By RJG

Well ladies & gentlemen, I’m sharing this Lifelike in Paris Story for the historical record. Please don’t take it as detailed advice, other than this part:

I firmly believe that when you are doing what you’re supposed to be doing – the work you’re meant to do on this earth – or when you’re fully accepting your place in the spot you’re supposed to be in, you’ll meet the right person for you. (if that’s what’s supposed to happen) I cringe when I look back at the relationships I had when I was in Florida. I’d been ignoring my calling, trying to live a life to please others rather than myself, and the result was one unhealthy relationship after another.

One day, I stopped fighting, forcing and fixing what wasn’t working and decided to go be where I’d always wanted to be. Two months after I arrived, I met my match.

So, for the how.

One night, about three weeks after I’d finally moved into my apartment – the drama of running away from a crazy au pair family and trying to rent an apartment in Paris in the Fall will have to be left to another post – I turned on the television. There was some sort of sporting event just coming on. It reminded me of American Football, but there was just one problem – the players weren’t wearing any protection. No pads, no helmets, nothing! And they were running into each other with the same amount of violence as football players do. These were crazy people! Plus, the rules were clearly different – the ball could touch the ground, but play continued – and the goalposts looked funny.

Coming from a city where college football is not a sport, but a religion, this game intrigued me. But I didn’t understand it. I thought, ” hmmm. If only I knew someone who could explain the rules.”

I remembered that there was an English pub around the corner from my new place. My best friend & I had been there during our first trip in 2001. But I didn’t have anybody to go with me this time. I knew some girls from my MA program, but they didn’t seem like the type to want to go. Plus, it would have taken them forever to get to my neighborhood.

I looked at the TV.

I looked at my dog.

TV.

Dog.

TV.

Dog.

I could either sit there alone with my dog, or I could take my self around the corner and find someone to explain this game to me.

So, I got off my behind.

Now dear readers, I sense that some of you may be pulling away from me. After all, I seem to be advocating that women living alone in large metropolitan areas should make a habit of going to pubs or bars by themselves. Part of me wants to reassure you that I’m not. But another part wants to fight against the idea that it isn’t ladylike for a woman to do whatever she feels like doing.

That said, there are a few rules I believe anyone should follow when going out on their own. 1 – Be familiar with the area. Know how to get there and how to get home by more than one route. 2 – When you arrive, go directly to the bar. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. 3 – Make sure the bar staff knows that you are there on your own. You should not say this out loud. Instead, make some small talk – don’t get in the way of their work – just so they know you’re there. You can’t depend on them to watch out for you – they are at work after all – but they have an interest in you being safe in their bar. (This advice is best reserved for small places. Never tried it in big clubs, don’t plan to.)

Essentially, it comes down to this: I’d moved to a foreign country by myself. How is that any less dangerous than going to a pub?

Well dear reader, the demands of mommyhood/Paris/my rumbly stomach are upon me & I must pause. The rest of the story is coming soon!

…we will also tell you a little more about this writer on Part II, coming next week. Would love to hear your own stories!