The final post?

No one warns you about the emotions that will rush over you once you return home. All anyone (yourself included) talks about, is how different it will feel once you arrive abroad, and how amazing it will be. The topic that gets overlooked however, is the culture shock you will face upon returning home.

If you are anywhere for a substantial amount of time, especially a place where they speak a different language, it can be overwhelming. You eventually get accustomed to hearing another language besides your native tongue surrounding you. You may pick up some of the language, expressions, or tone. What you don’t think about, is once you return home, you will be yanked out of that environment you’ve been living in for the last 15 months. There is no gradual movement back into that life. I went from hearing French around me the morning I flew out (and for 15 months), to hearing solely English being spoken later that evening. I found myself being startled in the grocery store, hearing everyones conversations, and them hearing mine.

Don’t get me wrong, I have been quite pleased getting reacquainted with some of my favorite things and conveniences that live in the USA. But boy do I miss a bunch of things.

We are all well to aware of the culture shock you will face once going abroad, but the silent killer – is the culture shock that waits for you once you return home.

I have put off writing my ‘last post’ or not even necessarily my final post pertaining to my time in Paris, or experiences with being an au pair. But I have been putting off writing a piece about how it feels to leave, and to come home. How it feels to be back with all of your familiar – yet unfamiliar surroundings. I put it off, I suppose, to delay the inevitable. The inevitable being that I fully acknowledge that my time is finished. Clearly I know it’s over, and it has been for nearly 6 weeks now. There is just something about putting it into writing, that makes something so obsolete. There have been plenty of topics that I have yet (and may never) touch on in this blog, simply for the fact that I know that once I put pen to paper- or in this case typed words onto this blog, that some things may finally end. Whether that be moments had solo, relationships formed, memories savored, or in the larger sense, my entire time in Paris. So although I realize I can’t avoid writing a sort of, ‘end piece’ to my time had in France, I may still savor a few thoughts just for myself, in the hopes to make a few things last a little longer.

Returning home, is not as simple as it sounds. I suppose that if you went abroad, leaving certain belongings such as a car, apartment, and a secured job position for your return, things wouldn’t be too difficult. But, if when you left, you took off leaving no car, apartment, or secured job position, things may be just a tad difficult when that return date appears.

For example, the first thing you naturally think to get taken care of once returning to the States, is a job. But in order to get to a job, you’ll need transportation. Unless however, you live in a place where public transportation is a reliable, and frequent source. Either way, you will need some way to get to and from your place of work. The downside of that is, in order to get a vehicle, you need a number of things. Such as proof of residence – which you clearly don’t have, since you’ve been out of the country for the last 15 months. Secondly, you’ll need proof of income (and technically months of proof) – which again, you don’t have since you’ve just returned to the country. So you can see the dilema. You can’t get one, without the other, but you can’t get the other, without the one. I used to think that leaving to go to France was a headache, with all the paperworks and hoop jumping. I didn’t realize I would have to continue the hoop jumping once returning to my own home State. So long story short, this entire process is not for the faint of heart. You must be in it to win it, both with deciding to go abroad (and have the best experience of your life) but also the stamina to continue that gung-ho attitude, pushing forward once being back State side.

I still don’t know if I’m ready to label this post as the ‘end’. So for now, I won’t.
  

Next stop, Oregon

“It is both a blessing and a curse to know and to love two countries”

When I read this sentence in a book, I instantly knew it would be a sentence that would resonate deep within me. It would shake me down to the core, and sit with me for the remainder of time.

Currently on the last leg of my travels back home. Despite me having nearly 15 hours of alone time, to sit and reflect, I haven’t been able to let my mind realize it’s really over yet.

I suppose the excitement of returning home, and the realization that within a matter of 2 hours, I will be reunited with the most important people in my life – is probably a big factor for me not being too emotional at this point.

I had felt guilty these last couple weeks. Anytime I spoke with family or friends back home, and they expressed their joy about my return, it would be matched by a less than enthusiastic response. That response was not from a lack of excitement of seeing them, but moreso, I felt I needed to only focus on my last few days in Paris. Call it selfish, call it what you will, but it was necessary. I wanted to hang out to those moments until the very last second. Now, that it’s all said and done, I’m pretty positive I managed to do that.

