The Fairytale

HiP Paris asked me to write a post in honor of Valentine’s Day. How fitting! Considering that it was LOVE that brought me to the ‘City of Love’. Much like a dream (or fairytale) come true.

The Fairytale

The dream of every girl, particularly on Valentine’s Day, is to be swept away by a Prince Charming, into a setting of eternal sunsets and romantic interludes. Does such a fairytale really exist? No, not exactly. But for everyone there does exist a unique love story. It’s simply a matter of time. And meeting the right Prince.

Needless to say, I never stopped believing in fairytales.

I met my ‘Prince’ one late March afternoon in New York City, very fittingly on the corner of Prince Street. It was a chance encounter, provoked by the puppets of destiny. Me, a hopeful romantic who had just returned from a year long journey around the world. He, a passionate Italian living in Paris. The ‘city that never sleeps’ our stage. Now this was the setting for a fairytale.

Five months later I moved to Paris.  To live my story.

It is now eighteen months of a life founded on love, in a city that sets the precedent for romance. Has it always been easy? Not at all. But is has always been a great adventure. Within this time we have experienced many an amorous interlude, in settings including Italy, Corsica and Greece, but it is the place we call home, Paris, that proves the most enchanting. I might add that the summer sunsets do seem to last an eternity. To continue what can certainly be called a fairytale, we are soon getting married. A happy ending that is merely the beginning.

I often reflect upon my life and how thankful I am. To have met him. And to never have stopped to dream.

Many more inspiring stories on life and love in Paris on the HiP Paris Blog.

warm sentiments

I’ve returned from the eternal sunshine known as Florida. At least in body. My mind is still filled with palm trees and the cries of seagulls. It was beneath such a landscape that we spent a warm and memorable Christmas in the company of my mom. Many days of calm, conversation and characters. It was ideal, this welcome jaunt into what felt like another space and time.

Rather than fly to NYC and brave a pending snow storm (hadn’t we had enough of that already in Paris?), we ventured to Miami. What better place to celebrate the New Year than South Beach?

I’ve never been a big fan of New Year’s Eve, as reality always seem to take an opposite turn from my expectations. A lesson in letting go perhaps. It’s the beginning of the next year that I welcome. Rather than make an ambitious list of resolutions as has often been my habit, (and usually recycling them the next year), I decided instead to be clear and mindful of my goals. Most of all, to be aware of what is most important in life. Family. Friends. Health. Love. To name a few. Day 7, so far so good.

And now, being back in the cold and grey of Paris, those days in Florida feel like a distant blur… 

a love story

The most beautiful love story of my life, other than my own, began many years ago in the early 70’s. It was a meeting of two disparate souls, their paths forever altered by a chance encounter. (Sounds familiar?) My Mom and Dad met in London on the night before my father was to return to America. Little did he know that a woman who introduced herself as Cleopatra, would leave such an impact. What happened in those moments will forever remain a romantic mystery, as it should.

Seven days later the young Polish beauty received a letter from the handsome American gentleman. He was returning to London to see her again. And to propose. They were married three months later, and thus began their life together. Almost to this very day, so many years ago.

It was here in Paris that they spent their honeymoon, my father being a devout Francophile. Three weeks of romance on the left bank. Hotel des 2 Continents on 25 Rue Jacob, to be exact. How fitting! On my many carousings in Saint Germain, I often walk on Rue Jacob and imagine the time my parents spent there, the many places they went, the bistros they dined in, the conversations they had, the first chapter of a the life between a writer and his muse…me, a romantic?

It also happens to be the location of one of my favorite sweets shops in Paris, Laduree. Even more reason to dream, with macaron in hand, as I live my very own love story. Inspired by two romantics.

reason to celebrate

Is there ever not a reason to celebrate? These days, learning to conjugate an irregular verb is reason enough. Life is so much about the small victories, and those occur daily. If we pay attention to them.

At present we have even more reason to celebrate than my pending fluency in French. My Italian has officially become French. In regards to his working status that is. (Once an Italian always an Italian!)

My arrival to Paris contained only one certainty. The who (I had chosen to share my life with), not the what (I would do) and where (we would live). Though we both had hoped Paris would become our home. Over time (I won’t get into just how long this process took), my Italian pursued this option, since I was (mostly) happy in Paris and he loved the city from day one. If all went accordingly, we would not be packing our bags to move to Milan for January 1st. Love in the City of Fashion?

And here we are. 18 months into our love story, and 6 months away from our wedding, finally calling Paris our home. Though we do have moments in which we desire to run off to Vietnam for a 2 year stint, or perhaps a Greek island in the Cyclades. Even Rome sounds like an adventure. Oh, the possibilities! And yes, there are many. But for the unforeseeable future, this will remain our vista.

As we do every evening in French tradition, raise a glass and celebrate! What are you celebrating?

The Dream Life

Moving abroad and creating a home in a foreign land (or even a new city for that matter) is by all accounts an overwhelming experience. Finding a place for yourself, new friends, a job which often means a new career, all leading to what is called a life. In so doing, there is often much time to reflect. To think about what it is exactly that you want to do in this new life, what you want to create for yourself, and what is even possible. Not to mention, what will bring you fulfillment. Within the space of an odd and curious new world, you are forced to examine yourself more closely. 

