Each day prior to my departure is deeply savored, filled with faces and sights that have for so many years composed my life. NYC provided the grounds for me to become. It is the ideal city in which to discover yourself, if you can in fact find enough discipline and awareness not to become someone else. It is difficult to imagine that the streets and the scenes are soon going to change, the Empire State Building which I had woken up to for so long will soon turn into the Eiffel Tower.
Love is by no means rational. Nor should it be. Hence my decision to move to Paris. I didn’t think much whether it made sense, given that I didn’t speak French nor did I have any career prospects or know more than 3 people. But what I did have was much greater an achievement than learning a foreign language, much more stimulating than a strange and exciting new culture and indeed more fulfilling than endless girls nights of carousing. I had found my great love, and lucky me, his home was Paris. Had I followed my heart given that his home were in a more remote part of the world, say Knin in Croatia? (He would then be a 6 foot 6 basketball player no doubt). Perhaps then I would have convinced him to move to NYC to play for the NBA, who knows. But that is not my story, nor is it meant to be. My dream has always been Paris. And yes, for the sake of sounding terribly corny, if you believe in your dreams they do come true.
Life never felt the same. I had been so accustomed to being alone with my thoughts, the greatest constant being the eternal inconstancy of my creative mind. I now had someone with whom to share these many musings, in the form of long fluid emails, frequent poetic texts and unexpected melodic phone calls. I took my time, as is easy to do being continents apart. One of my most revered forms of communication is the written word (these days the long form is e-mail, the short being a text). There is much to learn in the formality of one’s writing, in the words used and the mood they create. I had to give him a break, English not being his native tongue. I was deeply moved by his literary competence, not to mention the emotional intelligence of his writing. Every day I looked forward to his words, and expressed more of my own. Thus, the anticipation grew.
He returned in six weeks for ten days. On day three, we fell in love. There is much to say and many words to describe the events that led to falling in love, but this I will keep for myself, as each of us should have the pleasure to discover this feeling in our own unique story. Very simply, you know. And forever you savour this sensation.
Like most seasoned women in NYC, having lived many stories strewn with incidental tales of love, I still needed to be convinced. This was undeniably a request by my latent realist who had apparently awoken. Our time had ended. The memories of him lingered sweetly on my mind, from the last farewell merely days and blocks away from our first hello. He had promised to return, soon, to continue our story. My confident and curious eyes found in him the same sincerity I had initially welcomed.
I was often told to act passively and allow the man to prove himself. Needless to say I am not one to follow the rules, but I did distance myself, as far away as an ocean, all the while the ‘hopeful optimist’. Is there any other way to be?
From the first drink that night in March we spoke with a unique fluidity about traveling experiences and the beautiful mysteries of life. Simply, it felt easy. I felt well and warm with this Italian man. He was at once engaging, funny, kind and adoring. But the characteristic that appealed most to me was that he was genuine. This I knew from his eyes.
Two days later we met for dinner. We were both filled with an eager anticipation and a feeling of knowing. It is often not about what is said but what is felt.
For each of us there exist many loves, but only one ‘true love’. Or so my experience has taught me.
As soon as I met him I knew. There was something in his smile, or was it his welcoming eyes. Perhaps it was the warmth that emanated from his entire being. I felt immediately at peace in his presence.
The meeting of our souls took place on the corner of Prince and Crosby streets in New York City. I was enroute to yoga, or perhaps I was subconsciously seeking another form of internal peace. Little did I know what had in the chance moment captured my gaze, soon to be my heart. It was in that moment that I met with my great love. The one for whom you search your entire life (those of us who in fact believe there exists an ideal love). I did just so, living in NYC for 12 years and traveling the world for 13 months…but our paths were not yet meant to cross, until that fortuitous day in mid-March.
As the story goes, our eyes spoke followed by a short exchange of smiles mingled with words. I quickly learned that he was Italian, in search of shoes (and a woman to walk in them with?), and he lived in Paris. His days in NYC were limited as he was soon returning home. We arranged a rendezvous as time was of the essence.
One would think to run into a handsome Italian man living in Paris would lead to a beautiful love story. (Those non-romantic, jaded skeptics would sense danger and run in the opposite direction). Well in fact, it does. Falling in love however, takes time. In this romantic tale, 6 weeks to be exact.
