Il fait hopeful

What a glorious day. I'm sitting in my apartment with the windows flung open listening to the sweet sounds of life all around me. Over the last couple of weeks, realizing that my days here may be numbered, I have refocused my energy on loving Paris, on living every experience this city has to offer, on noticing and absorbing the finest detail of this most amazing place.

I spent the afternoon picnicing on the Pont des Arts with 40 people I'd never laid eyes on, the members of the Americans in Paris group I found online. The weather was perfect - clear sky, brilliant sun, and just enough of a breeze to keep you comfortable. I had never picniced on the Pont des Arts (or any other bridge in Paris for that matter) and probably would have lived a lifetime without ever doing so had I not stumbled upon this group and joined their weekly outing. It's a popular thing to do and I must have passed picnicers on various Parisian bridges a hundred times, thinking how wonderful it would be to have a group of friends with whom to picnic. And now I've done it. So they weren't actually friends - this is a minor detail. What matters is that I had a blissful afternoon and in the process, stumbled upon two very promising prospects for new girlfriends. One is a half British half French woman who is teaching law at a French university. She is restrained (her British side) and refined (her French side) and a downright good time (her wanna-be American side). Since she is the product of a cross-cultural couple I picked her brain about the pitfalls of such a union (thinking, as I am, of pursuing one myself). She gave me good perspective (turns out it's not really that big a deal to grow up with parents who speak different languages and to flip flop between countries every few years) and great advice (the American church in Paris offers all kinds of services for their displaced compatriots including free counseling for cross-cultural couples). We were all advised to bring food to share and she brought a canteloupe, which she cut into slices with a pocket knife and passed around the circle. She told me what it was like to go to British school in Paris and to French school in England. I was transfixed. When she got up to leave and handed me her card and asked me to call her I wanted hug her or cheer or do the wave. It was like being asked on a date by the boy you've had a secret crush on for months. I'm already thinking about what activity to propose when I call her next week.

After she left, I introduced myself the girl on my other side, an actual American (turns out the Europeans outnumber the Americans in this American group) who moved here in January from San Francisco! She and her husband decided they wanted to spend a few years abroad so found jobs, picked up, and moved. She works for a Silicon Valley software company, grew up on the east coast, has a fondness for dogs, and lives just blocks from me in the Marais. I wonder if we actually knew each other in another life. We talked about the difficulty of selling software to the French, the endless charm of the Marais, how the falafel at l'As du Falafel, where you have to queue for a good 30 minutes to purchase your 5 euro sandwich, really are as good as they say. She too gave me her card and asked me to call. Two suitors in one day. I guess I still have it.

I walked home along the seine, up to Hotel de Ville, past the animal market, left on rue Saint Paul, and made a quick pit stop at Monoprix to buy groceries for dinner. I was headed toward the food section when I heard my name. I know very few people in Paris and would have assumed this "Katie" was directed at someone else except that it's a very uncommon name in these parts and I was feeling so very at home in Paris it seemed to make sense that I'd bump into someone I know at my local grocery store. I turned and found Michel, the Italian who organizes the Paris Night Life group, grinning ear to ear. We did the kiss kiss and spent a few minutes catching up. He was picking up groceries to prepare dinner for a girl he's pursuing, an adorable little Catalonian I've met a few times. I bid him good luck then turned back toward to the grocery section with a skip in my step.

I cannot possibly go home in July. All signs point toward Paris. At least for the next little while . . .

Do I look French in this photo?

The strangest thing happened today. I was sitting at my desk reviewing an analyst report while mindlessly listening to my iTunes library when, for the first time since my arrival in France four months ago, I had a pang of homesickness. It hit me hard, out of nowhere, and my stomach dropped the way it does when you’re flying down the back side of a roller coaster. I lost my breath. My mind flashed to my bedroom in San Francisco and I was there, my feet on that densely-woven circular rug next to my bed, Pete standing by my side, the sounds and sights and smells of home all around me. It lasted a split second but when I turned and looked out the window and saw Paris, well, I wanted to cry.

A lot has changed in the last few weeks. The company has finally recognized that my initial six month assignment will soon be drawing to a close and they’re eager to make less expensive arrangements for my next six months. They’ve been dancing around this for a while but yesterday they laid it on the line – transfer permanently to the Paris office or come home. This had the predictable effect of sending me into a tailspin. I expected to have a year of this expat life, so pleasantly suspended above reality. I expected to have a year to travel around the continent, bring friends over, galavant. I expected to have a year to evaluate my relationship with Cyril and decide if this is something I wanted to pursue long-term. I no longer have the luxury of time so will have to make some pretty big decisions pretty quickly, definitely not a strong suit of mine.

It’s ironic, really. Just last week I was walking on air because I received my Carte de Sejour from La Republique francaise. Getting work authorization in this country, despite the help of the lawyer we hired to expedite the process, has meant months of useless exams and the frequent filing of paperwork in triplicate. I had given up hope of ever obtaining legal status. But last Thursday, with far too little fanfare, it was delivered in a plain white envelope wedged between an electricity bill and a bank statement. I expected the Carte de Sejour to be some sticker I'd affix to my passport. Imagine my surprise when I opened that envelope and found it to be a French ID card, valid for three years. It looks just like the ID cards of all the frenchies around me and when I held it in my hand in all of its laminated glory, well, I almost broke into the Marseillaise.

That ecstatic moment seems an eternity ago. I'm sitting in my apartment thinking of all the things I haven't yet done in Paris, all of the museums I've been meaning to check out, the cafes I've been meaning to experience, the streets I've been wanted to explore, and I'm downright sad. I'm not ready to leave but I'm not ready to commit. Unfortunately, those are the only two options available and if I don't choose one then one will be chosen for me.