Muscle memory is the only thing that brought me back to the apartment and into my bedroom while the world zoomed by, fast around me, but my mind was frozen from sorrow. Counting the beat of my heart to match the steps of my feet is the only thing that prevented me from shattering into tears on the journey back. 

Alone in my room in the dim lamplight, I stare at the mess I made when leaving for the night. I drop my handbag to the floor and slowly walk around the room. To me, the mess shows a story of how energetic and hopeful I was for tonight to be the night where I finally made a home in this foreign city. Makeup and hair accessories are scattered on the vanity table from when I was trying to find the right hairdo and the right colors to match. Clothes and shoes are scattered around the floor near the full length mirror from when I was trying to find the right outfit.

I turn to stare at my reflection in the full length mirror. Although the vision is hazy through watered eyes, I can see the silhouette of the woman I’ve forced myself to conform to in hopes of finally feeling a sense of belonging. She has her hair loosely curled; excessive makeup on her face; long, red painted nails; a skintight, little black dress with black high heels to match. None of this is me. I hate fixing my hair, wearing makeup, or getting my nails done. I prefer to dress for comfort, or, at least, breathable comfort with tennis shoes to match. I stare into the eyes of this broken stranger staring back at me, and I tell myself through trembling lips, “you stupid girl.”  

I turn away from the mirror out of disappointment in myself when, suddenly, I hear faint sounds of the lively city. My attention draws to the open windowed doors which lead to my bedroom’s balcony. I had left them open when I left for the night to usher in fresh, fall air. I go to close them so I can be left alone in silence, but just as I’m holding their stiles, my gaze is drawn to the view of The Eiffel Tower in the distance, lit up golden against a Parisian night sky.

The view brings me back to the first time I stood on this balcony just a few months ago in the late summer heat, mesmerized by the view of her- La Tour Eiffel. She who calmed my dreams when my realities were nightmares; she who gave me a butterfly of hope to cling to in my darkest days; she who motivated me to push forward with the promise of better days to come. The first time I stood here-exactly here- and saw her in real life, with my own eyes, I cried from the feeling of accomplishment in myself and the hope she brought me that this city was full of possibilities, dreams and change.

Now, the memory and the view are what finally break me. 

My lips quiver and I gasp for breaths as I press my back against the right windowed door’s frame, lean my head back , and my body slides down the frame to be seated as the tears come rolling down my cheeks followed by my sobs.

How is it that even in the city of love, I have managed to end up all alone?

“Madame, vous allez bien?” a male voice says from a distance. 

Shit. I was so lost in my thoughts that I forgot you’re never entirely alone in Paris if your doors and windows aren’t shut (a real paradox if you ask me.) Yet here I am, crying like a baby on the balcony for all to hear and see.

I quickly start to wipe away my tears from my cheeks. I hate people seeing me cry. “Oui, oui. Je vais bien.” I say as I scramble to stand. 

“Is that an English accent I hear in your French?” The voice says again. His voice is deep and penetrating; the kind that carries far and is sure of itself. And his accent is American- like me.

I freeze mid-stand. Another paradox- I find it rare to meet Americans in such an international city. The few times it happens, there’s an instant bond and curiosity. An unspoken “What’s your story?” or “How did you end up here?” Even though I want to be alone right now, I find the curiosity inside me overpowering. “Yes, I’m American. Seems you are too?” I say out to the city in response to the mysterious, deep voice.

“Yeah, I’ve been living in Paris for a few years now. I’m from Michigan. You?”

“I arrived here about two months ago. I’m from Mississippi.” 

“Nice to meet you, Mississippi,” he says in a way that seems as if he’s smiling while he’s talking to me. “Now that we know more about each other, why are you upset?” The question seems genuine with a note of care and concern in his voice. 

The sincerity in his voice has me doing something unusual- I sit back down, lean my back against the windowed door’s frame, and confide in a stranger. I take a deep breath as I begin to take off my heels, “It’s not so much this one night as it is the accumulation of events that have led me here. That’s why I’m upset.” 

