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Hollywood
to Paris: Making the Move Now
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| By Quarkscrew
Jones page 2 |
| “Don’t
get smart, you know what I mean,” she volleys back. “You always
say Paris when something’s wrong. What’s wrong now?” When I try to
sell her on the notion that quitting ones job and sinking into poverty
six months before you threaten to move out of the country doesn’t necessarily
mean anything’s wrong, I quickly realize she ain’t buying it. Instead,
she pulls out the big guns. “Roger,” she huffs in desperation, “please
talk to your daughter.”
This time the
confusion is in baritone. “Is this about that young man you were seeing?”
my Father asks softly. I am silent as I ponder how to respond. How do you
tell someone who’s never breathed Paris that a failed love affair is precisely
what Paris is about? How it’s not the real Paris, but the idea of it that
draws the dreamers? The idea that you can reinvent yourself there, study
art there, eat well there, |
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| speak pretty
words there, and most of all, mend a broken heart there by falling madly
in love with really inappropriate people. How do I tell my parents, the
people who love me most in all the world, that there is absolutely nothing
wrong, and that that’s the problem?
Finally, I
resolve to tell them a half a truth and say that love’s got nothing to
do with it. I listen as my dad ‘ummm hmmm’s’ in that way that all daddies
‘umm hmmm’ when they know it was you and not the cat that licked all the
frosting off the cake. Finally, he says this: “Well, obviously we love
you and don’t want you so far away, but you have been talking about it
for years, so I guess I’d rather you find out now than spend the rest of
your life regretting it.”
"Thanks,
Dad,” I reply and blow him a big, went kiss across the country. “Mom?”
There comes a sweet, loveable grumble from the other end. I hate myself
at that moment. I know I broke her heart when I first moved to L.A.. Now,
sixteen years later, I am doing it again. “We’ll talk about it when
you come home for Thanksgiving,” she says finally. Silently, I blow
her a kiss, too. |
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| I’m not
shocked that my parents are worried about me. Lord knows they’ve had
practice. When I first moved to California, I was eighteen and blissfully
optimistic; I had a mission statement in one fist and a laundry list of
chess moves in the other. So young and dewy, it took me longer than most
to realize that sometimes the world can be a mighty cold place. On Sept.
11, 2001, we were all reintroduced to this concrete notion. Watching the
Twin Towers disintegrate before our eyes, like Snow White’s kiss, naptime
was over. We felt helpless that day, and despite what the media tries to
sell us, we feel helpless now.
Because I had
announced my move to Paris well before that dreadful Tuesday, I am constantly
being asked if I am still going to ‘do it’. Each time, I just I
smile and say ‘why yes, yes I am; thanks for asking’. People
look at me like I am nuts.
Am I crazy
to still want to ‘do it’? I don’t think so. |
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Offshore Resources Gallery
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| For whenever
I reflect on the devastation of the past few months, the attack on
America and our on-going response, I can’t help but wonder about the dead
on both sides. All those open endings, all those songs that were cut short
just because our leaders can’t talk to each other. It pisses me off, and
a deep part of me wants Paris for them as well. I want to hear at least
one happy story come out of a world like this.
I figure,
might as well start with my own.
Don’t get me
wrong, I’m not talking about a crusade. I doubt I’ll be proving anything
to America’s enemies when I get on that plane and survive. However, by
following through on ‘doing it’, I do intend to prove some things
for myself. First, I will prove that yes, I really can do anything I set
my mind at.
Next,
I will prove that fearlessness does indeed lead to freedom. And lastly,
but perhaps now more importantly than ever, I will prove that it is not
a crime to be an American, and that we shouldn’t have to give up our dreams
just because someone, somewhere out there doesn’t like us. |
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| Over the next
few weeks, I will be experiencing a transition that I hope to share with
all of you. Perhaps some of it will be useful to those who are just now
considering taking their own stage. Since I am an individual who is not
relocating through her job, there is much I have to do; so many questions
I have to answer. Questions like, ‘How much money should I bring?’
‘Where should I live?’ ‘What can I afford?’ ‘What kind
of job can I get with the minimal French I speak?’ ‘How long will
it take for my French to improve?’ ‘What belongings should I realistically
bring and how do I get them there?’ ‘How do I get my pets through
customs?’ ‘Which Visa do I qualify for?’ ‘Where do I go to
meet other English-speakers?’ ‘Can I even find a Lupus specialist
who speaks English?’ The list goes on and on and on. I’ll have to answer
them all on my own, and if you stick around, you’ll get to hear all the
whiny, scratchy, loony details, in technicolor no less. |
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Offshore
Resources Gallery
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| Lastly,
you are probably wondering, does she really know what she’s getting herself
into? Has the panic set in yet, and she just won’t admit it? I won’t lie,
I’m a tad nervous. To suddenly give up everything I’ve worked for and move
to a country where I know no one, have no home, no job and less than a
minimum command of the language …just me, three cats, a sewing machine
and a lap top? Heck, I dare the Taliban to try it.
But I’m
also trembling with anticipation at the things I will gain: a new home,
new friends, a new job, a new language and lots and lots of cheese! In
other words, I am living again and I wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything.
My mind is made up, there’s no turning back. Like it or not, come February
2002, after thirty-four years of preparation, my song will be playing and
I will finally be… on. |
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