Fleurs d'amour

They told me not to thank people when they help me, because no one does that in France.

But I do. Everyone, all the time. It's a reflex. Guy who picked up my fifty cent piece? Merci. Lady who opened the door for me on the metro when my button wasn't working? Merci. Kids who returned the contents of my wallet as they go spilling out onto the pavement because I forgot I left it unzipped and flung it all over like the clumsy American girl I am? Merci. Even my Uber driver who wasn't my Uber driver who ripped me off got a merci, and he didn't even deserve it.

My first couple days in France, I knew I had "TOURIST" stamped on my forehead. What a negative, nasty word that word is. It brings to mind some weird ogling person probably wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a straw hat who is completely oblivious to what's around them and how things work. They are in a place just to be there. I would get the looks from the locals, especially when I would ask for help. "Je suis desolée. Je ne sais pas parler français," I would tell them, and the smile dropped. The walls went up. A shake of the head. A "No, madame. No English."

After several experiences like this, I wondered. Am I really that bad? Am I here just to sit back and watch Paris happen around me? Maybe order a popcorn and a coke while I'm at it? Am I here to be exactly what they think I am?

It got to be kind of discouraging. And, downside of traveling alone, who did I have to talk to about it? No one.

Except ... God.

Which, you know, is the guy I should have been talking to in the first place.

My conversations with God went something like this: "Hey there. Listen, I feel out-of-place. Again. Care to help?"

And the answer was usually...silence.

Which usually, for me, means that God is like, "you can definitely figure this one out on your own." (Which is kind of flattering, but do you ever feel like God has a little too much faith in your abilities?)

So I just ... did things. Touristy things. I figured out the Métro. Went to the Louvre. Etc. And I was blown away by them, like any good tourist. But lemme tell you what, I would die before I ordered any food from a French restaurant. I ate cafe food mostly, because I was scared to sit down and not understand the menu. And I avoided little streets where I might get jumped. And ... a lot of other embarrassing things. Poor, lonely touristy Em.

Until the flower shops.

Now, listen. If you've known me for longer than a week, you are probably aware that I have this weird thing for plants. This germinated (get it) in my floral design class in high school and continued through my mission up til now. I see a plant, I HAVE TO TOUCH IT. Or stare at it. Or take a picture. So this whole time I've been in France, I've been noticing the flora & fauna all up in here, but mostly the flora. The dandelions here are like, ginormous. And their most common weed seems to be these little tiny daisy-looking things, just adorable as heck. France is just kinda green in general, as far as I can tell.

Anyways, back to my point, which was: I was exiting Sainte-Chapelle, which is a very beautiful Gothic-style cathedral with possibly the most intricate stained glass you will ever glimpse in your life, and I was ruminating on the sight that I had just beheld with mine own two eyes, when suddenly, I was accosted by the scent of roses.

It took me a second to register what was even going on, but then it hit me. I was standing on the corner of a small chunk of street lined with three. Rows. Of. Flower. Shops.

I was, at this point, so exhausted, vaguely lost, and caught up in another bout of "what might this be like if I were not so incredibly touristy" that I almost cried at the sight of all these flowers. Luckily we did not do that, but what I did do was walk up and down the aisles of flowers, touching whatever I wanted, staring at whatever I wanted. It was the first time in France that I felt like I was myself, and it was among all this life and beauty.

And then I had a "That's So Raven" moment, like where the camera goes directly into my eyeball and I see a vision. I remembered looking at my own scared face in the mirror of the airplane bathroom and fighting tears of disbelief at my own daring. I remembered my first few hours in Paris, the wind blowing back my unbuttoned plaid shirt, my hand on the bridge I crossed overlooking the Seine, staring into the green water, and saying out loud, "I'm insane." And then laughing my head off. Because it's true! What twenty-one-year-old girl in her right mind goes to France by herself? I mean, have you seen Taken? (Confession: I have not, in fact, seen Taken.)

It was at this pivotal moment that our heroine (me) made a realization.

Up until my adventures here in France, I was a dreamer who had pretty much resigned herself to the idea that her dreams would stay dreams. I had wanted things as much as I wanted to see France, but none of those things had, at this point, panned out. But my "That's So Raven" moment reminded me that I am not simply a dreamer. I'm a doer.

It was like the sassy southern woman inside me came alive and said, "girl, did you ever think that maybe the reason you feel so at home with these beautiful flowers is because you too are growing, and alive, and beautiful?"

And timid little me was like, "what? Really?"

To which sassy southern me was like, "of course! You are the woman who was brave, albeit a little naïve, enough to want to do this whole thing in the first place! And then you made it happen, and spit upon anyone who dared try and dissuade you!" (A note: in reality, I didn't do any spitting.)

"Huh," the timid little me said. "I hadn't thought about it."

"Well, duh," said the Southern Me. "You simply don't realize how adorable you are, honey lamb."

