peer pressure.

I never thought I would see the day that I actually started a blog. I have to be honest and admit that I generally find them long winded and pretentious, for who really wants to hear all about your facts and follies? But, through these 20 years of existence, I've learned that sometimes, I should simply bite my tongue, something that is often realized far after the fact. But if I did choose my words with more care, if I was to be a little less rash, I would no longer be me. So, call it hypocrisy, stamp on my forehead the title of conformist, I probably won't lose any sleep over it. I will simply chuckle to myself and realize that maybe I was wrong.

That said, I lay the blame for this endeavor at my best friend's feet. She is the one that suggested that I begin keeping a blog for my time spent here in the beautiful City of Light, and I think it is the least I can do for her, and those that love me, to be all sorts of up-to-date on my mishaps and meanderings. I suppose that's the same as facts and follies, but that's neither here nor there. Donc, this blog is for those that love me, and those that convince me to do silly things that I would never do in the first place, but they haven't lead me astray before, so I doubt they're going to start now.

My darling mother has been hounding me since the moment I stepped onto Parisian soil to take pictures and upload them, so maybe this is going to provide some incentive. True, technology makes me it's minion on a very frequent basis, so the chances of my successfully uploading pictures are quite small, but I suppose I'll try. Should this blog have nothing but text in the near future, readers, you will know that I failed abysmally at spicing this up, so I apologize in advance.

Now, to get down to the matter at hand. Paris is fantastic, intense, unforgiving, harsh, beautiful, unapologetic, wise, rapid, terrifying, and true. It has taken me just under two months to finally, and officially, have my feet firmly planted on this cigarette-smoke permeated soil, and I love every inch. Granted, I detested it just a few weeks ago; everything seemed too much for me. The culture is different, the people are fast, the atmosphere is in your face - this is us, take it or leave it, and no, we don't hate your country, we simply hate your former president. Well, France my dear, I couldn't agree with you more. The people are a fascinating mix of old and new, respect and disdain. Frankly, it reminds me of Philadelphia at times, with its wise facades that have seen far more atrocities and late night trysts than they can count. But it's fascinating to be surrounded by buildings that make the United States look like a foolish and wayward child, for its structures clearly and conveniently sport a plaque boasting its age and construction, while the buildings of Paris calmly rely on the science of carbon dating. Many of the young women are sex personified, but in a way in which one thinks "She didn't do a damn thing to look like that", while American city girls spend three hours getting ready to go to a club, sit at a tiny table, while drinking a low calorie alcohol confection. In this way, I'm home. These are the girls that pedal bicycles in high heels, let their hair go with the speed of their vespas. They walk with their chin held high and gaze at you down their long, pert noses. We are young, we are beautiful, and life is much too short. These are doctrines that I've been trying to practice since the moment I stepped into a swimming pool, because, really, why do I want to waste that much time that I can never get back? These women hold men in their palms, ready to nurture or scold when the time is right. These are the kinds of women that run countries, whether it is known or not.

Likewise, these are the men that like a girl that talks back, the girl that doesn't give him the time of day, the girl that probably won't call him back promptly. These men have perfected the casual glance meant to flatter, the one that says "I would love to sleep with you if the opportunity ever presented itself." And somehow, when they get it right, we ladies get flustered, flattered, and actually entertain the idea for just a moment. When it's wrong, it's a train wreck, but when it's right, oh, Lord, have mercy.

This is what fascinates me. That these people can be so seemingly comfortable in their skin. They are unapologetic about their style, their sex, their day to day life. For these things, I will always be envious, and I will always try to perfect it, even if I am the interloper that's just staying for a short time. I'll be damned if I don't bring some of this back. Oh, parisian youth, teach me your ways.

I suppose that's going to be all for now, considering that this may or may not have been an alarmingly successful ploy to avoid work for midterms. But I do have one last thing.

Rebecca, you are my best friend, my hero. You are so wonderfully strong, so blindingly beautiful, I don't know what I would do without you. I love you, and I'm so sorry that I can't be there with you as much as I would like, but you're in my thoughts always, along with the rest of the Lustig household. duh.

And to all those others that love me, thank you. Forever and always, thank you. I would be nowhere without you. You deal with my moods, my flights of fancy, my stubbornness and my skepticism. I miss you, and I'll see you soon.

g.