She's Yes, Then She's No

At the end of the day, both literally and figuratively, it all comes down to my softcore bipolarity.

It's what people would notice most, so right after their thinking either that I am overly chatty and annoying, or quite the opposite, rather funny and cute (and I chose these particular idiosyncrasies because they are apparent at the very first sight, one just needs to make their choice), It pops. Forget about discovering after a while that there's more to me than just being hilarious or irritating, bipolarity is there to linger. Just like a very unpleasant red wine stain on your favorite white shirt. Or on your favorite girl.

It goes like this with my momentary states of mind. Just give me two seconds, and I will for sure display two completely different ones, confusing the poor spectator, disheartening the active participant to the moody soap opera. Fortunately, if the state is not well rooted in my heart brain, it could easily take just a blink to forget about the rage, frustration, pessimism, discomfort and go back to the jolliness. Unfortunately, jolliness is as precarious as all the above monsters. Unfortunately too, love can also be classified as a state of mind, so it is also quite prone to precariousness.

It goes exactly the same when I attempt to write. While my trigger for writing is pretty clear (i.e. uncomfortable circumstances, tonight more precisely the pouring Parisian rain) it's never easy picking the subject, the plot, the punch line. Allow me to exemplify. I was torn between making this post about how horribly frustrating it feels when you're facing language barriers and cannot fully speak your mind, then I remembered that my boss wears green glasses and teddy bear socks, so everything must be okay. Then I was getting ready to unravel my only good piece of advice when it comes to love, but I remembered a sad love story and put the romanticism on hold, just to giggle the moment after when thinking randomly about a certain him. I ended up writing about, well, a little bit of this and little bit of that, some sort of corny, some sort of frisky, scarily accordingly to my own way of being.

And while, despite the evidence, at macro level I have it almost all figured out, my day-to-day is still trivially composed of an endless string of little nothings about which, ultimately, I cannot decide how I feel.

I hate...being bipolar...is so good.

I Will Run until My Feet No Longer Run No More

I used to think running is foolish. What would it take to change my mind?

Tell me it clears my head.
Tell me it makes me look better.
Tell me the road is mine only and mine to keep.
Sprinkle my way with surprising people that make it hard not to run away from all the bad.
Take away all the balance I knew and relied upon.
Take me away.
Make me take decisions.
Challenge me and my jolliness.
Acknowledge me, that makes it all real and intimidating.

I started running and I am for sure running away. But at least I am moving forward, until my feet no longer run no more.

The First Day (of the Rest of my Life)

At this point I reckon I've been pretty outspoken about it, so there's probably no one not aware that as of this Friday I'm living in Paris for the following half a year.

Obviously, some fresh thoughts after my weekend spent here.

CDG airport is really pretty and well organized. I literally had my luggage running on the belt in around 10 minutes, which would never happen in Bucharest. Or in Amsterdam. Or wherever. Might have been just a fluke but it doesn't matter. Afterwards, the way to the bus/metro/taxis was quite comprehensive, so some more extra points for this unexpected French effectiveness. Even more extras for the taxi service, safe and fast and not at all dubious, with a really pleasant chauffeur. A little expensive, but totally worth the money.

Then the hotel for the first night. It was supposed to be a 3-star but was far from it. Kudos to the friendliness of the staff, who despite their limited English tried their best to cater to my needs.

Vive Google maps, who allowed me to get myself around in a really efficient manner. Vive the (only) nice girl from HR who took care to book a hotel at a walking distance from the studio they rented out for me.

The apartment. Is really cozy, equipped wonderfully with everything from teaspoons to pillows and to a washing machine. Even if it is rather small and built in a strange old building with a twisted wooden staircase, it is perfectly chic, modern, and suited to my needs. Extra points for the white furniture and for the surpise bed under my double bed. More extra points for the quiet and safe neighbourhood, and for the proximity to the city center. A small minus for being rather far from the office in the suburbs, but I guess this is the trade-off, ultimately the most advantegeous one.

The food. Just the one from the supermarket I've tried, priced moderately, somewhere between Bucharest and Oslo. The range of products is good, I'll not suffer from scarcity. Oh and I discovered they have Marks and Spencer food stores, so a big hurray!

The people. Look calm, polished and beautiful, and they speak this amazing language I shamefully cannot produce properly.

I this first weekend I walked over 15 km, discovered some Starbuckses and a huge Haagen-Dazs store,  bought groceries and office pants (not from the same place),wandered the entire Champs-Elysees, saw the Triumph Arch, got lost, was asked for directions, spoke a bit of French, was visited by a neighbour, unpacked my bags, and plenty more. 

What I did not do, despite the evidence, is be sad or homesick. So this can only mean these are the first days of the rest of my life, living my honeymoon stage with Paris.