All of this was happening, might I remind you, inside my head. While I was touching flowers. You just don't understand how psycho you actually are until your Inner Southern Woman is telling you how cute you are and you're thinking about it. In public. In France. While stroking a flower.

I pushed my thoughts to the corner cubicle in my brain-office and continued with my floral exploration. At the end of the first row I discovered a little gift to me: a Japanese Camellia, my favorite flower. It was a tender mercy for me, like a little love note from God. And I love love notes, but especially when they're from God.

That night, after I was safely tucked away into the spare bedroom of my Colombiana hostess from Airbnb, something was undeniably different. I looked in the mirror, and I really saw somebody.

This is not me trying to be self-aggrandizing or arrogant. This is a real-life thing that happened to me.

I was like, "okay, who am I really?"

And I thought about things that I have managed to do over the past twenty-one years that were stupendous, miraculous even.

Now, for those of you who don't really know me that well (which is a lot of you, because I happen to know that my main demographic on this here blog is my mom's friends and ladies from my home ward who used to be my young women's leaders) you know that I'm not a quiet person, per se, but I'm definitely not the girl who commands the room, has everybody laughing, and is generally super confident all the freaking time. I know people like that and I am just floored by their sense of self. I do Not come across as tough. Like, at all. Ever. I'm blonde and 4'11'' and I don't even weigh enough to give blood, for Pete's sake. How imposing! How intimidating! Plus, I'd like to think I'm pretty approachable; I'm inclined to like everyone; I'm a nice person. I sing a lot (wow! What a bad-A) (so bad-A I can't even swear for real) I err on the introspective side, I'm incredibly, painfully, embarrassingly self-aware, and I get overwhelmed, like, real easily. So you could say that in terms of boldness, my words on a page are much more so than my actual vibe, in person. Again, I'm not a shy woman. Just a woman stuck in her own head.

But oh my gosh have I made some bold moves.

I'm not going to share them with you cause I don't really need to. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how tenacious I am, how truly fierce. I remember an elder from my district in the Missionary Training Center used that exact word to describe me. I thought I was this floaty wishy-washy thinker; turns out that I have more bite, more grit, more drive than I gave myself credit for. And here I am, living one of my most elusive dreams.

Who am I, really? I wondered to myself. And I answered, out loud, like the crazy woman I am. "Beautiful."

Like, I saw it. I was looking at myself in the mirror and I said out loud that I was beautiful, and I don't know why it took me a plane trip across the Atlantic to see it, but after all these years of telling myself and trying to convince myself it was true, I saw it. I am an insane crazy psycho person, and I am beautiful. I am in Paris, and I am beautiful. I know how to navigate the Paris Métro, and I am beautiful. I came here alone and made so many mistakes, and I am beautiful. And the best part was, it didn't come from anyone else, it came from me. Nobody could take it away when they left, because it was my truth. I taught it to myself with the good help of God. Or possibly, God had been trying to teach this to me for a while, but He needed to get me in on the secret.

That was a game-changer.

Because all of a sudden it didn't matter that my clothes and hair and makeup weren't like everybody else's. It didn't matter that I didn't speak French, that I was a member of a minority faith, that I was completely out of my element. I wanted to keep looking at myself. I was smiling at myself in the mirror. Because heck, I'm beautiful and crazy, and that's a powerful combination.

Here's who I saw in that mirror: I am the girl who thanks people who don't deserve it. I am the girl who forgives people who don't forgive me and gives grace for bitterness just to stay soft and prove that tough experiences don't necessarily make people unfeeling. I am the girl who is afraid to do things and does them anyway. I am the girl who walked the streets of Paris in a green corduroy jacket that stood out a mile, and I am the girl who has just enough beautiful, just enough crazy, and just enough fierce to do the things I dream about doing.

Things went differently after that. I stopped worrying so much about my plans and let myself take things in. I decided to take the Métro less, and to walk more. This resulted in very sore legs, but also in seeing things a local would see, someone who is not moving from tourist trap to tourist trap. And it was amazing. Flowers, am I right? Or maybe it's just God. Or maybe God knew I'd need the flowers.

Oh, and did I mention I tried French food? Real French food at a sit-down place? When life gives you escargot, (or the opportunity for escargot) you try escargot and see if you like it. (Spoiler: I liked it a lot.) Also, if my chicken fricasée was a person, I would take that person to Vegas and marry it. (Full disclosure: I stole that line from Augustus Waters.) And do not get me started on that caramel custard because I will probably cry actual tears like I almost did in that restaurant.

Paris was so many things for me. It was not friendly or soft. It was a leg workout. It was full of flirty men (who were also significantly older than me and had beer bellies so don't get excited y'all). It was hard. It was stressful. It was exquisite and breathtaking. It was quaint and charming and big and grandiose all at once. It was the end of some things, and the beginning of others.

Most of all, it is where I learned to love me for who I am; crazy, a little naïve, and really quite brave.

Oh, and beautiful.