The last night was spent with the remainder of my friends here in Paris. The weather was dark and gloomy the entire day, that was until we stepped out to meet at the Pont Alexandre 111 bridge. The clouds parted, and greeted us with a spectacular sunset of shades of pinks and oranges surrounding us. We made toasts, popped the champagne, and reminicsed. Scottie and I laughed over the story of how we became friends. How she originally thought (and currently still does) I was “one crazy American”.

We made our way near Chatelet, but managed to get lost. A group of girls that have all lived here for 15 months or more, and we lost our way. Maybe it was due to the champagne, or maybe it was because we weren’t necessarily too concerned with our exact steps. We were just in the moment, enjoying Paris, one last time together. During out lost stroll, we managed to see the Notre Dame, cross over the Pont Neuf bridge, glide past Hotel De Ville, just in time to meet up with the rest of the group.

Greeting one another with ‘Salut’s’ the double cheek kiss, and hugs that were tighter – and longer than normal, just ensuring we expressed that we knew what was coming later that night. Clinking glasses, saying ‘Sante’ and making sure we all made eye contact. These were the moments. Nothing extravagent, and even when the line for the Fireman’s ball we expected to go to was too long, it didn’t matter. We were happy to just continue without forcing plans.

I’ll miss those beautiful cobble stone streets, I’ll miss it all.

Merci France, for truely, the best time of my life.
(There may be many grammatical, or spelling errors in here, seeing as it was written from a partial hungover, slew deprived and emotional mindset. So let’s just let it slide until I gain the energy to double check)    
    
    
    
    
    

   

  

   

One last drink

My last week in Paris was packed full with goodbye parties, last drinks to be grabbed with people I haven’t seen for a while. Even people who may have been an ex boo.

There were no hard feelings between T2 and I. We parted on a level of understanding. Realizing I was leaving, and some things just aren’t meant to work out. So since there were no hard feelings, we had agreed to get together one last time to grab some drinks before I took off.

He sent me the address for the place, which surprisingly was directly across the street of the place I had mentioned a while ago that T and I went to, and I later revisited with friends. My heart almost stopped when I walked down the street, following my google maps, only to look up and think ‘you’ve got to be kidding me’. Thankfully, his taste in places was not at the same level of original T’s, so no Labutte for us.

The evening was friendly, and nice to get a catch up in. There wasn’t any awkwardness, just two friends talking about old stories, and also discussing our futures. The one notable thing from that night however, is the two large bruise marks located on each side of his neck. ‘Am I imagining this?’ – I thought to myself. Clearly, he would not show up, in a deep V-neck T-shirt, knowing he has two very visible hickeys.  Au contraire , he did.
In typical T2 fashion, he found me making fun of him for it – to overshare about the intimate details as to where they came from. I was quickly reminded of one of the reasons things were never a perfect match for him and I.

Between going on dates with guys that overshared about their armpit sweat, to guys who say way too much about hickeys, France is now notorious for home of the over sharers. While some of the experiences have been cringe worthy, they have all made for funny stories.

Last weekend in Paris

A weekend with the English.
My last weekend in Paris was spent with a friend from across the pond.  It had been a trip that had been put off for quite some time, and thankfully was acted upon on my last weekend here.  

In the short amount of time he was here, we managed to walk to almost every end of Paris.  Taking in all the sites, revisiting my favorite streets, and enjoying in the local delicasies (frogs legs were consumed).  

It was a lovely distraction, having someone visiting and taking the role of tour guide.  It allowed me to share some of my favorite little hangouts, while not having to focus on the reality of me leaving within 48 hours.  

We managed to go up in the Eiffel Tower after consuming a bottle of champagne.  I felt that was the only appropriate way to do it.  If you’re going to go up the tower, you must have the bubbly in your system.  

It was the first time I’ve been up it during my time here, I’m glad I saved it for the end.  It was a delightful way to end the last weekend Paris.  

There are about a dozen emotions I’m currently feeling, and will put them all down once I have enough time to construct them.  
Stay tuned. 
                     
    
     

France is never a walk in the park, not for me at least

My apologies for the lack of structure in regards to my posts, and their timings. I am bouncing from future, to past, to super past, all without it being done in a chronological order. I suppose that’s representative of my mindset at the moment. So Je pense, maybe it’s better this way.

I’d like to briefly write about the moments leading up to the purchase of my ticket home. I should have expected that it would not be a piece of cake, seeing how nothing ever was when it came to France and I.

