All Too Well (First Love version)
I remember a bus stop.
I can picture it- seven years later.
It was cold, so it must have been fall.
I remember your little bounce- you were cold. Already wearing a hoodie, so I couldnt offer mine.
I remember the glint of your teeth off the stop lights. Driving felt so far away then, waiting for the bus.
I remember your laugh on the wind- sharp, deep and cutting. I felt my own lips turn. I remember it was a tie between a grin and a frown-
because I could not openly love you then. And I was too sick to know how, anyway.
But nobody knew- not how I kept you sacredly to my chest. Not my quiet murmuring of worship. They didn't know the same altar I prayed at for your love that they prayed for your salvation. Or mine. Who knows?
Seven years. So many hours lost to thinking of you. So many poems. An entire book.
So, I know. I don't know you now, just as you don't me as must as you like to think you do from what I heard of you saying about me.
Despite it, I love you. Or maybe I love late, cold nights at a bus stop,
and awkward fumbling and hidden, anxious kisses.
I smile and swallow bitterly until im worried my face will stick like that.
And then I know it isn't true.
If soulmates exist, it is you. Because I cannot be rid of you though I try.
I don't remember your smell, or your touch, but I remember you.
I remember it all.
cutting the cord
i was born with my umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. blue and silent. (always). when doctors ask my mom when my anxiety began, she says it was in that moment. she swears my instinct is claustrophobia. i knew what dying felt like before i had the chance to cry. before i had a name or footprints on a page. i was born late and huge, an extra ten days and almost 9 pounds. i'm tall, much taller than my mom, almost eye-level with my dad, i'm out growing them. and yet, i'm still attached. i cried yesterday, started to panic because my mom left. i couldn't go with her to new orleans, i have to stay 'home'. i told her, 'it's funny how often you leave, considering you're the one who forced me to move down here, and now i'm the one who has to stay.' she said, 'you can leave, you don't have to stay.' but i need her. she's suffocating me here, but i need her.
The Interviewer briefly explained the rules
The Interviewer briefly explained the rules
July 26, 2024
This was a game of musical chairs. The stakes were the position and all associated amenities. Losers were to exit gracefully back to the bullpen. The winner was to build their management team from any to all of the runner-ups.
All decisions were final. Check all feelings at the door.
The music began.
It was Beethoven.
It was Für Elise.
Then the music stopped.
Off went the Ivy Leaguer.
Then the two Barbie Dolls.
The woman in the tight hound’s tooth skirt fell prey when she couldn’t bend fast enough to even sit down.
The elderly gentleman gave it his best before he succumbed.
The large man with a farming pedigree decided not to use his muscle. He would not push another aside simply because he had the ability to do so. We watched him gather his belongings, wish us well, and exit the contest.
I gave him a small applause before deciding to follow him.
When I caught up with him in the long hallway, I introduced myself as Anne. I was being forward and invited him to a coffee house around the corner. After telling me his name, Jonathan, he told me he would be happy to spend some time together.
Over the next hour, we turned off our cell phones, told each other our story, and explained why we did what we did.
Jonathan became more fascinating with each passing minute. His was a life I wanted; simple, yet ambitious. I told him so. He asked me why it was not so. I blushed, took another sip, and said, maybe I was scared to take the leap, maybe, I never would.
Then Jonathan made me a proposition. He revealed that the game of musical chairs was indeed a game. The real interview was right here, right now. He was a majority partner in the firm and was responsible for hiring.
“Anne, would you like to begin the first day of the rest of your life today?”
Games are for gamers. I dispensed with the former an hour ago.
I took the leap.
Psych Eval
When I was twelve my aunt taught me how murdering was different than wanting to murder someone.
She said that if wanted to kill the president that was ok, as long as you didn't do it. I don't think there is anyone I've truly opened up to. I don't know why she said that. But I look back at it now and by god I hope its true.
"Have you ever lied to a psychiatrist?"
"No."
"Have you ever lied to anyone?"
