Last semester, I studied abroad in Paris. Like every post-study abroad student has probably remarked, “It was amazing. It was a dream– a fairytale.” And it was. Here’s the proof:
Started from the bottom (now we’re back at the bottom)
I decided to study abroad one day while sitting in my cramped, triple dorm-room, asking myself how I was paying so much money for fluorescent lighting and a mattress that doesn’t even have springs.
With the constant presence of a gurgling recycled-air conditioner and a mildew smell that most certainly came from someone’s basement, that dorm room was the epitome of “the bottom.”
It didn’t have evil step sisters (only Veronika and Amaya), but completing my own chores in that dorm room was enough of a personal hell.
For laundry, I would have to walk down three flights of stairs and then to another building only to be met with a dozen busy 40-year-old washing machines that either swallowed my pennies or my pride.
Then, upon returning to the anarchy of a laundry room at Murphree Commons, I would find my clothes dumped out on the table with my red panties on display because I was a MINUTE late.
Cooking was another ordeal altogether.
The kitchen was placed on the second floor, below my room.
Anytime I wanted to even toast a waffle — in a toaster-less kitchen — I would have to haul down a cooking sheet, a fork, possibly a knife, a plate and some whipped cream.
To make matters worse, the door to the kitchen weighed 80 pounds and would slam upon impact, waking up the poor second-floor girls all because Victoria just wanted one waffle at 8 a.m. before class.
And no, we couldn’t keep a toaster in the room. Fire hazard? Yes. At the expense of my mental state? Also yes.
So, as you can see, I started my fairytale from the bottom, just like Cinderella (Although now I’m back in Gainesville and I don’t believe Cinderella moved back after 6 months).
The godmother
I don’t think I actually have a godmother, but if I do, she’s somewhere in Russia and definitely not at all concerned with my study abroad plans.
I did, however, have an amazing advisor, Nicole, at the International Center who helped me through each mini and major breakdown.
Nicole helped me collect documents, stressfully secure a visa and was a huge mental support throughout the whole process.
She didn’t turn my car into a carriage, but I still sent her a postcard with a cheesy-looking, over-edited Eiffel tower.
The shoe didn’t fit
Re-evaluating my wardrobe for Paris standards was a humbling experience.
My clothes were rags compared to some of the unofficial models, or, as they call them in Paris, regular people.
From thousand-dollar double-breasted coats to white leather stiletto boots, these people were on a completely different level.
I had to thrift shop until I dropped and woke up an entire hour earlier just to fit in, something Cinderella surely felt at the ball.
But a few weeks in, I was looking and feeling better than I ever have in my whole life, and all it took was a bit of style and societal pressure.
The evil stepmom
When I first got to Paris in late August (in the middle of a heatwave), I moved into a studio above a family for whom I would au-pair; an au-pair is a live-in nanny who works for free in exchange for room and board.
The problem, though, was that the studio was an hour away from my classes, and after two months of commuting, I had had enough and decided to move into the city.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d be moving in with my own evil stepmom, on par with Cinderella’s.
At first, the French host family wasn’t bad.
Diane, or more commonly known as Cruella in my personal anecdotes, was a chef and had two little twin kids with adorable French voices.
However, I found out on the second morning that those voices are a lot less adorable when they’re screaming every morning at 7 a.m., and Cruella screamed back.
After telling Cruella that this was not, in fact, normal, she proceeded to tell me her kids don’t listen to her, so I can try my own hand at parenting– so I did.
I wrote a nice note telling the kids to “SHUSHHHHH” in the mornings so poor Vik can get some sleep. And it worked– for one morning.
Unfortunately, Cruella saw this note as a cruel act towards my evil step-siblings, I mean, my host siblings, and decided to start treating me like the American scum I was (I wasn’t).
So now during dinners, the fancy foie gras was reserved for her biological children while I got pasta and bread.
Yeah, it was that bad; at least Cinderella’s stepmom acknowledged her sometimes.
Finally, my prince charming
Paris was more than amazing, aside from the evil stepmom, of course.
The city had a lot to offer, from gourmet desserts to delicious baguettes (and boys).
The dating scene there was not shy of romantic boat rides and nightly motorcycle escapades, like every rom-com promised.
I dined with fine men, went on dates at the opera, and drank fancy cocktails after class (I was legal there, I swear).
And when I was dating a certain British Prince Charming named Andrew, we went to wine-and-cheese festivals, took a weekend trip to Champagne and once even ordered a £20 drink with a rose petal in it (it was disgusting).
There were moments where I couldn’t believe my life was real, like when we walked hand-in-hand along the Seine river, stepped on the same stones as Hemmingway or read on the grass of the Louvre gardens.
The other Prince Charmings — Alex, Marc and Darcy– were all amazing as well, but we were balling on a budget, so it wasn’t quite so Cinderella-y.
Leave before midnight
Just like fleeing Cinderella, I was forced to run off from my “balls” (aka bars) to catch the metro that closed at 1 a.m. before my white leather stilettos turned into ugly Uggs.
Although it wouldn’t turn into pumpkin if I was late, missing the metro was cause for a very expensive Uber– I think I would’ve preferred to ride home with the mice.
My fairytale wasn’t perfect, but neither was her’s
Not every day of study abroad is perfect.
I had my struggles, yes, but whose fairytale doesn’t?
For some reason, we assume that the good comes without the bad, even though good is only a perception of comparison.
The less dreamy parts of study abroad truly taught me how to woman-up.
I faced adult bullies and stared scary men in the eyes.
I learned how to mail in a letter (in French!) and how to order a good white wine while an intimidating French waiter was tapping his foot with impatience.
I learned how to speak, with many “ums” “uhs” and “bahhhhs,” in a foreign language and dance bachata like I was on “Dancing with the (sexy) Stars of France.”
Cinderella had to face her bullies, too, and learn that life, even with a godmother, is hard.
But she found her prince charming, and we haven’t seen their divorce in the news yet, so let’s hope she’s okay.
I didn’t marry any of my prince charmings in the end, but I got memories and hot Instagram pictures for life.