the journey of success

These days I think a lot about my life, what I have done, how I have done it, and what I have yet to do. The word success comes to mind as my ego struggles to come to terms with a life in which I am currently undefined by work or social status. Does ‘open-minded ex-pat from NYC’ count? 

Success is defined as: the achievement of something desired, planned, or attempted. By definition I consider myself successful, having desired a career in advertising, planned a trip around the world, and attempted love. All of which I have achieved. The latter of which I consider the most important and most difficult to succeed in. (Perhaps why such an emphasis is placed on career, it’s much more manageable than matters of the heart.)

Why then am I struggling with the destination, the who and what I will be in the context of this new life, when it’s in fact the journey that causes us to become, and eventually to succeed. As I have become before and will become again. Can I not revel in the role of a girl in love staring at the sky? It just happens to be a sky I am not accustomed to, above a world lacking definitions. Perhaps I have become programmed after so many years of over-stimulation and professional endeavors in a society where success has no limits and is often measured monetarily. It was much more about the doing than the being. I tended not to agree with this mentality but I was indeed a part of it.

Along the way, did I lose sight of the simple pleasures in self-discovery? In the fulfillment of personal achievements that are exclusive of the ego? Of what, and more importantly who, is truly significant in life? Now, as it’s presented to me every morning in the form of a smiling face and anticipatory eyes, I understand that this, by all accounts, is the truest measure of success. Achievement in it’s most pure, simple and gratifying form, love. The journey has only just begun.

…you can’t take the city out of the girl

I have finally returned from the grand adventure that I call New York City. Even more grand since living in Paris, as I look into this world that once belonged to me and recall the beautiful chaos that equally challenges and captivates the soul. Now, after countless hours spent with family and friends, reveling in the role of a tourist yet feeling very much like a local, I can take a moment to reflect.

Upon landing at JFK I felt an unexpected surge of patriotism (as this is rather uncommon for me) and felt somewhat high as we drove past the ever enchanting skyline towards my humble abode in the Lower East Side. The air was filled with nostalgia. To share this once chosen path there with the man who so drastically altered it. My smile was even greater. I felt completely at home. 

Our first few days were spent walking, observing and eating. Simple pleasures I never took for granted. All of downtown NYC became our playground, as the welcoming sun followed our impromptu path. 

With merely a taste of the city’s splendors we bid NYC a momentary farewell and flew to Florida to spend Easter with family, namely my mom. Into a world of picture perfect communities, Sunday afternoon polo games and late evening tennis matches. (This chapter surely merits it’s own post, aptly titled ‘Under the Palms’, to be continued…)

Once again in NYC we took to exploring the city, taking the time to inhale the grandness of our surroundings. We walked along the old railroad tracks now a a trendy vantage point called the Highline, admiring the impressive architecture and the views of the streets below.

An afternoon was spent in Central Park, a haven for anyone living in the midst of this urban jungle.

Aside from random encounters with old friends who reminded me of the many years (and seemingly many lives) I lived in NYC, I was feeling much like a tourist. So why not walk the Brooklyn Bridge? Followed by a sunset stroll on the promenade in Brooklyn Heights and a dinner in Williamsburg.

It felt rather surreal. Being back in the scene that had set the stage for my life. What I missed the most, aside from the unique energy, is the diversity in it’s many forms. The people give the city it’s soul. As quoted in the film New York, I Love You, ‘everyone comes from somewhere else’, thus NYC is composed of a unique mélange of cultures. Regardless of where you come from, you belong. Diversity too, is ever present in the city’s architectural landscape. I was completely taken with LA-based designer Thom Mayne as I caught sight of his newly built Copper Union in the East Village.

My ‘quartier’ of the Lower East Side, is one of the oldest and mostly recently gentrified neighborhoods of NYC. The streets speak of history and taste of a variety of international cuisines. Filled with so much character, not to mention characters, it creates a world of it’s own, as do so many of New York City’s neighborhoods.