"A few times but only small things. Like, whether the milk had gone old," I shifted in my seat and smiled, "or whether I had eaten cookies on my bed." The psychiatrist sitting across from me smiled. "That's good. It makes sense. We all lie about those things. I'm asking you whether you lied to your mom or other important people in your family about... " at this he paused and bit his lip, as of not sure what he should say. "hurting them?" I finished. He head dipped to the side and he made an expression that seemed to express remorse and resolve at the same time. He had wanted to say did you ever lie about wanting to kill them, but thought it might be inappropriate because I was in a emergency psych eval for suicidal tendencies and other things…
"I'm going to go talk to your mom for a few minutes and I might speak with your dad. I was hoping he might get here soon, maybe clear things up." I nodded and smiled. When he left I curled up in a corner. I stared at the window; the only thing that wasn't black or white. I think when I'm bored, so I started thinking. This room's colors had been chosen to calm the inmates. It was green (the chair) but it was a grass green that wasn't too bright so it wouldn't be distracting.
I rehearsed what I would say in my head, not really worried about it though because I knew I could get away with anything. I replayed the scene in my head. My little sister was in the car. My mom was blaming me for hurting her. She parked in a parking lot. She was angry. I was angry. She stepped out of the car, supposedly to calm down. I saw her call my dad. His name and number showed up on the car Bluetooth. I heard every minute of what they said. My mom was concerned that I was going to hurt her. She said I was hurting Elly emotionally by having 'this conversation,' in the car in front of her. I buried my head in my hands. I knew I was hurting her, but it was worth it. I had to protect myself and I had to protect her. My mom was dangerous and I knew it. My dad mumbled about not doing anything extreme and then she started talking about taking me to a mental hospital. “Is she taking her medications?” my dad asked. “Yes,” my mom responded, “but they're not working.” Now she turned it off speaker, realizing what was going on. “I'm taking her to (a mental hospital).” she said, closing the door from which she had just unplugged the speaker from the car. A few moments later I saw her hang up. She took some time to calm down, take a few breaths. During that time my little sister asked me a question: why do you hate our mom?
"I don't hate our mom. I just have some angry feelings towards her."
"then why don't you love her anymore?"
"I do love her." I said. If I had been a more emotional person I would almost cried. Instead, I concocted a response that would help my sister understand as much as she could. "I said I hate mom. I didn't say I didn't love her. You can feel both those things at the same time." I smiled, hoping she understood I wasn't trying to be the bad guy.
That memory brought up emotions in me I couldn't comprehend, things I knew all too well: hate, fear, envy, hope, love, desperation. That last one was the worst. It made me do terrible things I didn't regret.
The man I had been talking to earlier came back in the room. "How are you doing?"
"Good," I said, nodding and showing just enough emotion for him to think I was scared. "Just been sitting here."
"Kind of boring in here, isn't it?" he smiled and half shrugged, apologizing for the inconvenience. I knew why it had to happen. I had been suicidal before. I knew anything could tip you over the edge.
"let's discuss why you're here."
"Yeah..." I said, squirming a little bit. A flash came back to me of me practicing my emotions in the mirror, learning to smile and hide my tears. I had gone outside a second later. My mom didn't notice anything was wrong. A week later I wanted to throw myself out a window. Back to the present. He was staring at me as if it was not possible to understand how I could be here if I had such a perfectly normal mom and dad. White parents, rich house, everything seemed right What was going on? Counter: I wasn't always rich. I remember arguments about what to buy us at Christmas, asking if they could afford gifts at all. I remember my dad being so tired after two days at work, no breaks. I remember him getting angry because I wan't scared enough when he yelled. He was frustrated I had left stuff on the floor. Even at seven I knew he wasn't wrong, he was just tired. I played the little girl, waited for him to stop crying. Told him I was sorry and said I just wanted him to come home, I just wanted a hug. It was all true, but it didn't match the expectation for disappointment or the plan I had when I sat myself on the couch in full view of the door. Get out of your head! I told myself, you have a job to do. Lock in. Luckily the emotion in my eyes played into the part well. Girls weren't supposed to be strong. I knew what he was already expecting. Everyone is human, even psychiatrists. I smiled to myself, knowing I could out play him, and started speaking. "My mom is wanting me to stay at her house and I want to go to my dads. I was upset because she wouldn't let me go away." I buried my head and tucked my legs against my chest. A sob (deep breath) caught in my chest. He nodded. Go on, he seemed to say. "We were in the car. So was my sister." I squeezed my eyes shut, rocking back and forth in the single, small chair I was given. "And ," (gasp/hiccup) "I was asking my mom... to let me go home. I hate being at her house. She's not a real mom. She's... she's... she's..." I buried my head deeper and started trembling for lack of a better word. He just nodded and stared at me. "What happened after that?" he asked.
