as told to (your name here)

Paris, day 247

A retired American couple sat next to me at dinner. Close enough for them to be nosey about me being solo, far enough that they'd have to really reach outside what's appropriate to bother me. I can tell it's their first trip here. Perhaps anywhere overseas. It's not like I'm fluent or anything, but I can at least make a rather convincing attempt at the language.  I'm seated facing the window, with my back to the room. Nobody else is alone and nobody sits with their back to the room by choice.  I can see the square across the street where people are ballroom dancing. Tango, I think. They're just regular couples, not professionals, although I think there is an instructor for those who want. It's hard to watch the couples, dancing closely. I feel the retirees kind of want to know how I navigate so smoothly, ordering tap water, for example, rather than overpriced bottled water for the table. I think I remember when I didn't know what I was doing. I'd trade it for what they have.

I think I could learn my way around, how to navigate daily life and exist here. I don't think I could live here. Thus highlighting the difference between to exist and to live. To thrive, anywhere, seems unattainable especially in a city of these millions but even on a sandy beach. How do I find a village of hundreds or perhaps a town of thousands that will have me?  The fact is though, that when I'm gone, I'm gone.  I leave no one and nothing behind.  I've created nothing lasting, built nothing of note.  I suppose I'll be part of some memories for a generation.  Beyond that, a stubby offshoot of the main trunk of a couple of grade school family tree projects.

posted by tinyhands @ 9:54 PM