Ever since I was a child, I’ve been fascinated with France. I have no family connection to the country, other than my Serbian grandfather passing through occupied France as a German prisoner of war.
I first travelled to Paris as a 25-year-old. Armed with my trusty Lonely Planet guides, I had booked every night of accommodation for my six-week solo trip through France and Italy. But when I got to Paris, all those plans went out the window.
On the descent into Charles de Gaulle airport, I had an overwhelming sense of homecoming, one that manifested physically in body-shaking sobbing and a nosebleed.
I felt home. I had never felt like that in Australia where I was born and raised. But on that trip, I began trusting in life.
I had an overwhelming sense of homecoming, one that manifested physically in body-shaking sobbing and a nosebleed
I’d had an overly protective upbringing and was an overly serious young person. I’d find out my colleagues had been out for drinks, and no one had thought to invite me. Or I’d pike out on going clubbing with my best friend because I was so self-conscious about jiggling round on a dance floor. I’d been denying myself fun times, squandering opportunities for adventure, all because of fear: of looking foolish, of being rejected.
This trip was my first experience of delving alone into the unknown. I was so homesick and afraid, I almost flew home early. But it felt imperative to break through this rite of passage, and I had to do it alone.
I ate Moroccan food for the first time with my hostel roommates. I meandered down Rue Mouffetard and inhaled the aroma of potatoes roasting in a tray beneath rows of rotisserie chickens. I watched couples waltzing on a Sunday morning in a public square. I took every chance to have fun, my fear lessening with each passing day.
This trip was my first experience of delving alone into the unknown. I was so homesick and afraid, I almost flew home early
At 30, I returned to Paris. This time, with a 12-month working holiday visa.
When I told people of my plans, some told me how courageous they thought I was. I found that confusing. I didn’t feel brave. I was terrified, mostly of running out of money and having to return home early shrouded in humiliation. But it was true that stronger than my fear was the desire to live out this dream. I wouldn’t die wondering.
Despite myriad new distractions at my disposal, I found that in the confined space of my tiny new bedroom, I came face to face with myself in a way I’d easily been able to avoid before. It was as though the room was lined with mirrors. It was confronting, to say the least, but it was time to stare down my demons. My motivation? To displace fear as my life’s governing force.
It was time to stare down my demons. My motivation? To displace fear as my life’s governing force
It was there I began to observe my self-talk (ranging from disparaging to scathing) and came up with replacement commentary that was exclusively loving and kind (which eventually worked via much faking it till I made it).
It was there I began the demolition process on my toxic habit of judging and criticising myself and others. It was there I began to dismantle my expectations to behave flawlessly.
Like the best person in my life, the city was there for me. I found solace and pleasure with her everywhere: on exploratory walks, in independent cinemas and second-hand bookshops, strolling through parks or swinging my legs over the Seine.
It was there I began to observe my self-talk and came up with replacement commentary that was exclusively loving and kind
When my year was up, I was bereft. I was just getting the hang of things when I had to leave. Like losing a loved one, I was inconsolable for a year after returning to Sydney.
To save myself, I had to go back, bring my heart home. Two months there did the trick. I stayed with friends, had light-hearted and deep conversations, spoke French with relaxed fluidity and revisited all my favourite haunts. I finally accepted that my time there was over. It occurred to me that ‘home’ was right here with me, wherever in the world I might be.
In December 2022, I had the chance to visit again. Twelve years had passed. This time, I was a proper grown-up who’d taken full responsibility for herself. I’d been practising that simple trick to living well: being present in the moment.
Desanka in Paris, October 2010. Source: Supplied
This time, I wanted to discover new places, new streets, stumble upon conversations with new faces, find parts of Paris new to my eyes and ears and nose and body. I had made no plans, other than to see some friends who were still living there. I just wanted to be and rest.
I’d been practising that simple trick to living well: being present in the moment
One day, I got lost. I was momentarily afraid. I felt exposed, vulnerable. I sat on the terrace of a corner bar and ordered a glass of wine to regroup. Where did that fear bubble up from? What exactly was I afraid of?
Looking around, people were going about their business: a young couple getting their groceries, the barman’s girlfriend enjoying a cigarette before she joined him on shift, a mother and daughter sharing lunch at the next table. I breathed in, breathed out, sipped my wine, contemplated my mild panic.
Since that year of living in France, I had been freeing myself from fear every day, month, year. So why was I still afraid?
In that moment, I took stock of how often I hold my body in a even though no lion was chasing me. What a waste of energy it was, how much stress it put me under, that fight, flight or freeze response. It cut me off from thinking clearly.
That afternoon, as I people-watched at the corner bar, I let the stress melt away. It had no place on the buzzing terrace. Fear has tremendous power over us. But there is tremendous power in realising that we get to control it, diminish it, dissolve it. The feeling of my brain relaxing brought such relief.
Fear has tremendous power over us. But there is tremendous power in realising that we get to control it, diminish it, dissolve it
I smiled when, from where I sat, I spotted the street I had been heading towards when I ‘got lost’. Then it occurred to me that while I lived here, I always sat at the very back of a bar or café, where I could see, but not be seen. All these years later, here I was comfortably sitting front and centre outside a bar on a bustling street. I was no longer drawn to that defensive, hidden position.
After a long absence, Paris again welcomed me home, showed me her hidden surprises and urged me to return, much sooner next time, to uncover more of her mysteries and mine, more of the wisdom and truth and beauty that lies within us both. Some cities do that.
