Everyone seems to respond with a resentful look in their eyes which doesn't entirely mask the fear they feel at the thought of coming full circle. Nobody has time for this, not in this economy. We've got to push on, push on to Moscow, per Mark.
I was in on this a while ago though. I have been on this ride, I have seen where it stops, I have done my part, I have crawled back and swiped at the weeds. This is just how it goes. It would be nice if there was a little takeaway at the end each time though, would be lovely to have something to hang on my wall. But I know by now, jesus, obviously by now, that I will always end up clean as a whistle, empty as a drum, an echo of an echo.
And yet, always the first back on, someone give this girl a job.
I will not be seduced this time though. I have a plan. I have been studying the others. I am mirroring their habits. Well, the easy ones anyway. I am taking stock of the part I play in being consistently naive to extremely predictable outcomes. I am also finding that I have a decided talent for finagling myself into situations that are, for the most part, to my benefit. The trick is to seem like you landed somewhere out of largesse, feet first in a new tax bracket.
I moved to Paris on a hot July afternoon in the throes of crises - global and personal. Man (same) and dog (hypoallergenic/beautiful/mental) in tow on a crowded, jubilant Air France flight promising hordes of American tourists the excesses they had so missed in the last year.
Once again, I am making myself at home in hostile territory. Once again, I am tottering on cobblestone streets on Tuesday nights. Once again, I am finding myself in situations where nobody understands who I am and what my genuinely chequered past connotates.
The difference this time is that I am absolutely unapologetic about the space I occupy. If I am to be at home in foreign land, I will be at home in the nicest arrondissement with the freshest Hungarian point hardwood flooring I can find. If I am to stumble across streets, I shall do so after imbibing the finest bourgogne available, in my best shoes and my fanciest coats. If I am to be misunderstood, I shall refrain from correction. If I can't get a display trophy, then I will find an artist on instagram who takes commissions via gmail.
This is the thing about getting sick and getting better. Second lease on life sounds dramatic because landing squarely in that narrow margin of serious but not immediately terminal should signify immense gratitude. And there is, my god there is, so much that I fucking moved to Europe just because I could.
However, the manual for recovery is very much your own to write and the whole thing becomes especially tedious when you realize that recovery is just one of the lanes you have now added to your clusterfuck existence. Like including ecommerce on top of your brick and mortar distribution. Like adding lamb chops to your standing grocery order. Like being both origin story and evolution theory. Like booking an MRI in the same month as your annual eye exam.
You can't ride every single horse that comes your way, sure, but really, should you?
So while coming to appreciate that life will evolve and devolve the way it always has, I find myself at an age and a point in time where I have very little fucks to give, as the kids on tiktok say. I care supremely for myself and mine. Not all the time but enough to reign it back in or push the boat out, swaad anusaar. I speak more freely and with less fear of retribution. I take more chances on myself. I spend €5 more on a bottle of wine because who knows when you've had your last one.
Ultimately, that's the entire point of this exercise - it all comes back around until it doesn't. I'd still rather be surprised than not.
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