"She said she would take me to a mental hospital if I didn’t stop"
"Stop what?"
"Stop..." I took a deep breath and made myself presentable again: back strait, arms by my side, voice in normal range. I took a deep breath. And then another one. I looked outside. "She wanted me to stop yelling in front of Elly."
"Why?"
"Because she didn't want me to hurt her!" I carefully let my face dissolve and show every emotion I felt. "I want to tell mom how much she's hurting me, but every time I try to Elly’s in the room and I can't! Or she finds some other excuse, like..." I waved my arms around as if searching for something. "My brother." I flopped down. He looked at me, concerned I had said I was being hurt by my mom. "It's nothing serious!" I reassured, "Just emotional stuff." Here my voice got weak, as if I didn't think I should be upset. "I just needed to change something. I can't keep just let her hurt me without say something about it." I ducked my head in shame, "even if it does hurt Elly." I stared outside the window again. He was trying to let me rant, I knew it. Get it out if your system. I heard someone say in my mind. I wasn't letting him fix me. This was a delicate game; be upset enough not to have to go back to mom's house but be sane enough not to be locked up. The man across from me shifted, fidgeting almost as much as me. I knew what this meant. He was a nerd and his text book of psych advice wasn't helping him now. It was just bare bones human emotion, my territory. I just stared at him for a while. (people get uncomfortable when you stare. I learned that one not too long ago) He asked me a few more questions. I said my mom was bad and I was just a girl trying her best in a world not meant for children's idea. He went back to my mom and dad's room. I heard mumbling through the door. I didn't want to listen. I knew they'd be arguing and worst of all: I didn't want him to think my mom was sane.
I was let out of the room after about thirty minutes. I didn't have a clock. They had taken all my devices away. Me and my dad went home. We stopped by my mom's car on the way out. My dad saw the pile of trash sitting in the passenger seat. "What happened?"
"It didn't hit her. I wanted to go to your house and said if she didn't let me I would keep putting things in the passenger seat. From a few seats back. On the highway."
"Did you tell the psychiatrist about this?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I didn't want him to know I was hurting my mom."
"Elisabeth, you didn't hit her with anything." he said, staring at the sky in bewilderment.
"Yeah, but we were on the highway and Elly was in the car."
"How does being on the highway make it dangerous?"
"I could have distracted her and made her crash. That's why I didn't hit her with anything. I think my aim is pretty good. I'm surprised I hit every shot." I surveyed the pile, noticing its height. My dad looked disgusted. "What is it?" I asked. He waved at the seat and slapped his hand to his forehead. I knew what he wanted to say. A trash pile that reached two and a half feet high. I remember my cousins making fun of me for how messy our car was: food on the floor, three week old garbage. I remember my mom getting upset at me for not cleaning it out while she 'cleaned the kitchen'. I remembered the other time she said that. I had made the yard presentable while she watched Tik Tok on the bar stool. I could see it through the window. The whole two hours of it. She asked me to help clean the kitchen when I came inside. No, I had said, disgusted. With five minutes left she was still scrolling as she put things away and yelled at me for my inadequacy. I didn't come out to talk to the guests that night. She still won't admit she did something wrong. Just a few hours ago she had denied the fact that that scene ever occurred. She denied that I was suicidal. She denied that covid was gone: keep them in the house forever! She had told me she wanted that. Said she wanted us to live with her forever, never growing old. Our husbands could move in with them and we could all sleep together. I shuttered. "Do you want some Indian food?" My dad asked. "Yes." I nodded. The thoughts were closing in; a knife to the chest. Ignore them, push them back but they keep coming anyway. Three years later and I still dreamed of the end. I still remember every day at school when scissors sucked me in. I remember the terror I felt when ever those urges wouldn’t quit.
