Apologies, for Losing my Cooling

Making excuses can become a vicious hobby. If you are preoccupied with developing your career, it may in time even turn into a full time job. Should you want to go and surf a little bit the scholar side, you might as well get your PhD in the art of being apologetic. And you reckon it's okay, like with all your other nasty habits, you think that if all the others do it, more or less, it is for sure acceptable and why not somewhat normal. But what happens when making excuses becomes a way of life, the only one you acknowledge? When you're so far off in this soothing routine that you start making excuses even to your own self? Say you reach that awkward moment when you are so caught up into finding an excuse for the frustration, or the unhappiness, or all the things happening (or not) in your world that it soaks up all your stamina. Say I reached it.

I personally make excuses, I'd even say I mastered an expert level. You'd imagine, since I so like to excel in everything I embark upon, with a slight preference for the destructive. I feed them excuses back and forward. Sometimes because I am lazy, sometimes cause I am introverted or weak or afraid. Other times because I am a too naive, and despite all odds still a believer. I make excuses equally for and to myself, unbiasedly for and  to the people around me. But so much conciliatory feedback and forth has got me fed up.

I know it should be as simple as this. If you suck at doing your job, it is probably because for some sort of twisted reason it is not the right one for you. If one does not make you equally peaceful and thrilled, it is simply probably because they are not the right one for you. If someone doesn't write or call or <insert random action> you back, it's because they don't want to. If people are constantly cold or mean, it is not because they are damaged or twisted and they secretly need you to fix them, it is just because they don't care enough to make an effort. So they probably don't deserve any effort back, not even the one to make an excuse for them.  If you are not happy with something, it is probably because you are doing it wrong, and not because all the planets aligned in order for you to be miserable. And yes, I cannot only imagine, but also know, that most of the time, making an excuse is easier than standing up to any kind of discomfort. But also I, the ultimate excuse junkie, can vouch that (more often than just) sometimes this string of easiest choices and this tray of appealing apologetic cupcakes ends up in a huge pile of debris. Okay, maybe this was a bit too figuratively put. Or too culinary?

For what is worth, as I conceded before, life is too short to remove usb safely. Or to keep making excuses when it gets down to your own hapiness. Eeerm, apologies, but can we try for a little while no alarms and no surprises, and no more excuses, please?

Unless they are the really good kind.

Everything is Changing and I Don't Feel the Same

So I say I wander my own land. I've chosen, more or less, to wander here, stating  not to fear the distance, the loneliness, the novelty or the change. And it's true, distance gives me perspective, loneliness (although extremely rare and momentary) gives me time (though not so much as I expected and needed) to introspect and quietness (if I ignore my neighbors moving furniture all the time) to think about my own self, novelty is amazing by its own nature, change however gives me mixed feelings.

See, unlike some people who have a huge list of golden rules and principles (and good for them!), I don't have too many stable lifelong beliefs (and yes, I know saying that is redundant, we already set in stone my bipolarity). But on the tip of my tongue these days happens to be one of them, which is of course the trigger for this odyssey (or more like soap opera) episode.

I often say (and also strongly believe it) that people cannot change fundamentally, of course, without completely excluding that one exception that confirms the rule, which to my defense, I did not yet have the chance to encounter. I agree, people might be influenced by their fellows (sometimes friends, more often than normal enemies [drumroll.... inception, parentheses within parentheses, just to briefly touch on our dysfunctional habit of putting in more effort to impress people we don't like than people we like, doing and trying things we wouldn't normally do] to try another type of music, to adopt a funkier styling or to smoke a cigarette. This range of different endeavors, scaled according to their importance, say 1 for tasting a spicy pork roll when you don't really like pork and 10 for moving in with your friend's friend, who you happen not to stand (not sure if I got the grading accurately but you see my point), can depict some fleeting behavioural adaptation, but, who are we kidding, not a veritable change of character. So, bad news to all the dreamy girls out there who are dating jerks and still hope they will change in time. Mmmnope, they most definitely won't, so if a nice guy is what you want, just find one that is already nice.

Now that I clarified the 'never-changing paradigm', of course there's a corollary, actually the topic I wanted to develop to begin with. Despite their characters which are bound not to change, people are experiencing  ever-changing circumstances, feelings, relationships. And this is what worries me, the dynamics of all these elements that I cannot control, which even if not fundamentally changing me or my significant others, do have a huge say on how our course of events develops.

I guess there is no unique approach and probably no generally accepted good way to act upon change hitting us. Some people shut up about it, choosing to disappear in the tenebrousness of the change that was imposed on them, to ignore the mess and to run away from taking responsibility (a neverending run if you ask me). Some book a ticket last minute and they go back in time, to indulge in what used to be before the change (a momentary run if you ask me). Some others slap the change in her face with some more change, giving up on any trace of balance (reckless behaviour if you ask me, the one I personally embrace most, resulting in blonde hair for example).

See, I don't know if  anyone gets my point, these guys don't . The essence is there if we change the song name though. Everything is changing. And I don't feel the same.

You Own Me, Lucky You.

One quarter down from the first third of my very own life changing experience, one of the first slightly sour evenings, thus a sudden urge to write down the things I've learned and/or experienced so far.

Firstly about Paris, France and the French. No stereotype setting intended, but simply a biased subjective summary of the stuff I had the fortune/misfortune to go through. The first impressions, expressed here, obviously remain valid.

