I left Paris late in June and just got back yesterday. In all the time that I’ve been away, this has been my mantra.

It makes sense to most everyone who knows me: after all, I’m not one to stay in one place for long, and the fact that I managed to stick around here for more than a year is pretty extraordinary.

I’m just passing through, really. I’m leaving tomorrow morning for Spain, one more adventure, one more tick on my list of places I’ve lived.

But as I walked back to my apartment tonight, I didn’t feel that urge to run that’s been hiding out somewhere between my lungs and the back of my throat for months. I didn’t look around and feel awed or fenced in or even nostalgic.

I felt like I was home.

It’s a strange feeling… stranger still to know that everyone else already has a place that feels like this all the time, and I’m only just discovering it at 22.

I’m happy to go to Spain. I’m looking forward to the hypothetical trips to Ecuador, Argentina, Turkey, Ireland and Peru that have been bouncing around my head for the past few weeks–I’m not giving them up. But it’s nice to know that at the end of it, I’ll have a place to come crawling back to, where I know when things are opened and I can walk myself home even tipsy in the rain.

I thought I was done with Paris, but I guess Paris wasn’t done with me.

Which made me realize that, just maybe, some of you might be interested in knowing what exactly it is that I do all day.

7:30- Alex’s alarm clock goes off. He says “Putain, fait chier…” and rolls back over to go to sleep.

8:00- I wake up, startled, because I always wake up startled. I get out of bed, put in my contacts, make coffee, make myself a bowl of fruit and yogurt, and get back into bed and tell Alex he has to go to school. He gets up, makes a bowl of cereal, and we watch Euronews.

8:15- I check my e-mail and wonder why I don’t have more e-mails.

9:00- Alex leaves for work/school, all the while mumbling, “Et… je vais être encore en retard. Parfait.”

9:15- Alex is gone. I pour myself another cup of coffee and get down to work. Mornings are reserved for “real” work, aka, work I get paid for. On any given morning, I will write blog posts for Tomato Kumato, Bordeaux and Palmiers or Parisblog, write restaurant reviews for Wcities, do paying translations or freelance article gigs, or send out loglines for my screenplay. All of this is usually interspersed with trips to FML, textsfromlastnight and Questionable Content, but we can just ignore that.

12:30- I eat lunch. It’s extremely eventful.

1:00- It’s officially the afternoon, which means I don’t have to do real work anymore. If it’s nice out, I head outside with a stack of books, my iPod, a notebook and a pen, and I read/write on the balcony. If it’s not, I work on whatever long piece I’m currently working on, which today is a novel.

6:00- I start making dinner.

7:00- Alex gets home. We start drinking wine and I finish making dinner.

8:00- Les Guignols!!!!!!!

9:00- Sometimes we watch weird French TV, sometimes we don’t. Either way, this is when I read other people’s blogs, check my e-mail some more, and sometimes do some more work. This is also when I go running.

12:00- Alex notices the time: “Oh, là! C’est l’heure de dormir.” I pull a face, because I’m not tired yet.

1:00- Actual bedtime. Sometimes I sit in the hallway and fuck around on the Internet some more. Sometimes, I just go to sleep.

There was never even a discussion on whether we would try moving back to the States for a bit or do one year here and one year there… I had made France my home without his influence, and so there was no real reason to think that I would have any real desire to go back.

And I don’t. Really.

Except…

OK. Rewind. Remember how I came to France when I was 14 and went to day school? That was one of the best experiences of my life, yes, blah blah blah… I don’t care how much it’s changed me or how far I’ve come since then: when I was in school in France, I was scared shitless.

The teachers were not the loving, caring, coddling teachers I was used to from back home. If you were wrong, there was no, “Nice try…”

If you failed a test, the whole class knew it, because when quizzes were being passed back, they weren’t put face down on your desk to protect your privacy, but called out to the class along with your mark and any particularly stupid mistakes you may have made.

We were herded from class to class, one mass of students pushing their way through hallways that were too small, and there was a lot of screaming and shoving.

I hated it.

I know, in theory, that the French public school system is incredible: kids from all over France have access to the exact same education, the exact same curriculum. People love to make a big deal out of la Sorbonne, but go to la fac in Nice or Bordeaux, in Paris or Grenoble, and you’ll graduate with exactly the same knowledge and diploma as anyone else in your major. And it costs nothing.

My education cost a ridiculous sum that I once calculated and balked at, realizing that I’ll probably never have that amount of money ever. And the French kids worked about nine zillion times harder than I ever did, and they didn’t pay a dime. I know this. I know that I should want to send my hypothetical future children to a school that doesn’t take more than an entire year’s salary to pay for one semester. I know. I know.

But Alex and I were watching an exposé on the French education system on the news the other day, and as I watched a 5-year-old girl being scolded for trying to be creative on the inside cover of her school notebook, my heartstrings pulled.

Maybe I’ll homeschool the little hypothetical brats. According to Alex’s father, there will be seven of them.

As I was cleaning Alex’s apartment one afternoon, I knocked a mirror on the wall, and pages of old newspaper came falling to the ground.

