An American in Paris

There is a freedom that comes with being somewhere else; being a stranger in another country. Yet I am realizing with more and more frequency that I stand in my own way on the path to that freedom. 

I am in France. Specifically, Paris.

I desire to set myself free and be alive in the air that is different from what I normally breathe. I wish to blend in, to look as if I belong. Therefore, I’m afraid to make mistakes, afraid to be the American that I am.

I’m not doing anything wrong. I just wish to adhere to the customs, meld with the culture of the country. 

We Americans are very different than the French. 

This, my third trip to Paris, came with many memories of how to get around, but with more apprehension in how to just be. 

I found myself embarrassed to speak the language that I had been working on for weeks prior. I knew that I was an outsider but didn’t want to be perceived as such, even though I knew I couldn’t possibly sound as if French was my native language. 

Sometimes the mere greeting of Bonjour led to a response of Hello. I felt saddened by this. Even though I knew the Parisian to which I was speaking was ultimately going to have to converse with me in English. 

I know this comes from a history of not wanting to look like a fool and a strong desire to not be mocked. 

My heart is filled to bursting with happiness when I’m in Paris. Why is it then that I can’t accept that I am an American in Paris and just enjoy the air?