The entire process leading up to me coming here, my passport, visa, selling of furniture and car, couldn’t even be described as disasterous. It was worse than that. I may as well quickly pinpoint some of the events that took place before I came here, just to paint the picture for you all.

-A passport that was express shipped, got misdelivered, had the tracking number mistakingly given to another item (so now my passport had no tracking number)
-Not having the correct papers for my visa by the time I needed to purchase my plane ticket. Having to make my visa appointment in San Fransisco a mere 12 days before I was set to fly out to Paris. You could say I was a little nervous.
-Having to then turn my passport over to the French Embassy in SF, after just having gone through hell with locating it the previous week.
-Selling furniture over craigslist, and having to deal with the people of craigsist. My favorite one, would have to be the man that came and looked at my (amazing) vintage trunk, left to get a bigger car, and ‘accidently’ texted me saying “Do you want to have sex tonight?”. Needless to say, that was the last item I sold on craigslist.
-Having my car towed, break down, towed again in a matter of 2 days. Having to switch from selling a well kept, clean, running car, to now selling a car that had a fried engine. Engine damage that occurred from the car towing company, cracking an oil can, letting my poor innocent engine fry. Only later to find out, that my car just needed a new oil can. Unfortunately that news was discovered after I had already signed the title over to the new owner. So a total loss.

Now, with the purchase of a return ticket looming over my head, the nerves set in. Not only were emotions high due to the fact that I was now purchasing a one way ticket home. Ensuring that my time here is done, finis. Ending my life here in France is emotional enough. Unfortunately the emotions did not stop there, instead they were channeled in a less sad emotion, but rather a nervous/irritated emotion.

Somehow my bank had put a restricted amount on my debit card, ensuring I couldn’t make any purchase online greater than $250. Which is madness. Not only had I already made all the necessary calls back before I left, informing my bank about my time abroad, but who would put such a limit on their DEBIT card? Madness. A quick little plane ticket purchase, turned into nearly a two hour event. FaceTime being ran on my iPad to my mother, on my cell phone in the other hand on the airline webiste, and the house phone in one ear, making international calls to my bank at 2 am. After seven, yes SEVEN failed attempts at purchasing the ticket, it finally went through. ‘Great’ we thought, but the great quickly turned into panic when I had yet to receive any confirmation code, email, or anything confirming that I would have a plane ticket instead of just the price of a plane ticket coming out of my bank. As if this wasn’t exciting enough, I then was advised to speak with the plane company themselves, a German company. Lovely.

Long story short, although I suppose that this actually isn’t a ‘short’ version… so long story long, I received a confirmation about thirty minutes after the purchase went through. By the time this was all said and done, I didn’t have any energy to wrap my mind around the fact that it was set, my departure was set. So maybe it wasn’t a bad thing after all? Instead of being an emotional wreck at the idea of leaving, I was all too consumed by yet another classic Hannah experience.

I will say, I am looking forward to not having to deal with places like the prefecture, airlines, visa applications, etc for at least a little while.

Walking down memory lane

Last time I was here, I was with him. I arrived first – as I usually did with everyone here. He wanted to sit inside, as opposed to my choice I had already made, of sitting outside. No skin off my back, what T wants, is usually the best choice anyways. 
We squeezed our way into the heated room of the cafe, squishing our bodies into the only table left. The crispness of the winter air leaving us red faced with runny noses. We found ourselves sandwiched between all native French speakers, and I was the sore thumb. (when I say sandwiched, I literally mean as squished as physically possible. You practically sit on your neighbors lap during your meal). When I say sore thumb, I don’t necessarily mean for appearance reasons (because I try to blend in, and I am successful most of the time) but in the sense that I could not pronounce the limited French I knew, with the same grace and ease as those around me.  

He had been insisting for the last few months, that I improve my French. That I must step out of my comfort zone and dive head first. Which yes, it is true, I needed to. However, I was not expecting that head first dive to happen in such a public setting. T took it upon himself to jump start my Improvement in French, by refraining from speaking in English to me. He did that ‘adorable’ (hence the sarcasm) thing where he pretended to not understand me when I would respond in English. He had preformed a similar act back before this outing, when meeting my mother and sister for the first time. Although in that situation, he ended the game rather quickly. Here, he was determined to force me. Which may have led to a very quiet table. It would have been one thing, had we been somewhere less public, let alone sitting within touching distance of a dozen native French ears-who were bound to hear my butchered French very easily. I know he didn’t do it to be mean, his intentions were never out of meanness. They may come across as harsh or direct at times, but he always is doing it with the best of intentions.  