I don’t know if they were saved or just stuck there for some unknonwn reason. I don’t know what the words mean. I don’t even know what language it’s in, although I can guess Macedonia, because that’s where Alex’s father is from.

He’s never lived here–Alex’s dad. He bought the place years ago and rented it out to people until one of his kids was old enough to want to live in the city. I somehow have a hard time believing that after all these years, after all these people who have come and gone, living here for months at a time, that I’m the first to find these crinkled old news sheets behind that mirror.

I see the word “Pucini.” I wonder what they’re saying about him?

I knew this would happen after the Congo debacle: yet another week or so of me stressing about what my life will be like, what I will do, if I will accomplish everything I want to, if someday, I will look back and think, “Well, shit. I wish I could do it all over again.”

I want to be a writer. It’s the only thing I’ve ever really been sure of, even if I convinced myself time and time again that it was impossible. In 2007, after Cannes, I really convinced myself I could do it, that it could happen, and after months of on-again, off-again fervent writing and working, I know that this is the only thing I will be happy doing for the rest of my life.

So what next? Visa issues make my current situation impossible. I’m considering Spain next–Spain, which called to me when my 18 months in Paris were officially up. Spain, a place I fell in love with immediately, something that never happens, at least not to me. I usually need to get to know a place first, find its nooks and crannies. Spain opened itself up to me right away, and I fell.

So Spain. Easy enough to say, not so easy to do on the salary of someone who was banking everything on a job that didn’t happen. Is it still “throwing my savings away” if it feels like the next right thing to do? The next decision I will make that I will look back on, like I do today with Lille, with Cannes, with AUP and think, “thank God I didn’t let anyone talk me out of this.”

God I hope so, because I’m going to pay the deposit this week.

I don’t feel like writing today.

And when I don’t feel like writing, the best thing I can think of to do is to quote someone else, someone who writes, someone who did feel like writing one day and whose writing inspires me today and makes me sure that I will write another day.

So, without further ado, Mary Schmich.

Wear sunscreen.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, wheras the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience.

I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Nevermind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they have faded. But trust me: in 20 years, you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don’t worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 P.M. on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts, and don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don’t waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind. The race is long, and in the end, it’s only with yourself.

Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don’t.

Get plenty of calcium.

Be kind to your knees: you’ll miss them when they’re gone.

Maybe you’ll marry. Maybe you won’t.

Maybe you’ll have children. Maybe you won’t.

Maybe you’ll divorce at 40.

Maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary.

Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half-chance. So are everybody else’s.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don’t be afraid of it or what other people think of it. It’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own.

Dance. Even if you’ve got nowhere to do it but in your own living room.

Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them.

Do not read beauty magazines: they will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they’ll be gone for good.

Be nice to your siblings. They’re your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but for the precious few, you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard.

Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel.

Accept certain, unalienable truths: prices will rise, politicians will philander, you, too, will get old, and when you do, you will fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble, and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders.

Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you’ll have a trust fund. Maybe you’ll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.

Don’t mess too much with your hair, or by the time you’re 40, it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia, dispensing it, a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than its worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen.

I was alone. I spent so much time relishing it, driving down to the beach to wander in the heavy humidity of dusk on Long Island in the summertime, wandering the empty house that was all mine, making myself dinner and eating it at the counter in front of the Food Network or out on the patio. For reasons of my own making, I was alone that summer, but it was my first time being alone, and I loved it.

I’m alone again.

I’ve felt alone since then: moving into my first apartment in Paris, living in Mallorca for those few weeks last summer, even working in Paziols the first summer I went, where the only kids were the four who would become counselors, and Alex and Anne-Marie were always on some trek somewhere. I felt alone then, but I am alone now. There’s a difference.

I make fun of my sister for emulating Hollywood stereotypes, but in the weeks leading up to my decision to become a full-time writer, I was romanticizing the life of Hank Moody, star character of the Showtime series Californication. I wanted to be him, wanted to lead his glamorous life, where he had no obligations save turn out a masterpiece every few years. What I didn’t realize is how much I would crave human contact, how hard it would be for me to sit in the apartment day after day, forcing myself out on walks to get lost in the people that make up the city of Paris and hoping that I could trick myself into believing that I’m not alone.

I’m going to be 22 in two days–I guess this is what you’d call a quarter-life crisis. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know why I’ve done any of the things that I’ve already done. I don’t know what to do next. I crave the ease of dorm life, of boarding school, of the collège in Cannes. I’ve had dreams two nights-running of drinking on the Great Lawn at Andover. I romanticize my life living on the beach in Cannes, living on the beach in the summers on Long Island.

When I was growing up, one member of a family of six, I felt convinced that I was made to be alone, to live alone. Now that I have what I’ve always wanted, I’m just not so sure.

“Know Thyself” – The following is what I think is wrong with the world. It’s a worldwide lack of IDENTITY on the part of the great majority of the earth’s population. There are three levels of existence — (1) the highest level is who or what you are. (2) the next lower level is what you’re doing or what you have done. (3) the lowest level is what you own.

