Conversations & Connection

Taking advantage of the little pockets of possibility.

I suck at small talk. Ask me important personal questions and I can settle right into the back and forth of an intimate exchange. Or let me info-dump about some niche topic I just spent the last three days reading about, and I am in heaven. Or tell me about the thing you are most passionate about at the moment. But put me at a party, in a dress, with my hair curled like it matters, and I am at a loss. The cocktail glass in my hand becomes my anchor in space and I sip my non-alcoholic beverage very, very slowly because god forbid I have to decide what to do with my hands once my drink is gone and crossing the room for a refill involves moving my feet and it’s taken me this long to settle into this one spot without bolting for the front door. If I make any sudden movements I’m liable to grab my coat and slip out when no one is looking. Or excuse myself to use the restroom, “Je reviens,” and duck out before anyone notices I’ve gone missing. It’s not a lie, per se. The restroom I plan to use just happens to be at my own house, conveniently located next to where I keep my perfect-fit, Prana sweatpants and oversized sweaters, and once I am in their vicinity, it only makes sense to put them on and climb under the covers with a book and some tea.

I’ve been like this for as long as I can remember. Leaving parties in college and walking miles back to my apartment because the anxiety of staying just got to be too much and the idea of asking for a ride, of being any sort of additional inconvenience, was out of the question. Anyway, the walking was part of the social come-down. The movement was a recharge and I would arrive home feeling much less depleted.

There are plenty of times in my life when I have thrived while being the center of attention. If you passed me the lacrosse ball I could confidently maneuver down the field in front of crowded bleachers full of parents and classmates and the opposing team. Or hosting a NYE party for a house full of friends and neighbors. I’ve got everything covered. Coat check and lounge area and drink refills and a personalized playlist and a homemade glitter bar. Or come find me on any dance floor, executing my signature dance moves that are more reminiscent of the stirring of a cauldron or the Karate Kid wax-on, wax-off than anything that might be showcased on So You Think You Can Dance. But over the years I have decided that the dance floor is somewhere I feel safe taking up space, literally and figuratively. Fair warning to anyone who finds themselves beside me.

I’m not really sure what the necessary ingredients are for finding comfort in any given scenario. They seem to change and vary with the days. I know there are places that make me shrink. Anywhere a conversation cannot be held at a reasonable volume, except for the aforementioned dance floor, as my interpretive dance moves speak for themselves. So, most parties and bars and spectator-sporting events, and for as yet unidentified reasons, any meeting that is held on Zoom. But seat me at a dinner party, especially if I am the one hosting, or across from someone over coffee, or on the listening end of a conversation with a kid because tiny humans ask the best questions, or on a long walk in the woods, or around a lake, or a quiet neighborhood, and I can pass hours without noticing the time. I also love spending time alone. If given the option, I will often choose solitude over socializing. It’s my time to recharge and regroup. But there are certain people in my life who I can pass entire afternoons alongside and never grow energetically tired. People who felt like old friends the moment I met them. People’s whose company feels like breathing. Second-nature and life-giving. I am actively trying to put myself in their paths more often. Those people are pure magic.

Relearning French has created a unique set of complications. I still find small talk extremely disregulating, but when launched into a full-on discussion about something I am passionate about, I often come up short in my vocabulary and/or grammar skills. Trying to intelligibly explain that growing up I didn’t like the color pink because it was made clear to me, if my dad had any say in the matter,¹ I would have been a boy, and that the adult-me has since embraced the color pink, and all things girlie, and incorporated them into my expression of femininity through my clothing choices and decor, can be an incredibly daunting task in a foreign language. These topics were not exactly covered on Duolingo, or in any grade-school or university classroom.

Attempting to show up as my full self in another language is such an interesting experience. As someone who values communication and holds human connection in the highest regard, and honestly believes that word choice matters, having a precarious handle on the ones that are accessible to me at any given moment, is just the teensiest bit unsettling. Did I get my point across? Did it land in the manner in which it was intended? Did I put my foot directly in my mouth or just in close proximity? Am I too loud? Or too animated? Or not animated enough? Who am I in French? Am I able to show up in a way that matters?

In the month that I have lived in Paris² I have had many opportunities to chat with fellow dog owners. Politenesses that volley back and forth. How old? What breed? Male or female? Bonne journé ! And then on we go, our separate ways. Occasionally I will get stopped and asked for directions to such-and-such, which is actually thrilling for me because on a populated sidewalk that means A) I look like someone who would have the answer, or B) I look like someone who wouldn’t bite your head off if you stopped them on the street. Either way, compliment accepted.

Thursday afternoon, in the span of fifteen minutes, I fielded multiple inquiries from multiple parties. An older woman stopped me for directions to Rue Centième, and after I made my way over a particular pronunciation hurdle and was able to hear her correctly, I easily located Rue Saint-Anne on my cell phone and gave her turn-by-turn directions complete with emphatic gesticulations. Before parting ways, we shared a smile, a nod of accomplishment, and then wished each other good day. A few paces down the sidewalk she turned and called to me from under her umbrella, “Bonne année !” Moments later, while I was waiting in a long line to enter the library, a young gal with three friends in tow, stopped beside me and asked if a ticket purchase was required to enter. And I got to explain to her and the small, captive audience that entry was gratuit, and that the line had most likely formed because the standard security check efficiency had slowed due to the folding and storing of countless soggy umbrellas.³ And Yes, exploring the library is DEFINITELY worth getting in line for.