In so doing, I find it enabling and empowering that we can recreate ourselves as who we believe we are, rather than who we have been labeled to be in our past lives. The possibilities are endless!

I won’t get into my personal history, how little I cared for cliques in high school, and never opted to be part of a fraternity in college, always seeking my own path, accepting not to fit in, whatever that means in American standards, white picket fence and all. And how happy I am for doing so.

I can very well say that I have pursued and continue to pursue my dreams. Certainly not without difficulty. A little language barrier can’t stop you, can it? Nor can all those voices of reason. Hence my decision to travel the world and move to Paris.

In the past, most often led by the adult, I achieved both success and fulfillment working in advertising (one of my long-time professional dreams) and will continue to do so, though Paris is a long way from Madison Avenue.

Sometimes in the pursuit of dreams, it’s important to ignore the adult and pay attention to the child. Who were you before you were told who you should be?

I discovered my child a few years ago, very fittingly, in the home of my youth, while hand-printing canvas and constructing a bag from it, creating what I call wearable art. The dietz bag was born and thus began my life as a designer, combining my love for art, design and fashion, led by inspiration from my mom. More on that later. (Incidentally, my other dream of writing comes from my dad.)

Along this journey I have met many fellow expats and non-expats living what they consider their dreams, having chosen to follow their hearts and/or instincts. In the next several months I will share their stories and hope to learn of others. Many of these people I am pleased to consider my friends.

This leads to my query. Are you pursuing your dreams? If so, do tell! If not, what are they? Take a moment to think. And if need be, pack up and start again. Figuratively if not literally.

the journey of letting go

Bindu Wiles asked me to be a contributing writer as part of The Shed Project, an effort in cleansing your life and living minimally, to say the least. Having packed one bag to travel the world for over one year, and later moving from NYC to Paris, I have learned to let go and the journey that comes with it. (Thank you Bindu! And good luck to fellow Shedventurers.)

The Journey of Letting Go

I always found great comfort in my stuff, even as a child. Things that remind me of a person or a place. Things that, to me, hold emotional value. Notes, ticket stubs, a drawing on a napkin, a love letter scribbled in haste, a valentine’s day card from my father. I think of these as sacred pieces of a puzzle that compose my life.

As I got older I became more selective with my mementos. Living in close quarters in NYC played a major role. As did the accumulation of stuff. Closets filled with fabrics for clothes I never had the time to make and store bought clothes I never had the occasion to wear. Shelves filled with books I had not yet read but surely would one day. And all the hidden spaces containing mementos I had collected throughout the years.

I often thought if I had to evacute my apartment in an emergency what would I take? Surely my 7 photo albums and 11 hand-written journals. And that huge box of memories I’d been saving since the 8th grade. These were all pieces of my past. But how was I supposed to grow and become by holding on to them? And weren’t they all part of me anyway, even without their physical presence? Thankfully, I never had to flee my apartment.

As the years went by, I began to feel more encumbered by my stuff. Yet I could not let go of it. I had very skillfully attached sentimental value to each and every item. I remembered the moment I bought it, or who had given it to me and for what occasion.

I felt weighed down by my possessions and dreamt of feeling light and unencumbered. This was one of my motivations for throwing away a quarter of my belongings, packing a bag and hitting the open road. One year of travel taught me just how little you really need. And how empowering is the detachment from stuff. I was reminded again and again how much more important people and places are, and space in which to create new memories.

Post travels I returned to NYC and was reunited with my stuff. The two thirds that remained. Was I happy to see it all again? Not really. I hadn’t missed it and not once did I feel like traveling back into my history to dig out a past memory. I had created too many new ones.

The greatest lesson in letting go of stuff came when I fell in love. I was moving to Paris to begin a new life. Again, it was time to pack, not simply for one year but quite possibly, forever. I was forced to open each box of memories I had been saving, even those momentos from my travels, to revisit my life and for the most part, let it go. 

I sorted through the bulk of my possessions, mostly clothes and books, with a trusted friend. Someone emotionally detached from my past. Two-thirds of my wardrobe ended up in a mountainous heap on the floor, ready for the taking. I could not bare to throw these once relevant pieces of my life away. Instead, I gave them to friends, neighbors and those in need, free to create memories of their own.

In terms of my most personal stuff, many long nights were spent living in the past, confronting chapters of my life I had not thought about in years. Filled with nostalgia, I reflecting on the life I had created and all the momentos that were left as a result. I very carefully selected keepsakes and placed them in a box titled ‘my past’. Well aware that irrelevant of what I discarded or stored, these memories will always remain a part of my life. This process of letting go of so many chapters of my personal history resulted in a feeling of freedom I had only briefly encountered during my travels.

A few of my most revered remembrances, the scrap book composed from my travels, my most recent journal, an envelope of childhood photos, I put aside. They would join me in Paris.

I left NYC with two suitcases, and never looked back.

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