Love is a verb (repost)
As I was walking down the street the other day, I noticed the following sentence written on the sidewalk in big white block letters:
LOVE IS A VERB.
That made me smile and think yes, yes it is.
Yes, it is also a noun: deep affection. But, for that phrase to actually have more substance than the breath you expel upon saying I love you, there must be actions to give it weight. To give it meaning. Love cannot live in words alone if they are not to fade away to nothingness, or worse, twist and rot in the absence of actions or in the face of actions that put lie to the words.
What those actions might be, that demonstrate that love, are myriad and multitudinous...and quite personal to each individual.
For me, it is bear hugs. It's the words said every day, multiple times a day. It is standing on the porch waving as a loved one drives away. It's baking someone's favorite dessert, preparing homecooked meals. It's listening, accepting those you love as they are while encouraging them, supporting them to be their best selves. It's compromising. It's remembering things that are important to your loved one. Doing things for and with your loved one.
Sometimes it's sacrificing - time, energy, money, sleep for your loved one.
Nurtured, it will grow and strengthen. Blossom. Evolve.
Limited to words belied by actions - or inaction, it ceases to be love.
I love you. (how)
I love in the way the sun loved the moon…she chases him daily into the horizon until in eclipse they finally meet. Years may go by without recognition…I will love you.
I love you. (how)
I love in the way the sky loves the earth…she waters him with the tears he causes. Unrequited; undeserved. Flowers will bloom…even when you hurt me…I will love you.
I love you. (how)
I love in the way a hen loves her chicks…she fiercely guards them; their life is precious. Tenderness gives way to ferocity if threatened.
I will guard you…I will love you.
I love you. (how)
I love in the way a dog loves her master. She licks his face after he’s left her alone all day. Innocent trust, enthusiastic affection, adamant loyalty. Even if your heart forgets me…I will love you.
I love you. (how)
I love in the way a verb adds movement to a sentence. I love you as an action and state of being. I will help you and ground you. I will make sense of your world…I will love you.
Telescope “Memories”
I have a simulatinous multiple existance. Days that were never mine come to me throughout the ordinary walk of life. In one moment, it's early am. I'm putting away piles of laundry in my 1950s wood-trimmed, needs-new-carpet humble home. The next I'm on the side of an evergreen-laden mountain in a new-age cabin with a stage, a string of lights, a handsome stranger with an accoustic guitar, his lady with a microphone, and a tipsy but intimate audience. It's dusk and dreamy. I get the feeling, I know these people well and this mountainous town is home. I'm older here, more myself here. I never left folding my family's clothes. I feel cotton and the hustle of responsibility but I'm also here in this other moment looking at it through some sort of telescope. It's illogically familiar, metaphysically real and I smile carrying it's warmth in my chest.
Later, I'm out with my son at our neighborhood's run-down park in flat middle-America at a picnic table getting feasted on by mosquitos and feeling the weight of having to work tomorrow. But I'm also not. There's a blonde blue-eyed stranger in a 50s diner with a white leather jacket staring at me. He's as equally startled and frozen by my presence as I am by his. He's sitting on the retro table, his legs spread, elbows on his knees, feet on the cushoned red barstool and facing his friends but I can't see them. Only him. He's stopped talking the moment he saw me. I get the impression he's a "bad-boy." Our connection isn't romantic but it's strong. Soul-strong and as caught-off-gaurd by how unrelatable this world is to my interests, identity, age, and way of living, I feel calm. I feel love. I'm still supervising my son and being baked by the praire sun but I smile carrying this alternate-world connection simulatniously in my current being.
