Dreams are uncomfortable. My first one occurred at three years old. Crying in the waiting room of Burton School of Dance with my Mom, I kept pointing at a framed newspaper of dancers covered in sequins intricately posed surrounded by confetti. All I wanted was to be like them. Finally, my Mom said “Ok, if you wanna do that, you have to go to class.” I understood. I stopped crying, went in, and lived that dream for fifteen years.
Now, at twenty-one, I understand for dreams to come true, we need to step out of our comfort zones and deal with the unfamiliarity of these dreams. This summer, my dream of existing as a young writer in Paris, France came true– with all of the uncomfortableness I expected. From the trip’s initial cancellation due to Covid-19, my first international flight, a lack of routine, and homesickness– nothing about this trip was easygoing, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Leading up to this program, I was comfortable surviving. The impact of Covid-19 on everyone’s college experience was unimaginable. I remember when I saw the flier for this trip, I didn’t believe it would happen, but I reluctantly applied and was accepted. Slightly excited, I bought my plane ticket, and doubtful yet delighted, I packed. At the airport, I anticipated something keeping me in the U.S.
But nothing did.
I awkwardly fell asleep on a Boeing 777 and awoke looking at the digital map in front of me, and I was in Paris! I sat in awe of my dream finally coming true, even though my body felt odd. My legs swelled up and my neck hurt. Arriving in Paris physically tense prefaced the uneasiness I’d encounter these next five weeks.
To begin, the length of the program felt peculiar to me. Five weeks was not long enough to “Live,” in Paris, but not short enough to be a vacation. This middle ground made it difficult to cultivate friendships with new people and establish a routine. When I settled in my dorm, I quickly met people on my floor from all over the world. We’d greet each other and make small talk, but I would’ve loved to get to know them more. A busy and spontaneous schedule also prevented this. These five weeks were packed with museums, tours, class, and trips. I went from planning every minute in my Google Calendar to waiting for texts from my professors to know what we were doing the next day. It was nice to detach from a strict schedule, but I missed a routine. And I eventually missed my people.
At the end of the second week, I got homesick. But this was a different type of homesickness. Not only did I miss my family, but I missed my friends too. I learned I’m used to missing my family when I’m in Austin. But when I do, I spend time with my friends who are also from the valley, or I cook home food, or watch the movie Steel Magnolias. And when I’m in the valley and I miss my friends, I FaceTime them, or talk my Mom’s ear off about how great they are. In Paris, I didn’t have either community to offset the yearning for the other. This dose of unfamiliarity coupled with a lack of a routine created a newfound Parisian middle ground.
I experienced Paris in this duality of loving every stroll along the Seine and completely missing Lady Bird Lake. I giggled over trying escargot for the first time, while longing for a quesadilla. I went to the movies and danced with my new friends in the program, while yearning for a long walk with my best friends.
By the middle of the third week, I grew accustomed to this duality. I am no stranger to the middle ground, and I have found it is the only way to truly experience life. And in the end, that was my dream. I wanted to exist as a young writer in Paris. And this existence meant observing old women sketching outside of cafes, and trying an aperol spritz, and getting tired of French food. It meant debriefing a night out over fresh croissants and espresso at five in the morning before going to the Eiffel Tower. It meant having your professor draw you and your peers who are now your friends, and finding a love for collaging and watercolor after years of fearing drawing. It meant feeling in awe of castles that are actually called chateauxs, and feeling drained in the city but refreshed in the countryside.
Every piece of wonder on this trip was accompanied by something uneasy. I think that’s how dreams work. When imagining, we only fathom the pleasantries. We might ponder the difficulties, but experiencing them in conjunction with the dream itself might make it anti-climatic. In the end, I wouldn’t change anything about my Paris dream come true. It was refreshing to live this dream in all of its uncomfortable fullness. And I’m ready for the next one.