There are daily interactions that feel useful, but not as connective. I can seamlessly order a coffee à emporter or sur place. And I finally worked up the confidence to ask what exactly is the difference between a latte and a flat white. And now I’m pretty sure I have been making the wrong choice for years. I also found an amazing boulangerie two blocks over from my apartment. Esmé and I stop in most mornings at the end of our walk and I try out something different from the case, or default to un tradition because their’s are the best I have had in the city so far.

I went ice-skating on Christmas Eve, and when I held out my fanny pack to be searched the security guard on my left said something unfamiliar and I froze, starring back blankly. When he asked me if i spoke French or English I blurted out un petit peu. And he and his cohort on my right, laughed and agreed, yup, Americans, they all just speak un petit peu. They were smiling warmly and being funny and not mean, so I continued on in my unsettled French, and explained that I was here in Paris precisely to better my language skills so that someday I don’t freeze up when asked completely routine questions. And they both looked at me for a moment and cracked up. ‘Un petit peuuuuuuu,” he laughed. And then he graciously repeated what he said previously and I understood that he didn’t need to search my bag because it was so small. They ushered me inside Le Grande Palais with shouts of “Bienvenue à Paris et Bonne chance !”

The Tuesday before New Year’s I went to Le Printemps to restock my moisturizer. I planned on a quick in and out, but decided to take in the view of the city from the rooftop and cheer on the kids making laps on the ice rink. If Le Grand Palais is the world’s largest ice rink, I think this might win the title of world’s smallest. But there is no denying that view. Returning to my original mission I confirmed that they had my desired formula face lotion and was then asked a question I couldn’t comprehend. Again I froze. This gorgeous gal smiled at me and asked if I would prefer to continue in English. I took a beat and said thank you, but I would like to try again in French please, if she didn’t mind. And she asked me the question again, but took the time to explain that she had used the word régler, and that it’s just another way of saying to pay. Right there in the middle of the holiday mob, my Typology purchase turned into a vocabulary refresher. Words in the wild.

BEFORE | AFTER

It took my silly brain a week to realize that these letters spelled VELO and not LOVE so I fixed it on my computer :)

All those lovely interactions aside, I think my favorite unexpected encounter happened the following morning, New Year’s Eve day. I had just left the boulangerie with a warm baguette under my arm and was on the homestretch of the block back to my apartment, when an old woman in a floor length fur coat and matching fur cap stopped me in my tracks. “Isn’t your dog cold?” she asked in French, extending her long finger and pointing between Esmé and the tiny, black toy poodle that was poking his head out from the top of his turtleneck sweater in order to sniff Esmé’s butt. “Your dog doesn’t have a coat!” And so I began to explain that we just moved from Colorado and that Esmé was used to much colder temperatures. She told me that her dog was old and needed his sweater. Esmé is only six months younger than your dog, I told her. The woman took a step backwards and looked us over for a moment and smiled before stepping very close to me and launching into a winding story about how she lives alone, but has always loved les animaux, and that this is her 5th, no, her 6th dog. That she adopts them from the Société Protectrice des Animaux and likes to take home older ones and give them a really good end to their lifetime. Then she goes right out and adopts another one when they pass away. She goes the very next day when she can. She explains that her previous dog lived to be twenty-one years old and that she hopes her new boy can live just as long. She said some other things that I didn’t quite catch and wasn’t able to explain to her that I had missed them. But we parted ways after a good while and I almost pulled her in for a hug before we did. I don’t know that I will ever get over my inclination to pull someone close to me in those deeply feeling moments. The French culture gets a lot of things so very right, but the double-kiss does not quite do it for me. If given the choice, I think I will always prefer the warmth of two arms wrapped around me. Do Virginia Satir’s psychotheraputic beliefs that humans need 4 hugs a day for survival, 8 for maintenance, and 12 for growth not stretch past the American borders? Or are the French actually onto something here too? Ce n’est pas la quantité de gestes affectifs qui compte, mais leur qualité et leur justesse. As absolute strangers we engaged in neither and simply smiled brightly at one another, her face lit up by the morning sun cresting the Haussmann facade on the opposite side of the street.

I turned the corner and immediately burst into tears. I think partly because I had just witnessed what my potential future might look like here; an old gal out for a stroll with her old dog. It feels beautiful and sad at the same time. There is also some sort of tension. My brain can’t seem to reconcile all the contrasting emotions of this move and settle into my new life. I am beyond ecstatic to be here and also wildly aware, in the exact same breath, that this may all be temporary. That my time here in Paris may only extend the length of this Visa stay. I am working to get settled while also worrying about the possibility of having to leave at the end of all my efforts.

There is another part of me, however, that acknowledges what a gift it is to have random interactions and engagements like my exchange with that woman. Just this time last year a conversation like that would not have been possible for me. My language skills and my confidence would not have measured up to make that manifest. Look how far I have come. I think back to my initial worries, about whether or not my me-ness translates in a foreign language. And I decide that it does. In that moment, with that woman, my me-ness was enough.

1. The idea being reinforced by his purchase of a Bart Simpson skateboard when I asked for colorful roller-skates, or Transformers when I asked for My Little Ponies.

2. I don’t think it will EVER stop feeling surreal that I live HERE :)

3. parapluies trempés