Siting here now, tonight, with only a week left of being here; I can almost transport myself back to that night.  

The night that was supposed to be the last night we saw one another. The night he ate a huge hamburger, ordered wine for the both of us (because he knows what he’s doing) and then walked to the sacré cœur. It was one of those nights that just happened. it wasn’t anything, it just was what it was.  
With my departure within a weeks time, I find myself mentally rewinding to all the places I’ve been, or am currently at. I am constantly revisiting memories of certain areas, cafes, or walks had. I am taking my trip down memory lane while I am still technically walking down, ‘memory lane’. It’s a weird spot to be in. To be leaving a life, people, places that feel so engraved in you now. Not knowing when, or if you’ll return. While trying to remain in the moment, taking it all in, while also appreciating all the moments had up until now.  
Then and now, now and then. Some things seem drastically different in comparison to those first few months. While at the same time, it feels like only yesterday, I arrived wide eyed and ready for new experiences.  
It’s a bittersweet feeling, visiting places you’ve been before, knowing you probably won’t return.  Comparing what happened then at the places you once were at, in comparison to now.  Who you are with, where your mindset is at and so on.  

Sweet, because it’s lovely to have been able to have these memories, and experiences to rewind to.  

    
   

Continuing to learn the lay of the land

I’ve determined that 15 months is still not a sufficient amount of time to learn all the ins and outs of a place, a culture, a history.  Some may roll their eyes and think ‘duh Hannah’ but I am surprised at how many things I still am managing to learn on a daily basis.  
For instance, I was not given a hand guide to the types of names in France. Apparently there are certain names that represent a certain type of person.  For instance, if you were to meet someone back home named something like Sebastien – you may giggle to yourself at how proper it sounds.  Apparently one of the French names that deem that same response, is Baudouin. I wasn’t aware of this.  No one informed me, and I had not came across any of them until my last couple months here.  
I find it both amusing, and interesting, similarities my homeland and France share.  Like having preconceived notions attached to certain names.  However, the names here are far more ‘posh’ and presumptuous some may say, so I can see the ease of making fun of certain names.  Most of the time, the jokes going along with names (such as baudouin) are spot on. 

-tennis player -country club -polo wearing – loafer wearing etc. 
I’m sad I won’t be able to continue learning this things that guide books can’t provide.  The only way to learn them is to be here, right in the middle of it all.  Going on dates with some guy you met in an Irish bar, named Baudouin- only to later get made fun of by a non-Baudouin.  

I’ll miss this. 

When in Porto

The tickets had been purchased, and that is the only reason I knew this trip was happening. The family – okay, actually the mother is one of those people that are all talk with little action. I couldn’t even begin to recall the places and trips she had told me we were going on, without them ever actually going through. So when they told me we would be visiting Portugal in a couple weeks, I was a bit skeptical.

The trip was dated two weeks before my departure back home to the States. Oh yeah, incase you readers didn’t know, I purchased my ticket home (I’ll write a post pertaining to that story later). Anyways, the trip would be a quick one, we would be staying in Porto for two nights, which was fine by me. I was just happy to be able to visit Portugal, seeing as it had been on my list since I arrived. Plus, with the limited amount of days, that also meant limited amount of annoyances, inappropriate comments or discussions to be had between the mother and I. But I was wrong, two nights is more than enough time for the mother to be inappropriate.

I have been aware that part of me was hired to watch over their child, but the other part was to fill in this role for the mother as a friend, companion, etc. I completely understand she needs some separation and time away from the baby and husband (even though, if I’m being honest, shes rarely ever with the baby solo) but I digress. Sometimes parents just need a little break, and I sympathize. Unfortunately for me, I am always the one that is required to accompany her during these times, and they always seem to happen when we are on holiday. Belgium, where she didn’t tell anyone we were with that she was married, or had a baby, or that I actually worked for her taking care of her child… she instead gave the impression we were together and that we lived together in Paris. Similar thing happened in Austria, but it was a bit more obvious than the previous trip. Now comes Portugal, and apparently port wine takes things to an entirely new level for the mother.

