It Hit...

In the frenzied final days before our departure, people would ask us if the fact that we were moving to Paris for the year had “hit us” yet. My response was that, like the days and weeks leading up to the wedding, we were so close to the individual trees that the forest was lost on us (or we were each like the group of blind people who each knew about the one part of the animal they found, but had no clue to what the whole elephant was like…you pick which metaphor/simile serves you best). Long story short, we were so caught up the micro-level steps necessary to leave our two jobs, our apartment, and all our personal relationships behind, it was difficult to focus on the fantastic fun and opportunity that awaited us. Like with the wedding, “it” would only “hit” post-facto…

Well, on Monday, “it” finally did hit me...and at the strangest moment(s). I started work on Monday, which meant I had to find my way from our apartment in the 13th Arrondissement to my office in the city’s primary Jewish (and more recently, gay) neighborhood. Gritty and trendy urbanite that I am, I bundled myself in my overcoat, popped my iPod earbuds in my ears, and set out on foot for my destination.

Commutes generally don’t have the best reputation, but it was while I walked to work that morning (and home that night) that the enormity of our Paris year finally hit me. It hit me as I walked by our neighborhood’s unassuming St. Medard church, for which ground was broken in 1450, and whose “most recent” portions still outdate our country by well over a hundred years. It hit me as I walked by the community marketplace whose selection, quality, and prices would put Whole Foods to shame. It hit me as I stopped for a quick coffee, and realized that the $1.50 espresso at any of thousands of corner Parisian cafes easily outdoes many of the best coffees available in America. It hit me as I crossed the Seine, and the sorrowful warblings of a solitary bagpiper, alone with his thoughts down on the quai, lifted up to my ears. I suddenly felt a deep and grateful appreciation for the opportunity that has been presented to Sara and myself.

Before you start worrying that I’m getting all deep and reflective, rest assured that “it” hit me in a much more whimsical way during the evening commute. Walking back along the Seine, as the rear portion of Notre Dame Cathedral came into view and the 2000-era twinkling lights on the Eiffel Tower began their hourly sparkle, what did I hear on my iPod but some church-style organ music followed by a guitar going “junk-a-junk-a-junk-junk-junk, junk-a-junk-a-junk-junk-junk.”

With the concordance of the happy sights and sounds surrounding me, I tucked my hands in my pockets, walked quickly and in time with the music (help me out, what music video am I thinking of, with the guy walking purposefully along as the backgrounds behind him keep changing?), and broke out into a shit-eating grin the size of a Mercury Sable. I didn’t walk home, I damn near floated.

You gotta have Faith…