I was sad to leave when the time came, having not properly caught up with dear friends and simply not having the time to reflect. As is said in life, be careful what you ask for! Little did I know a volcano was brewing in far away Iceland and I would in fact be spending much more time with friends and the inner workings of my mind than I had anticipated. All alone, as my accomplice had already flown back, but far from lonely. Perhaps this was the time I needed to confirm that my life was elsewhere. As much as NYC will always be my home, my heart is in Paris.

return to NYC

Today I am returning to visit the place I have called home for so many years. The place where I learned the many lessons that life needed to teach me. The place where I became much of who I am. New York City. A city possessing great energy, movement and life. How will it feel to land on American soil, the soil of freedom and expression and possibility? After 7 months of being planted in Paris. I am looking forward to the feeling, whatever it may be. Elation, nostalgia, perhaps even displacement. Culture shock? Most of all I am looking forward to the cherished faces I call my friends. And the food! Somehow I don’t think I will be dining at the many French bistros I used to frequent. And I may spend my entire days looking up, not at the sky but at the grandness of it all. All the while smiling with the eyes of a tourist and the soul of a local.

the life of a village

I recently spent a week in Monterosso, home to my Italian. My first taste of this Ligurian village, hidden on the Mediterranean coast, was during my year of travel. I’m not exactly certain who or what propelled me to visit this cluster of villages, known to much of the world as ‘Cinque Terre’, known to me as paradise. I fell in love immediately, particularly with Monterosso and it’s landscape. It’s difficult not to, as anyone who has been to this part of the world knows well. I remember during those days imagining the life of a local, living in a population of no more than 1,700, recognizing each face that passes by in the streets, the only foreign faces being those of seasonal tourists. How would it feel living so isolated from the world, in constant familiarity, a lack of privacy in social affairs, the life of a village. At once fascinating and impossible to imagine coming from a place like NYC.

During this week spent eating, meeting, and always observing, the village appeared to wake up from its winter slumber. I began to look from the inside rather than as an outsider or tourist. It was my third visit and this one felt much more like being at home. All thanks to my Italian and his family. I began to understand the people and the way of life, to feel the intimacy that they shared, if not understand what they said. Each region of Italy contains its own dialect, and one day when I speak Italian (after mastering French of course) I will still not understand the Ligurian locals. But I will continue to say ‘Ciao’ in passing and smile as though I have lived here all my life.

There is much to explore in this region, a true haven to hikers and nature lovers. As I did during my first visit, but now with much greater an appreciation and insight, we took the local train to Riomaggiore, the eastern most village.

From there we hiked to Manarola, considered the most scenic of the five villages. Breath-taking!

Back ‘home’ to Monterosso, saving Corniglia and Vernazza for a Summer tour via boat. It was time to climb the terraces, known as ‘poggi’ and pick lemons and oranges in the family orchard….

 Do as the locals do. Well, almost.

one year later

It is almost one year since I met him. ‘Him’ being the reason I am living in Paris. So much of life is about timing. The rest is up to us. In the words of my mother, indeed the wisest woman I know, ‘everyone is given a moment in life that can alter its course forever, and it’s what you do in that moment that makes all the difference.’ Either the head or the heart must dictate. I chose the heart.

This is my story in short, to inspire those searching for love amidst the chaos and distraction of a city like NYC, or anywhere in the world for that matter. I met with love on the street, on a late evening in early Spring, in NYC’s Soho neighborhood. In one fortuitous moment two smiles were exchanged. Followed by a drink, followed by dinner (which will remain one of the most defining moments of my life), followed by simple knowing. Perhaps it all began with knowing.

Reflecting on my life, have I ever been one to follow the assigned path? To do what is expected of me? Yes, in regards to my academic and professional life. I climbed the proverbial ladder, so to speak, living 12 years of a highly responsible, moderately corporate, decreasingly satisfying life in NYC. Until I disembarked at a rather advantageous height and abandoned the ladder altogether (here begins my story of traveling the world, an experience that undoubtedly contributed to the status of my current life, to be delved into in later musings…) Back to the path, the vast vista that lies ahead in which all the secrets of our lives are revealed. When it came to love, I simply NEVER followed a path. Born a hopeless romantic who at around the age of 15 decided it wiser to live a life as ‘hopeful’, my heart ALWAYS dictates. For this, I thank my parents.