Let me paint the picture- we go out for some drinks, and the mother has hopes to find a more ‘lively’ spot to drink and dance, so we go to the nearest hotel and ask the concierge. Correction, she asks. She is the only one doing the talking. After the patient man, kindly answers each one of the mothers ridiculous questions, she has to end it on some extremely awkward and inappropriate note. She leaves him with the question of, “so are there any lesbian bars around?” I sure hope no one reads this and takes this the wrong way. My only intention with mentioning this whole incident, is the fact that the mother has now on multiple occasions, implied her and I were a couple. This time, she didn’t beat around the bush, she actually spoke the words, in order to make it clear to bystanders that we were together. Needless to say, the night ended quickly after that happend.

The weird moments aside, I fell in love with Portugal. It was unlike any place I’ve been to. It isn’t extravagant in its beautifully carved out architecture, painted with gold. There are no royal looking buildings, but more so rundown, colorful apartment buildings, with fresh laundry hanging out most of the windows to air dry. After visiting Portugal, I realized that there are many versions of what a ‘beautiful city’ looks like. While yes, Paris has an obvious allure, and beauty to it, so does Portugal. Money doesn’t necessarily make or break a city in regards to it’s charm and eye appeal.
We spent the majority of our second and last day, under the humid air in the Port caves.  We learned about the three varieties of port, how they are produced and where.  We followed each one of these tours, with a tasting. Which essentially was a time to sit down, and drink three different ports, during the hot weather.  So if you do the math, three different caves, 9 different ports, and hot weather = a massive headache later in the day.  That headache was probably much worse than it should have been, considering the mother poured all her ports into my glasses while I was up away with the baby, so I technically had double the tastings in one sitting. Thanks mother of the child. 

I hope the beginning of this post didn’t come off as whiny, or ungrateful for the trips I’ve been able to be apart of with the family, because that couldn’t be further from the truth. I simply want to remember these little stories, even if they are weird at times.

Some of my favorite things about Porto or that happened here can be found in bullet form below.

-You can dine like Kings & Queens. You can enjoy a meal of appetizers, entree, dessert and wine, for under 15 euros. That is insanity
-When you are at a restaurant, and the server places olives and bread on your table (without offering, or you asking) do not assume they are on the house. More than likely, they will charge you if you touch them.
-Port wine can only be produced in the Douro Valley. Quite similar to the production of champagne (only being able to be produced in the champagne region of France)
-Port wine is sweeter than regular wine, because in the bottling process, they add a spirit to stop fermentaiton, to preserve the sweetness of the grapes
-Cod is one of the main proteins they serve with typical Portuguese foods.
-The houses and apartments go up, instead of out
-Men take shots of whiskey during their lunch breaks
-People are generally very friendly, and welcoming here. Eager to share information about their city and country, and especially their food/port.
-Portugal is a large producer of olives, and amazing olive oils
-Almonds are another item they produce in high quantities
-The mothers lunch getting eaten by a seagull when she was off at the restroom

   
  

                                      

Under the Parisian sun

The hottest accessory this summer in Paris, is a bottle of wine beneath your arm.  
You can’t go anywhere during the long summer days of Paris, without seeing gaggles of people with handfuls of picnic appropriate foods, and a bottle snuggled carefully beneath their arms. Along the seine, near the Eiffel Tower, on the metro- anywhere. It would almost be unheard of if you were to show up to a gathering near the seine/canal, wherever, without that very fashionable (and delicious) accessory. That’s what i love about this city.  
The priorities of the French, revolve around food and wine. Always. Punctuality and quickness with customer service? Not so much. But they certainly take their food and wine seriously, and I’m okay with that.  
Tonight was one of those occasions where I marveled in my surroundings. The rows and rows of groups of friends, lining the seine during a warm summers night, where the sun doesn’t set until roughly 10:30PM. The Pont Alexandre bridge being our ‘casual’ backdrop for the evening, despite the lack of casualness of the bridge. Between its largely and beautifully carved out details, and the gleaming gold shining from it, it is anything but casual. Yet somehow it is. It’s bizarre being in the presence of such beauty and history, that it sometimes – very rarely gets overlooked, as if it’s just normal to go and have a picnic by these masterpieces. But oddly enough, it slowly has become my new ‘norm’.
I’ve loved witnessing the season changes here. I was convinced fall and winter were my favorite, for falls bright orange colors of the leaves, and the crisp winds. Winter for the excuse to bundle up in your finest French attire, and snuggle up with a hot beverage. Now witnessing summer (technically for the second time) I find myself falling in love all over again. It also seems like everyone else here is following suit, and falling in love as well. But instead of love with the city, it is love (or lust) with one another. A summer in Paris, is for the lovers. It is for the risqué lusters that are a few seconds away from procreating in broad daylight. It is for the inappropriate grabs waiting in line at bar along the seine, and constant smiles.  
Paris has come alive again with the new season change. As have I. I have shed my winter mindset, welcoming the long summer nights in summer dresses, drinking chilled rosé with open arms. Constantly on the hunt for the next place to picnic. These are the simple moments I will daydream about years down the road. The summer I spent in Paris, only caring about how many bottles of rosé and cheese I could carry. The days of pure bliss, under the Parisian sun. 
   
