“Where do you see us after Paris?” I asked my boyfriend of one year and a half as we walked the grey, frigid streets of Luxembourg.
“My priority in life is my career, and I will never make a decision based on a relationship, not even our own,” he replied, firmly, coldly, as my heart began to crumble into one million pieces for the first time in my life.
“So where do we go from here?” was the next question that we both knew we had to answer. “I, despite everything, would like to maintain an independent life,” he replied. “I, despite everything, need a relationship that has room to grow,” I affirmed.
Independence has always been my pride, my strength, my reliable friend that I could fall back on when life disappoints. My parents raised my two younger brothers and I to fend for ourselves and to make our own decisions. They both came from poor families in the the U.S., so their independence was their savior from drugs, hardship, and more poverty. Independence was their gift to their three children.
And yet when I saw the words written in an email across my screen from my, now, ex-boyfriend in Paris, I opened a dictionary and turned to the letter, “i.” “Independent: not subject to another’s authority or jurisdiction; autonomous; free.1” He wanted to make his own decisions. He wanted to be free, free of me. How had independence betrayed me?
As I quickly moved into the depression stage of grief, I knew I had to change. I had been considering changing jobs for a while. I thought that the only thing left for me in Paris was him. If he was gone, was it time to leave?
I first came to France when I was 19 years old, a sophomore at UNC Chapel Hill. It was my first time leaving my home country, and I was leaving it for an entire year. I was scared.
A year later I had fallen so in love with my French life and my new French self that I promised myself I would return again one day, to work, live, and stay for however long I wanted. Ten years later I was going on my third year in Paris, and now I was considering throwing it all away.
Dad said, “Come home.” Mom said, “Not yet.” All I could think of was my bed in North Carolina where I would go and sleep for months until I woke up and it was all over.
I dragged myself reluctantly to my next visa appointment and braced myself for the typical six hour wait. This time, however, I was called to the desk within fifteen minutes. The woman explained to me that they were setting me up for a ten-year visa. I was halfway through. I asked about citizenship. She gave me the address of the naturalization office for more information. Why did this suddenly seem so easy?
After leaving the citizenship office I stopped on Pont Notre-Dame and stared at the Seine, which looked more blue than normal from the sky’s reflection. “Only three more years until I can apply for French citizenship,” I thought. I saw the sign reflecting at me in the Seine as if there was a presence standing next to me saying, “Don’t give up yet. It’s not your time.”
Three weeks later I found myself in Portugal. I wanted to prove to myself that I could still be on my own, a two week trip to explore Portugal and Spain, by myself. Except that I never made it to Spain. Four days into the trip I threw my back out while trying to pick up my suitcase in Lagos. I had to take myself to the hospital and could barely walk. Had independence failed me again?
By the time I made it back to Paris I had a new job offer, and I had decided to stay in my city. My heart was not ready to leave. Even if it still bled with tears, it did not want to run away.
A few weeks after giving my notice I was sitting at a café by myself in the 8th. I had a perfect spot in the sun and ordered my summertime favorite, tartare de boeuf with frites maison. As I sat quietly eating my meal I felt a smile and the warmth of the sun fill my body. At one point a man came and sat at the table next to me. Then a woman, about my age, sat down at the table on my other side. We sat there in silence, watching the ebb and flow of Paris unfold in front of us, independent of one another, but never alone.
About the author: Rebecca Earley is a marketing data consultant by day and travel blogger by night. She was born in Chicago, grew up in North Carolina, worked as a “Mad Woman” in advertising in NYC, and is now living her dream in Paris.
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