And I could tell you a million more. I can't predict when the veil between my multiple existance will happen. Sometimes it's multiple times a day, sometimes it's months apart. All I know is there are without doubt worlds within worlds and I don't fight them or seek them, I let them happen and enjoy both my primary being and all it's alternates. And something else I know? It's not being highly imaginative and I'm not the only one who experiences this. I call on us to feel soft about it, to observe it and live it, to love this life and know it's quite likely more than one.
-Jasmine @bysomegirl
Tingless Spectrum
I imagine myself somewhere right now:
A black forest and a white sky, covered with clouds.
There is a swing, it creaks a little but not too disturbingly.
The only sound is that and occasionally the unknown wind sound.
There is no one in this realm, just me.
It may seem very lonely, but I think it's peaceful.
I wish this was a place I could come to whenever I wanted.
But it only remains in my imagination.
People find it strange, but I don't understand why...
Is it because it's black, white, and gray?
Nonsense.
I don't understand what's scary about it.
If you know you're alone, it's not a problem.
Isn't our reason for being afraid of such places because we don't know if there's someone else there?
What if there's already someone and they're following me.
A creepy-looking, crazed stalker...
A black suit and a businessman look,
A terrifying face,
Eyes that never tire or close,
The only somewhat colorful thing here...the only thing that shouldn't belong here
Colors.
Just like on that person.
Sometimes I can't love primary colors
Green, blue, yellow, red...
I just want to see black and white and a completely bright world
A place where the mystery of emotions is preserved but you don't have to think about anything or a place where, when you want to think about something, your mind won't be disturbed, the best place
A world where no one blames me for condemning love
A world where I am genderless
A realm where I don't dream of the future, where there is no such thing as a future
I am very happy right now!
I don't know, but I get excited about such a place...sometimes
Colors sometimes just seem to create chaos to me
Sometimes very simple and expressionless things:
Red...they sometimes say it's the color of power
I just see violence, aggression, and the desire to crush someone in this color
Blue...they sometimes say it's the color of peace and tranquility
I just see depression, anxiety, and selling the soul for money in this color
Yellow...they sometimes say it's the color of positivity or being energetic
I just...I don't know, I don't feel much
Neither energy nor anything positive in this color
Green...some say it's the color of nature and the golden mean
Sometimes I agree, but mostly I don't feel anything in this color except for an inexplicable disgust
I see a delusion in this color that makes you believe everything has a middle and justice
There are some colors I love and they make me feel very meaningful
Even sometimes when I get tired of black and white, I turn to them
Purple...most people say it's the color of wisdom
I see the color of mystery and the inescapable truth of this realm - for me - the unknowability, and it creates a very impressive motto for me
Brown...most people...I don't know what they say about this color
I see the color of proof that not being special and being ordinary brings the greatest happiness and it makes people create their own reasons and purposes for living without needing any reason for life
A very important thought and feeling for my motto...ordinariness and existentialism
Pink...most people say it's the color of femininity - utter nonsense - and sweetness
But for me, this color is much more special and its meaning is deeper
As I explain this, I smile with a tired expression
You know, when the eyes look sad but the lips take the shape of a smile, like that.
When I see pink, I think of my own life and orientations:
Hiding from people, being able to lie, creating a fake happiness to be happy, trying to give the best to people, and being happy when people are happy, sacrifice, friendship, love, fake tears, and the art of drama...
Like an antidote thrown among the negativities, but actually a color that can be very pessimistic inside, yet still manages to remain positive and full of life.
Just like me.
That's why I love pink so much.
Sometimes I can't find a meaning to live, but it doesn't make me very unhappy.
I never saw being happy as a purpose for living.
