Soon after I arrived in France (1987) I knew it was not going to be easy. The beauty of Paris could not outshine the feelings of loss that I felt inside.
I had prepared myself by saying that it was going to take time for me to learn the language, to know my Belle Family (in laws), to find work, to make new friends… amongst many other things… But I did not take into consideration how difficult it was going to be to adapt to the French culture.
That first morning, as French Husband left for work at seven he kissed me goodbye and said he would be home around nine in the evening. As soon as the door shut I felt alone, and not in the way that I liked.
I looked at my time agenda book as if it could tell me what to do, or who to call. The blank page stared at me. What an odd feeling it was to have time and no where to go and no one to see. I grabbed my orange metro pass, looked in the fridge and made a mental note to pick up a few things for dinner, and stuffed the book (Les Miserables) I was reading, in my purse and walked outside to my new life.
Where does a story begin?
Is it at the first breath of life, the first movement, or is it the moment one feels someones hand upon their heart? Had I known the first moment of my journey to France would I have followed? If one thing connects to another, and if nothing is left to chance, then I would say the first step of the story would have been when I threw my entire wardrobe from my closet to the bed.
We had known each other a little more than a month, just enough for me to feel him under my skin, and no other man had held that place in two years. But there I was following him in my car behind his car. Driving up and down the streets of San Francisco, crying louder when I saw him reach out to touch her hair. Seeing her in the front seat with him, with her feet on the dashboard. I thought he told me French girls were not as easy-going as American girls?
Funny how a thought can slip into ones mind and take one away for a second though it feels like an eternity. When I looked back you had turned into a hotel parking lot. I knew I couldn't follow you into the parking lot. Sadly, I drove home knowing you were spending the night with the French girl.
As soon as I returned home I went straight into my bedroom, opened my closet, grabbed my entire wardrobe and threw it on the bed. You see even in my sad state of mind I knew better than to throw my clothes on the floor. My bed was clean, the floor was questionable, I needed something to take my mind off those feet on the dashboard, and drinking was not my thing.
That is the gift of being a clean freak: When life is miserable one still needs things to be in place.
I rearranged my clothes back in my closet: Sleeveless to sleeves, light colors to dark, shirts to dresses… doing so gave me a space of time to think. At the moment I knew my heart was ahead of me. I was in love with someone I barely could talk to. A tall, not so dark, handsome definitely, and to make matters worse, someone who had a girlfriend who came over from France to take him back home with her.
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What was the begining of your romance?
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