It's formatted really nicely in Word, not so much here. ;)
I have a header and a footer on the document, my autobiography is called "My Life in Revue"...so clever, hahaha.
as I walked past the cafés. At one of the tables, a monochromatically-clad fille nursed a café au lait, while jabbering in rapid French to her androgynous copain. Ahead of me, an elderly lady walked hand-in-hand with a young girl, who sang unabashedly, her high-pitched voice filling the evening air.
"Les mains aux côtés, sautez, sautez marionnettes. Les mains aux côtés. Marionnettes recommencez." I smiled, recognizing the song. It felt like I had just been struggling to learn it yesterday, but it had been ten years already. Ten years, and I had seen so much.
Ten years ago, I first walked these streets. I was a junior at the University of Pennsylvania, and I had decided to spend the year abroad, satisfying my inherent wanderlust. Living in London to study theater had afforded me the chance to catch a train to almost any destination, and I had spent many a weekend wandering through the extraordinary greenness of County Galway, taking in the art and architecture of Luxembourg, and visiting my family in Bavaria. However, it was when I first stepped off the Eurostar in Paris that I knew I had found my sanctuary.
After spending the day in the Louvre, I had emerged to see twinkling lights blanketing the city. It was the Paris I'd dreamt of, the Paris of Baz Luhrmann films and romantic daydreams. The moon hung low in the sky, as ripe and full as an apple, and caught up in the beauty of the sight, I almost expected it to serenade me in a deep baritone.
That evening, I strolled along the bank of the Seine, explored Montmartre, and tested my French among the Parisians as I investigated the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. As I butchered verb conjugation and bon aprčs-midi-ed when I should have bonsoir-ed, I felt Paris claim a part of me as its own. On the train back to London, I dreamt of the adventures I would have when I returned to this strange, fantastic city. The lofty plans I made became reality as I spent almost every weekend thereafter in the city, staying overnight in youth hostels only to arise at the crack of dawn for another day of discovery. Soon, I could converse acceptably with the locals, and I knew when it was appropriate to faire la bise, and when se serrer la main was preferable.
Ten years later, I could almost pass for a life-long Parisian. I had moved to the city several months after I graduated from UPenn, and, clutching a Bachelor of Arts in Theatre and a stack of headshots, I made the rounds of Paris' theatres. I had performed 'The Bald Soprano' at the Théâtre de la Huchette in front of a grand audience of ten, the opera 'Roméo et Juliette' at the Théâtre Lyrique, and, most memorably, 'Les Misérables' at the Théâtre Mogador. I smiled, remembering my time as the ingénue Cosette. The role had certainly been beneficial for me; my name, albeit misspelled, had appeared in Parisvoice - surely the beginning of something great. Now, while I was certainly no Sarah Bernhardt, I made enough money to live in a diminutive flat on the Ile de la Cité, with questionable plumbing and a heater which only seemed to work in the summer. The city still filled me with the same magic it had on that first weekend, and I proudly displayed my UPenn diploma in my living room, eternally grateful for the opportunity my alma mater had given me. Happiness, I had discovered, was hidden largely within chance encounters. I may never have discovered my amour for Paris, had I not
I have a header and a footer on the document, my autobiography is called "My Life in Revue"...so clever, hahaha.
as I walked past the cafés. At one of the tables, a monochromatically-clad fille nursed a café au lait, while jabbering in rapid French to her androgynous copain. Ahead of me, an elderly lady walked hand-in-hand with a young girl, who sang unabashedly, her high-pitched voice filling the evening air.
"Les mains aux côtés, sautez, sautez marionnettes. Les mains aux côtés. Marionnettes recommencez." I smiled, recognizing the song. It felt like I had just been struggling to learn it yesterday, but it had been ten years already. Ten years, and I had seen so much.
Ten years ago, I first walked these streets. I was a junior at the University of Pennsylvania, and I had decided to spend the year abroad, satisfying my inherent wanderlust. Living in London to study theater had afforded me the chance to catch a train to almost any destination, and I had spent many a weekend wandering through the extraordinary greenness of County Galway, taking in the art and architecture of Luxembourg, and visiting my family in Bavaria. However, it was when I first stepped off the Eurostar in Paris that I knew I had found my sanctuary.
After spending the day in the Louvre, I had emerged to see twinkling lights blanketing the city. It was the Paris I'd dreamt of, the Paris of Baz Luhrmann films and romantic daydreams. The moon hung low in the sky, as ripe and full as an apple, and caught up in the beauty of the sight, I almost expected it to serenade me in a deep baritone.
That evening, I strolled along the bank of the Seine, explored Montmartre, and tested my French among the Parisians as I investigated the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. As I butchered verb conjugation and bon aprčs-midi-ed when I should have bonsoir-ed, I felt Paris claim a part of me as its own. On the train back to London, I dreamt of the adventures I would have when I returned to this strange, fantastic city. The lofty plans I made became reality as I spent almost every weekend thereafter in the city, staying overnight in youth hostels only to arise at the crack of dawn for another day of discovery. Soon, I could converse acceptably with the locals, and I knew when it was appropriate to faire la bise, and when se serrer la main was preferable.
Ten years later, I could almost pass for a life-long Parisian. I had moved to the city several months after I graduated from UPenn, and, clutching a Bachelor of Arts in Theatre and a stack of headshots, I made the rounds of Paris' theatres. I had performed 'The Bald Soprano' at the Théâtre de la Huchette in front of a grand audience of ten, the opera 'Roméo et Juliette' at the Théâtre Lyrique, and, most memorably, 'Les Misérables' at the Théâtre Mogador. I smiled, remembering my time as the ingénue Cosette. The role had certainly been beneficial for me; my name, albeit misspelled, had appeared in Parisvoice - surely the beginning of something great. Now, while I was certainly no Sarah Bernhardt, I made enough money to live in a diminutive flat on the Ile de la Cité, with questionable plumbing and a heater which only seemed to work in the summer. The city still filled me with the same magic it had on that first weekend, and I proudly displayed my UPenn diploma in my living room, eternally grateful for the opportunity my alma mater had given me. Happiness, I had discovered, was hidden largely within chance encounters. I may never have discovered my amour for Paris, had I not