Being happy is just a gift
Although I say it's just a gift, it's actually a very big thing for me and most people
Just living and going with the flow...
All the events that happened...
All the traumas and experiences...
Memories captured always in the mind instead of with a camera...
A heart full of spirit, some wounded, some surrounded by a fake wall.
In this heart where I try to condemn love, I live pink to the fullest along with other colors I love.
Sometimes they give me such motivation...sometimes I feel like blending primary colors and almost all other colors together.
A simple and sweet look...
My obsession with sweetness...
A deep scene and dramaturgy...
These colorless buildings, colorless trees, and everything colorless in this black-and-white universe are actually different for me...
The only reason I love this so much is "selfishness" and "the desire to escape"
What do I mean...
I'm selfish because, while there are already colors in the world, sometimes it can be difficult to live the color you want, and when everything is colorless (black or white), I can imagine them in the color I want.
I say I'm selfish because I feel like most people live their lives with existential pains and I feel like they are forced to close their dreams and mottos.
I don't see myself as superior, never.
I'm saying their lives might be like that from my perspective.
I'm selfish because if they can do it, why can't I?
We are all human in the end, but I chose to escape.
I say escape because this realm is only a product of imagination...
Just black and white or the colors I want or a riot of colors
Because I'm so scared and weak...
Because I feel so abstract and fake, this sometimes feels like the only place I can be real
But sometimes this world of people...seems very fun, even if it can be cruel and unhappy
Sometimes it's a place where we can be happy even if it's fake
It's not terrible or ridiculous for me
I accept it.
But still, I want to see this world as my imaginary realm and live my motto with these colors.
The bench I imagine, the table:
Pens, papers, needles, hooks, fabrics, stickers, boxes, hourglass, my pink teddy bear - saying bear is embarrassing - SBVP, white and pink creams, cherries, wooden carvings, and toys...
It feels very nice.
I may seem strange to most people, but that's okay, I think, isn't it?
I may have a colorless world, but I always imagined or searched for my colors in that colorless abyss, even if not in reality.
I never complained about my black-and-white and genderless body.
A skin that looks like metal, an odorless skin, a sweatless mold, and pink eyes...
I love it
This time I'm really happy and I smile as I imagine these
Full of love and colorlessness
A Different Kind Of Love Story…
A short fiction which I wrote that includes the line “I didn’t see that one coming”. I hope you guys like it.
One day there were two friends, and who knew if they would stay friends forever? The world was changing every day, and some people were too busy with nothing. They both got enough sleep every night, had a steady job, and had food on the table, but neither of the two had a good friend they could call their own.
Some people had everything they needed but lacked the things they really needed. They had a nice apartment, but it wasn’t nearly warm enough- surely it was warm physically, but it lacked the basic things that made anyone’s life really ‘all that’ such as something spiritual that made them feel like the Universe made sense.
And so, these two humans knew each other, and they were acquaintances. They were friends, but not more than that. Some people believed in Karma and others believed in whatever they wanted to. But maybe these two people were going to meet after all.
One of them liked going to Church. The other liked going to the park next to the Church. Because he had a love-hate relationship with spirituality. He was so scared that if he entered the church, the pastor would yell at him for smoking within the church premises.
So one day Jill (who likes being spiritual about life) tells John (who doesn’t) that being even remotely spiritual has its benefits. They happened to be friends, but it seemed like her Church-going habit, was having a placating effect on John who happened to like introverted pastimes such as this.
So, as things would have it, he did not mind attending the Church Service on Sunday because he wanted to hear the melodious crooning of the Sunday choir even though ordinarily a day at the Park was just fine with him.
And so the two kept on doing this, and they seemed to be walking in and out of the Church Venue because they felt they had some sort of calling/purpose, but no idea what to do with it. On the days when they went to church days were so smooth, and everything fell into place magically.
Jill started to realize that she was so philosophical about Life, and it was starting to speak tons about her as a person too. She lived in a comfy home, but it was full of love, and everything that a person ever needed -’ A house is made of wood and stone, but only Love can make a home’ is what she believed about life and other things.