             

Paris is in the eye of the beholder

When I left the states, fourteen months ago, there were no realistic plans set in place for possible friends or family to visit me. I wasn’t upset at this fact. I was aware that it isn’t very fair to ask those closest to me, to use up their little vacation time – if they have any, and spend bundles of money to fly over 5,000 miles just to come and visit. While yes, they wouldn’t just be visiting me (even though that’s reason enough) they would in addition get to experience Paris.

I left the PDX airport, with damp eyes, and a photographic memory of all the people I cared most about. Trying to remember the tiny details just so I wouldn’t forget them during my time here. Thankfully, I only needed those memories for a few months. As my time went on here, opportunities presented themselves for multiple friends, and even my mother and sister to come and visit me. I was ecstatic at the idea of getting to show, and not just tell when it came to me explaining things I’ve seen/done/eaten. The entire experience of exploring a foreign place with those near and dear to your heart is a priceless one. Obviously not technically priceless, it is actually a pretty pricey tag, but that’s besides the point. You get what I mean.

As the months passed on, and my time was coming to an end, I had accepted the fact that I wouldn’t see any familiar faces until I returned back to the State’s. To my surprise, I was going to be granted one last visitor before my departure. A friend I’ve had for years, lived with, worked with, and genuinely enjoyed life with. So for all those reasons and more, I was thrilled at receiving one last guest.

After now having had multiple guests come over, stay with me, tour around the city with me, and essentially becoming a part of my French life, I have formed a new opinion. Paris is not the same to all that see’s her. What the city offers to one person, may not be the same thing to the next. While one may get joy out of indulging in French pastries, someone may only desire comfort food – aka American food. Paris is not necessarily the same trip to anyone who comes here, even if the itinerary’s are essentially very similar. I am by no means saying this is a bad thing, nor am I surprised that each person is capable of forming their own opinions… I am simply recognizing that what may be considered ‘the norm’ in regards to pleasures here, may not pass down to the person next to you.

Traveling in itself is an exhausting experience. Rewarding, yes. But exhausting. Combine that, with multiple personalities, appetites, and mentalities. It can sometimes be even more exhausting than the actual traveling itself. With each guest, I noticed there were varied expectations and mentalities. Which was to be expected. Trying to adapt to all of said expectations, and pleasing everyone is not the easiest of tasks. Especially if one person has a very specific appetite, only desiring fettuccine Alfredo pasta in a city where it is basically non existent. That is just a hypothetical example… or is it?

I guess I began this post with no real intention, other than to express how not everyone sees the same things the same way. Ok, thats obvious, but to be even more specific, not everyone will marvel at thé sacré Coeur the same exact way you will, and that’s ok. It’s all okay.

Quick little shout out, to all of those that have traveled so very far to come and experience this French life with me, creating unforgettable memories, endless laughs and abs that hurt from laughing so hard. Not only are you guys the real MVP’S, but so are the friends and family that have continuously been there for me, even with the distance. Never allowing the 5,000 miles to come in between our relationships, if anything, it made some of them stronger. Being able to send and receive hand written letters from friends has become a reality, and not just something I dream about in a romanticized world. So thank you, to the ones that traveled, and to the ones that stayed.
** here are some photos from my latest friends visit here! 

— for my personal memory box, I would like to jot down some things I’ll want to remember. 

-the simplicity of being with someone you are so comfortable with, there is no hesitation to anything you say, do or see.  Being able to have the best of time, simply being silly, repeating a funny word a hundred times a day to one another just because it makes us giggle.  Those are the best moments 

-jabronies (the original jabronie)

-goin ham in the back