unwillingly fell asleep on the metro. Needless to say it makes for a great story, and I am already laughing about it now. But it was the most miserable hours of my life. I mean, who else could manage to get themselves stuck on a rich Parisian boy's terrace for over 5 hours? Only this crazy American girl of course. I was the girl who never sleeps in the city where no one is responsible for anything. It was a combination that could only end in disaster. Ugh, damn socialists.