Every day amidst these foreign tastes and yet undecipherable sounds, I feel fortunate. Whenever appropriate I share my story with like-hearted women, those who for years have reputed love to be something only to read about in romance novels or to watch upon the big screen. (One too many heartbreaks can dissuade even the most diehard of romantics.) In our current state of ‘Generation X’ affairs, the mind often takes precedence over the heart. A career sets the path while love only provides temporary rest stops. I agree that we must follow our own path towards fulfillment, and whatever we consider to be success, but at what cost? Is not love the foundation upon which fulfillment and success is built? Beginning with the love of self.

I believe that you get what you ask for in life, what you truly desire. Often this is not so evident as it’s hidden deeply in our subconscious. But in a moment, or sometimes an entire lifetime of reflection, the answer becomes clear. Sometimes it’s as simple as smiling at a stranger.

living a language

I have decided to take a break from studying French the traditional way (also known as taking classes), given that I can almost speak naturally in the present tense, delving occasionally into the past and future, excluding certain irregular verbs. I am doing my best to find ways to immerse myself in the culture and learn through speaking, observing, doing…in other words, learn by the act of ‘living’. So far it’s been quite a sensory adventure!

Listen. It’s interesting how much we actually do understand when we need to. I recently had my coffee read by a Turkish woman, an apparent expert in such matters. When someone is speaking to you about your life and relative ‘pursuits of happiness’ you listen! And somehow, I understood. I did have a friend with me to translate, in case I completely misunderstood my fate. It was surely an experience. Do I believe what she told me, (or what I think she told me)? That remains to be decided. What I do know is that surely this is the path that is assigned to me. But I did not need a ‘fortune teller’ to confirm that.

Watch. Since I don’t have a TV at home, and that seems to be a great way to learn French, I decided to try the French Cinema. (In my opinion one of the best in the world). My first film in French was Coco Avant Chanel. Thankfully Audrey Tautou is expressive enough to be understood without words! I was deeply moved by the scenes, by what I imagined was taking place, and as soon as the film was finished I read the history to better understand the story of this impressive woman. Was this experience a success? More or less, or less than more, but it was surely an attempt! Ironic that once upon a time I would only watch foreign (mostly French) films and now I am limited to Hollywood blockbusters, another motivation to learn French!

Read. I grew up reading the The New York Times and look forward to the day when I can read the French equivalent. Does it even exist? Meanwhile, whenever I pass a 20 Minutes journal, found in most metro stations, I pick it up, and attempt to read it. This seems to be the best way to learn a language, by understanding the literary construction. If it’s an interesting enough article, preferably about art, travel or the state of affairs in America, I will do my best to decipher this linguistic puzzle. This too is a great way to understand the people and culture, as the written word is taken quite seriously in France. Next on my reading list is Les Enfants Terribles by Jean Cocteau, my first (adult) French book….

Look. I spend a lot of time walking around the city, exploring, reading the signs on streets, in store windows… Everywhere I look I am learning, searching for words in my dictionary. To understand, for example, why the trendy Cambodian restaurant is closed on a Saturday night. ‘Partir voir la neige’ read the sign. Ah yes, the owners have ‘gone to see the snow’. (Only in France!)

Taste. This is surely a great way to learn a language, considering Paris is a gastronomic capital of the world. Taste the menu, to be certain of what you are eating, fearlessly of course. Coupled with a good glass or two of wine the conversation is sure to flow more smoothly!

Speak. As often as possible I express myself in French, rather creatively I might add, to whomever will listen. Simply leaving the house provides many opportunities in which to practice. My conversations with the woman at the local boulangerie are rather limited, as with the friendly man at the vegetable stand (though I am learning a lot about herbs!). I suspect it’s my hairdresser who notices my progress most of all. We almost speak as though we were friends, versus when I first arrived to Paris I would simply point and smile. Most of all I speak at home, with the most patient of teachers who has himself experienced what it feels like to live in a world of misunderstandings.

What great sensory experiences am I missing…

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