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Anna Kluender

WR 13300

Dr. McLaughlin

Oral Narrative--DRAFT

31 Jan. 2017

Beauty in Imperfection

My first day in Paris was a whirlwind of back-to-back stops: Versailles, crowded and hot.

The Louvre, fast-paced and overwhelming. The Champs-Elyses, reeking of privilege. Sleep in

unfamiliar beds and then repeat it all over again. The elegant women and beret-wearing men of

the Paris of my dreams were missing from the Paris I experienced.

Still, I was determined to enjoy dinner that night at the finest restaurant we could afford.

Id chosen my outfit for the evening carefully, a cream shirt and a patterned blue skirt. There was

something about walking around Paris in fancy clothes that made me feel grown-up in a way I

hadnt before. In spite of my accidental order of braised pig, the dinner was so well-enjoyed that

we became late for our reservations to climb the Arc de Triomphe to see the city at night.

We rushed to the station, sprinting down the corridors to catch the train just in time.

Throughout our time in Paris, we had been instructed to guard everything important near our

bodies while on the metro, so I clutched my camera, purse, and passport close to my chest. I was

doing everything right.

Suddenly, I felt a quick rush of pressure down the back of my legs. A swish of fabric as

my skirt fluttered back into place. A firm shove to my shoulder as one of my instructors, Alisha,

moved in front of the three teenage pickpockets seated behind me. I stumbled, confused,
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listening. I slowly put the pieces together: the boys had lifted my skirt and enjoyed the eyeful

while I stood unaware.

Vous me dgotez, Alisha spat at the boys in rapid-fire French. She turned to another

student behind us: Lve-toi, sil te plait. Get up, she was saying. Let Anna sit there. He stood

quickly and she pushed me into his seat. I only caught a few words as she fired insult after insult

at the boys until the next stop when we exited the train. As a group, we rushed up the steps

towards the base of the Arc de Triomphe.

All I could focus on was climbing up, up, up the narrow staircase. Finally we burst onto

the roof to see Paris in its glory shimmering before us. Id dreamt of this moment for years. This

was the pinnacle of my time in France.

And I was crying.

I wasnt sure when Id started crying, but there I was, on top of the world, seeing the City

of Light spread out below me. I turned my attention to the Eiffel Tower, knowing I would climb

it the next day, realizing a longtime fantasy. But before that, I would have to get through the rest

of the night. I knew what awaited me after descending the Arc de Triomphe, and it wasnt elation

or even rest after a long day of touring the city. It was a horrible, gut-wrenching meeting to

discuss the nights events.

I glanced to my left and caught sight of a group of my friends laughing and taking

pictures arm-in-arm with the city as their gorgeous backdrop. These were my closest friends, yet

where had they been when I needed them? I felt a flash of white-hot envy. How was it fair that

they could simply enjoy this night while I was forced to come to terms with the filth of Paris?

As I stood on the edge of the roof catching my breath from the climb, studying the lights,

I knew I was where Id always wanted to be. But in getting there, Id lost something that I could
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never get back. Fuck Paris, I thought. This was the most beautiful way to see the city of my

dreams and I had to see it through tears.

I lifted my camera to my eye and took a clichd shot of the Eiffel Tower. I looked at the

picture through blurred eyes. Here I was, living my dream, but only going through the motions. It

was so tempting to give in to circumstances that were out of my control, to be the victim. I tried

to get angry, to hate the city and the metro and the stupid French boys whod violated me and

who would never be punished. I tried to hate the dream Id held on to for so long. I was struck by

the immense feeling of being an outsider in the country Id grown to call home.

Despite how tempting it was to give in, I knew then [pause] that if I let my entire trip be

defined by one shameful moment, I wasnt doing it justice. True, every time I looked at Paris

from now on I would see it through a lens of grime. But I could choose how I remembered this

night. And standing there, on the roof of the Arc de Triomphe, I chose to remember it all. Every

second, every photograph, every experiencethey all shaped how I saw Paris. And I refused to

let anyone else be in charge of that but me. PAUSE

That photograph from atop the Arc de Triomphe now sits on my dresser. When I see it, I

dont remember the boys on the metro. I remember how it felt to see the Mona Lisa, the taste of

my first crpe, and the fierce goodbye hug from my host sister. I remember the dream I had for

so long and how its no longer a pristine dream, but an imperfect memory.