“What’s your story then? How does a girl from Mississippi end up crying on a Friday night in Paris?”

I chuckle hoarsely at what he’s pointed out and respond, “My senior year of high school led me down a really dark path. I don’t want to get into it, though. So, naturally, my first two years of college were also a disaster- I was so miserable and lost. I felt the need to change paths at the end of my sophomore year.” 

I take a breath as I start to massage my feet from the ache of walking around Paris in heels. I continue, “You see, my parents used to host exchange students when I was around 13 years old. I remember how each one would talk for hours about how their experience abroad transformed them and gave them clarity about what they wanted to become when they grew up. 

So, when I was feeling lost and miserable in college, I felt that these ‘exchange student epiphanies’ were what I so desperately needed.  I worked tirelessly to switch my studies around so I can be here, studying abroad, for my junior year. I thought it would change my luck, and I would gain that ‘sense of self’ back, but it has only backfired in my face. I’m alone in a foreign country; I have no friends or family here. And tonight just further proved that I don’t belong here. I’m lonelier than ever before, and I’m realizing what a huge mistake I’ve made in ever coming here.” Tears start to develop in my eyes as I choke on my words with the last few sentences. I hadn’t yet said them out loud, and my cheeks blush at realizing I’ve just said them to a complete stranger too. 

“What happened tonight to make you think you’re more alone than before?” asks Michigan. 

I tilt my head back to try to prevent the flow of tears as I say, “At school today, I overheard a girl who is in my study abroad group planning dinner for her birthday. She mentioned how our whole study abroad group is invited. I texted her asking for the details- location, time, attire… She told me to meet at Chez Gladines at 9pm in semi-fancy attire. I get all dressed up and go all the way there just to see through the window of the restaurant our entire study abroad group of 13 finishing their meal…” Tears start to fall down my cheeks as I choke on the last few words. “We’re a group of 14,” I say through the tears, but I know the words come out hurt, quiet and broken.

He’s quiet for a moment. Normally I would worry I’ve scared him off, but not seeing the person you’re talking to has a way of easing these worries. I find myself again focusing on the beat of my heart to try to match the speed of my breathing so I can stop crying. As I’m counting, he responds softly, “What’s a lesson you can take away from this?”

The question shocks and confuses me. I stop my counting and stare into the city view. “What do you mean?” Is all I can think to say back.

“I mean, each pain we have comes with an opportunity to learn and grow from it. Look, you’re not the only one to cry over failure. Before I heard you, I was staring out of my window reflecting on how I’ve ended up here. When I first moved to this city, I thought I had everything going for me. I had just graduated college and landed this dream job in a marketing firm in Paris. Then, I met this girl who soon became my live-in girlfriend. We made a life together in just a year, then we added a dog to the mix,” his voice begins to trail off, and I imagine him staring at the Eiffel Tower with the same sense of disappointment that has led me to my balcony floor tonight. He continues, solemnly, “But our dog died from kidney cancer. She wasn’t even one year old. When she died, it revealed the cracks in the foundation of our relationship. Truth is, we are completely different people. So, now I’m here. Just moved into this shoebox apartment at age 24, staring at the Eiffel Tower and thinking about how a year ago I was saving my money for her engagement ring.”

I’m so lost in his story that I don’t realize he’s stopped talking. I feel so comfortable in this conversion that I say the first thing that comes to mind, “What lesson have you learned?”

This makes him laugh softly; the sound is infectious and makes me smile slightly in return. He says, “Well, mainly, not to rush into things. I wish I would have taken things slow with her in the beginning.”

“Makes sense,” I respond as I stare up at the balcony’s cover. His story makes me consider what I have learned from Paris. “A lesson I’ve learned from being here is that life isn’t about where you go; it’s about who you’re with.” I curl my legs in and say, “Those exchange students we hosted didn’t have their amazing, ‘life-changing’ experience or epiphanies from Mississippi; they got them from the people they met there.” I stare down at my feet as my voice trails, “I wish I realized that before wasting all this time and money.”