One day she asked him a serious question. They were both starting to like the other’s company. He was born a Christian but he barely liked doing things the way the church meant for them to be done. He was too busy with his job and his life as of then.
But that day he went home to his little hole in the wall. He thought about the times when she said some things that spoke volumes about who she seemed to be as a person.
He felt the call too. He decided for Jill’s sake to join her at Church on Sundays. She knew that he wouldn’t get it at first, but she would start from the beginning. She promised that she would tell him all the beautiful Church songs that sounded so wonderful...
He was attracted to the feeling of being there since he had seen his mother go there as a child. He had felt the pain of his parent’s arguments and final separation. But there was something about Jill here that made his heart feel warm, and when he looked into her eyes, there was a fire burning inside.
And then, the two of them promised to love each other until the end of days. They were never supposed to be an item, but they were now more than just friends. They felt the presence of something at Church, maybe it was Jessica nursing his wounds. Maybe it was God doing what God was so good at doing. God was making a way for two lonely people in this broken world.
And to think of it. If Jill had not brought dearest John to Church, he would have probably gone to places where people usually thought they could meet and greet other friendly types and get lost there like the other sinners in the world. Like the other broken people. Who didn’t care about the state of their soul…
So things happened, and these two became fast friends. Maybe they even got married if it were really meant to happen. But God made a way for Jill and John to be friends, and have some sort of godly existence if that were a thing according to the church-going types.
One day when they were sitting together in the park, the very adorable John sat next to Jill on the park bench and they kissed behind a flower like in 50’s movies. The thing about their kiss was it was so real, and it meant everything. Since he was the one who initiated it she said “I didn’t see that one coming”…
And the thing is, they were happy. They loved each other, in every way, and people loved the sight of them together and enjoyed their company. God had a plan for them both. It wasn’t like they were meant to be married, but they did exercise their God-given choice. And Life was beautiful again…
Beyond Words: The Kindness of the People in Paris
I’ve always believed in the transformative power of kindness, a theme I recently explored in an article for Grice Connect, a local news source I write for. Little did I know, this concept would soon resonate even more deeply after my own experiences during an unforgettable journey abroad.
My partner David, his family, and I embarked on a trip that originally centered around a martial arts seminar in Germany, an amazing opportunity that emerged from their dedicated training. Eager to make the most of our travels, we planned an extension to explore Paris for two days. However, what was meant to be a straightforward itinerary unfolded into a series of unexpected events, each extending our stay and teaching us invaluable lessons about human kindness.
Our adventure into the unknown began with a canceled flight back home due to nationwide airline strikes in Germany, affecting our layover and leaving us stranded in Paris. Then, in a twist that seemed to compound our travel woes, I lost my phone on the Paris metro, causing us to miss our rescheduled flight once again.
Despite the initial panic and frustration, these mishaps became blessings in disguise, revealing the unmatched kindness of Parisians — a strong contrast to the stereotype of rudeness or standoffishness sometimes associated with the city’s residents.
The kindness we encountered in Paris was overwhelming. From locals patiently helping us navigate language barriers to spontaneously drawing maps or offering unsolicited discounts, their warmth and eagerness to assist were heartwarming. Every person we met was incredibly kind, helpful, and warm, excited to share about their love for Paris.
Our interactions weren’t limited to simply seeking directions or tips; they extended into genuine, and sometimes lengthy, conversations on the metro or in cafe lines, where locals were just as curious about us as we were about their lives in the City of Light.
One memorable encounter was with a woman who recounted her travels to America, reflecting on the joys of exploring new places with her children and now grandchildren. Her stories highlighted how travel enriches our appreciation for home, echoing our feelings of discovery and connection.
“Traveling makes us appreciate our homes more,” she shared, her words resonating with our own journey. This spontaneous connection on the metro was a testament to the depth of interaction possible when we open ourselves to the stories of strangers.