The almighty cornerstone, which unfortunately sets the pace and mood for each and every of my days here: the language. While pleasant for the ear, it's painful to be learnt. And how naive should an expat be to even hope of fast becoming articulate and having a dreamy accent accompanying an incredibly fast-paced discourse?  So yes, here, they speak a lot, and fast, and loud, both to the point and beating around the bush. And no, having studied French for a decade and a half does not help much, it all resets when speaking to a native. And no, if they have the French option open, they will not speak to you in another language.

The food. Is still great, and I say this after having tried several traditional dishes and also international food cooked their way. Sweets are unbelievable, probably a reasonable explanation for the tons of weight I've put on. But then again, how could one give up on their 'macaron', 'croissant', 'eclair' or 'pain au chocolat'? Then again, after my other expat experience in Norway (more details right here), no wonder the French food is a miracle. Their cheese, their wine, their quiches, goddam'em.

The people. Are really nice in general, but considerably kinder if you make the effort to address them in their own language (yes, again the language paradigm, I might have a slight obsession). The guys are pretty shy, and, as previously noted, pretty...pretty, probably way too pretty. And they're really big on Eastpack backpacks, literally each Parisian guy has one. The women are outspoken and straightforward, and not as stereotypically ladylike and fashionable as I would have expected. Oh and really big on tights and blonde highlights. I mean really, really enthusiastic. Overall they're quite pleasant people, having managed to shake out  my preconception about the rude typical French. All peachy peachy, but have I mentioned the 'no English language' policy?

Places to visit, things to do. The abundance is overwhelming, and I'm still baffled by my cheesy girly nature and by how a quick glimpse to a tacky sparkling Tour Eiffel can turn my day around. Seriously speaking though, Paris has so much to offer,  that planning a trip here should be on anyone's shortlist. I'm not going to start enumerating a list of landmarks to be more convincing, you can find a 'top 10' or a 'top 50' anywhere. Just know it from me as well that when it comes to travelling, Paris, it is worth it!

Miscellaneous. A few more random facts before the length of the opinion-sharing becomes unbearable. Really tiny, overpriced, cozy apartments, a weirdly inefficient and slow work rhythm, great transportation system, strangely high prices for cosmetics, many benefits for youth under 26, a fair range of shopping opportunities, very moody weather.

Secondly, about me in Paris. Basically, the equation is simple, Crina+Paris=Love. But then again, on one hand anyone+Paris=Love, on the other Crina+anything can equal love if the circumstances are right, this being an (obvious) hint to my being prone to getting overly attached to people, places, objects, especially on grounds of novelty and loneliness. Fact is that even though I am terribly missing some elements from back home and I have it rough sometimes, for the time being I am (overall) happier here than anywhere else I've been before. Fact is that after seas and oceans of Bucharest tears, the first shy wave of Parisian ones is apparently yet to arrive, so something must be right. Fact is that I am my worst critic, and this is crippling my joy and taking away some of this great experience, also keeping myself from bringing my A game. Fact is that I am happy, but not happy enough, I am doing good, but not good enough.

So Paris, you own me, lucky you. Why won't you own me already?

To Wish Impossible Things

I kept wishing my life to be at least slightly less complicated.I would clench my teeth every time things would go weird and be stressed through the roof at the slightest sign of derail from the planned trajectory. Every time something would not go as my (mild) inner control freak would imagine, I would summon the Gods and have that awkward conversation about what I keep doing wrong to deserve such intricacies. Then I would remind them that I already had my fair share of convoluted, so some monotony would be good for a change. 

Of course, derailments and delays would occur as frequently as in our beloved national railway system. And what else remained there than to stir up the drama, to pump up the blood pressure, murder some afore-happy neurons, complain tons, get on people's nerves a lot and come out as a needy brat, cry some supposedly legit tears and curse a little more whoever was making everything so complicated. Whatever this complicated meant, and measured relative to...whatever. 

Random or deep equally, everything would get to me. See, I wished I were less sensitive, both teeth wise and emotions wise, for example. I wished I would love without a 2000+ km lag, but I guess even if people and circumstances change significantly, that doesn't seem to get better. I wished I did not feel the strange need to prove I was worth it all the time. I wished I found the perfect shampoo and I wouldn't hate conditioner so much, that would have made things easier for my hair, whom I worship even if not worshiped back, despite of the literal twists and turns and breaks. I wished I were not so sickish and fearful. I wished I could get to that point when I would concede I have enough stuff and voluntarily decide to stop recurring to shopping therapy, thus putting an end to literally buying something (no matter how insignificant) every single day. I wished for more honest conversations and screamed out loud affection. I hoped I would stop eating out of boredom and get over my newly acquired weight self-consciousness. I wished I figured out where I wanted to go professionally. I wished I spoke perfect French and I didn't choose to be shy and introvert in the outmost inappropriate circumstances. I wished I lost my stupid nervous guffaw I bursted into every time I didn't know how to handle a situation. 

Less drama, more balance, more intimacy, less awkwardness, more genuine laughter, less shutting in, plane tickets bought in the right direction, nails not breaking, the right person/place/time mix, cheesiness in cheese cake only, longer and warmer days, a sense of security and a pointer to what is right,  ratless picnics on the shore of Seine, these are merely a percentile of what I would have liked to see change.

I kept wishing my life to be at least slightly less complicated, so I would cry my heart out longing for some straightforward happenings. Four weeks of wonderfully estranged being, and I dry cheekedly say that I might as well have learnt something the hard way, while fullheartedly diving into the complicated. To stop wishing for impossible things. 

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.