“Who says it’s wasted?” Michigan responds, “If you hadn’t moved heaven and earth to be here, you would probably still be in Mississippi wishing to be here. Coming here helped teach you that lesson, so I don’t think that’s a waste.” 

His words begin to sink in, and I realize the truth in them. Back home, I was so laser-focused on leaving in search of change that I would not have realized this lesson if I weren’t here- exactly here- heartbroken on the balcony’s floor. 

“May I add another lesson that I think we can both share from our separate experiences?” He adds.

“Of course,” I respond curiously. 

“I think when we are at our lowest point, we are actually at the start of our greatest possibilities.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when we feel like we have nothing else to lose or no hope left, then we’re at a place where we don’t hold ourselves back and just go for what we want more freely. For example, I realized a few months into the ‘dream job’ I had when I moved to Paris isn’t what I want to do for my whole life. I stuck it out though because I felt the need to provide financial security to my ex and our dog. But now that I’m on my own, I feel like I can put myself and my dreams first. So, now I’m on a new career path which wouldn’t be the case if it weren’t for all the heartbreak and hardships I’ve faced here in Paris. I’m really happy with the new job so far. Perhaps something similar is in the cards for you- maybe this experience isn’t exactly what you thought it would be, but there is still a path here that can make you happy. And now you’re more free to explore it since your previous vision is shattered.” 

His words sink in, and I look out to the city again. It must be the top of the hour because The Eiffel Tower is sparkling. “You’re pretty wise, Michigan,” I say softly in response.

“And you’re going to be okay, Mississippi,” he says, “Just find a new path and make the most of it. We’re in Europe! There’s so much to see and explore…”

His words begin to fade as my focus becomes hypnotized by the sparkle of The Eiffel Tower. I’ve always found The Eiffel Tower’s sparkling lights to be a sight of magic; it brings me to awe and wonder every single time. I wonder what essence this city has to have made someone so determined to create such a beautiful sight; one that would ensure others from all around the world are drawn in to explore and experience this city for themselves. My gaze becomes a shift to a newfound sense of curiosity, freedom and wonder at what can still happen in this city with the remaining months I have left here. 

Michigan’s voice starts to come back into my focus when the realization hits me- I don’t know Michigan’s name or what he looks like. He could be the man on the moon for all I know. “Hey Michigan,” I say, interrupting him while I’m still focused on the Eiffel Tower’s sparkling lights. 

“Yes, Mississippi?” He responds.

“I just realized I don’t know your name or where you are,” I say with a slight chuckle. 

He laughs again, the same soft, infectious laugh as before and this time it fills my stomach with butterflies. “I’m George. I’m not sure exactly where you are, because I don’t see you either. I’m up top in the shoebox’s window.”

Ah, right. He’s just moved into his ‘shoebox apartment,’ probably at the top of the building. I’m prevented from seeing the top of the building from my balcony’s cover. 

I put my right hand down on my balcony’s floor and lean my body far right and look up. I search the tiny, studio apartment windows at the top of the buildings all around the area looking for Michigan. “I don’t see you,” I say to the buildings.

Just then, in the building adjacent to the left of mine, a man leans out of one of the small windows with his arms folded on the window’s frame. His arms seem muscular but not overly done; he has dirty blonde hair in a slightly messy, ivy league style haircut; and his eyes are the most piercing, clear and electric shade of blue I have ever seen. “Now you see me,” he says as he smiles down at me. His smile makes me stop breathing; it’s infectious, charming and comes with dimples- dimples! 

“I’m Carolina,” I say back, breathlessly.

We stare at each other for what feels like eternity. His eyes are the new sparkling lights, and they fill me with the exact same feelings of hope, wonder and excitement. 

And in the blink of an eye, my new path begins.