Mission Impossible?

Three ibuprofen and two cups of coffee later, my day is ready to begin. Some would call me overzealous, some may even defer to the adjective "crazy." Whatever you choose, my feet and back agree with you. I am not sure when my love of walking began, nor my need to start a list and finish it in the same day (although blame could be given to Anal Annie; thanks, Mom). Regardless, it is my belief that I am here in a new city, with one very clear, necessary mission: to make it my own. That does not come by leisurely waking up each day, primping to impress those that may see me tear by, and sauntering about when the spirit moves me. Napoleon and I do not see eye to eye on much (literally), but one thing we do agree on, is that France must be conquered.

So what does this conquering entail, and where has it led me each day? Most French would not be able to answer that (nor would I understand them if they did), as I am a gold streak in FitFlop boots that goes tearing by from one destination to the next. There are times that I can be seen hunched in the corner of a rue, glancing at my already well-worn map, but that is not to refuel, but simply to redirect. Some may say my internal compass is broken (except for clothing stores), but I simply like to think that God has given me this lack of a radar so that I can be that much more knowledgeable and cover that much more ground. Why go from point A to point B when you can make seven wrong turns in between? This is doing wonders for my mission, and has allowed me countless uncomfortable moments. I would say I am well on my way towards success.

To those that have been fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of the gold Lands' End puffy coat (tres chic), and my French Lands' End polar fleece hat (which I have adorned with a flowered hair tie that Meredith rejected), they would have seen that her first stop yesterday, after walking her husband briskly to work, was the American Women's Group of Paris. After a mere hour of speed-racing, she landed in heaven at 32 rue du General Bertrand. Not only was it an escape from the bitter cold, but the door was answered in the highly coveted tongue of English. It could have been an easy end to my mission. In one fell-swoop I joined a book group, writing club, volunteered to work with the homeless, signed up to go on an eleven mile walk through the country (and snow) tomorrow, and have already established contact with a number of welcoming, wonderful women. But this would have been way too easy, and Napoleon would not have been pleased. So on I dashed, stopping to offer my teaching skills to three bilingual schools in Paris. I did gleefully come away with contact emails, but I also came away with aching feet and a need to regroup. And just as I was feeling as if my aching feet were a signal of success and accomplishment, on I went to the marché to go shopping for the week.

Who would have thought that the inability to open a plastic bag would cause distress? But, when you can't ask for help, and start thinking that perhaps the French make grocery bags differently, so you are standing there looking like a buffoon, holding up the line, due to your inability to ask for help to open the bag, slowly your mission doesn't seem so easily conquerable. Slowly, you realize that there is more ground to be tread, and more things to be learned. Tonight Matt and I will be attending an event at the American Library of Paris that entails watching Breakfast at Tiffany's. And although Napoleon may see this as cease-fire, sometimes those are necessary in order to win the war.