Finding my Feet

My tall window is cracked open in the hopes that some distinctly Parisian sound floats into my apartment. Maybe a two-toned siren or Edith Piaf coming from an old phonograph. But right now I just hear a person whistling and the dishes clanking in the tiny restaurant that occupies the lower level of this building. A man and presumably his son just walked through the courtyard below, and just the rhythm of their French conversation makes this feel all the more real. I'm here. I've arrived, made 43 rue St. Sauveur my home, and even made a mixte sandwhich for dinner. Not much of a dinner--two slices of ham and two slices of emental on a baguette--but the bread was fresh and tomorrow I'll shop at the fresh produce markets. I have to admit that I was intimidated when I stepped out of my door this evening. I haven't spoken English yet, but I haven't spoken much period. I couldn't chat with the pharmicist over my lotion purchase, nor understand the grocery clerk's explanation of why the pregnant woman got to step in front of the line to buy her toothpaste (though I smiled, nodded and said "c'est vrai" in an attempt to fake understanding). I am without the familiar places and people and sounds and lights of my neighborhood from this summer, but I have to remember that I felt an even greater sense of displacement back in May. Yet I made it my own. And I'll do the same this time. Tomorrow morning when I take my cafe, I know I'll smile, take a deep breath, and pinch myself.