An example of level 1 is Jesus, who changed the world based on who he was. An example of level 2 is George Patton, one of the great generals of World War II, whose daring exploits amazed the world. As for level 3, we have John Rockefeller who possessed fabulous wealth or today we have Bill Gates.

Most people on this earth have no identity, no “self.” As a result, they often pick an identity such as I’m a “Yankee fan” or I’m a “Texan” or I’m a “race-car driver” or I’m a “blood.” To lack an identity means you are mindless fodder in this world, and you’re open to join any group that fascinates you or that fits into your personal fantasy.

People long to have an identity — to belong to something which gives them an identity. People without an identity can be dangerous. When you have an identity you have a self — you are centered, and you can stand as a person with your own strong convictions.

I’ve always been fascinated with the Nazi phenomenon, which I fought against. When Hitler came to power, the German people adored him. They crowded the roadsides as Hitler rode by in his armored Mercedes, and they gave him the Nazi salute as they cheered their hearts out. Some women broke down in tears as their beloved Führer drove by. The German people were proud to be Nazis, and they were mesmerized when Hitler spoke in his hysterical voice.

This was the rebirth of Germany, and their new leader was a God. Hitler’s brain-washed army swore allegiance to their amazing leader as though he was a living god. Hitler could do no wrong, and once again Germany was a land of proud Germans with a new and proud identity. Hitler’s army did their leaders’ bidding, even if it involved murder on the most colossal scale in all history. The German population, most having no identity, finally found an identity — it was to be a member of the “master race,” a proud conquering Nazi.

You look at what the Nazis did. Burning down village after village in Russia. Murdering millions of Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals, disabled people, Poles, Slavs, and you think — it required thousands of Germans to do this. How could this have happened? It happened because most of the German people (like most people) lacked an identity. They simply followed the orders of their leaders, and the leaders followed the orders of a sadistic madman.

“Why doesn’t this occur in America,” I ask. It’s because Americans have an identity. Their identity, handed down from generation to generation, is “independence and freedom”. The history of tyrants and would-be dictators in the US is that they don’t survive. Huey Long was shot dead. Joseph McCarthy was run out of the Senate. J. Edgar Hoover has become a joke.

This is why I have no use for organized religion or for nationalism. Both provide their followers with an identity – “I’m a Jew, I’m a Catholic, I’m an American, I’m a Frenchman, I’m a Crip.” But without having a personal sense of identity, who the hell are you? Do you know who you really are? If you know yourself, then you probably have an authentic identity.

If you have a real identity, you follow no one without examining their cause. If you have an identity, you are an original, you follow no other person, nor do you accept any specific philosophy or thought process out of hand. Why do men go to war, knowing that they may be killed? Because some “leader” told them that the patriotic thing to do was to take up arms and kill other men. Why do people accept the thinking and orders of some ego-driven mindless leader? It’s because “I’m a Republican, and I follow my party’s lead” or “I’m an American, and I fight for my Country right or wrong.”

We live in a world of the mindless, a world of 4 billion souls who for the most part lack an identity. The ancient Greek aphorism, “Know Thyself” was inscribed in the forecourt of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi. Know thyself — it’s something we should still live by in today’s propaganda-filled modern era

Interesting thoughts, but the man is a hypocrite: “”Why doesn’t this occur in America,” I ask. It’s because Americans have an identity. Their identity, handed down from generation to generation, is “independence and freedom”. The history of tyrants and would-be dictators in the US is that they don’t survive. Huey Long was shot dead. Joseph McCarthy was run out of the Senate. J. Edgar Hoover has become a joke.”

If he doesn’t believe in nationalism, how could this be true? Yes, the German people struggled with their identities in the 19th century, and yes, the Nazi regime was a perfect example of how propaganda can brainwash an entire group of people, but saying that this cannot (or has not) happened in America is bogus.

It can happen in America, and I believe in some ways it already has: we blindly follow charismatic leaders (JFK, Obama), treat them like gods and think that they can do no wrong. It is only because we have been lucky enough to have leaders who are above mass genocide to get what they want (actually, I forgot about the last 8 years in America, so scratch that). Could we please stop putting Americans on a pedestal we don’t deserve?

Like I said, the ideas are there: the first paragraph is great, and I totally agree that the first sense of identity is identity based upon who you are and what you accomplish and a lesser sense of identity is what you have. But to use the Nazi example and then claim that Americans have never gone through something similar… well, either the man is writing from 1950, or he’s been living in a cave.

Yahoo! Mail

Updates occur every 1440 minutes.

General Eisenhower Warned Us It is a matter of history that when Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces, General Dwight Eisenhower, found the victims of the death camps he ordered all possible photographs to be taken, and for the German people from surrounding villages to be ushered through the camps and even made to bury the dead. He did this because he said in words to this effect: ‘Get it all on record now – get the films – get the witnesses -because somewhere down the road of history some bastard will get up and say that this never happened’ This week, the UK removed The Holocaust from its school curriculum because it ‘offended’ the Muslim population which claims it never occurred. This is a frightening portent of the fear that is gripping the world and how easily each country is giving into it. It is now more than 60 years after the Second World War in Europe ended. This e-mail is being sent as a memorial chain,in memory of the 6 million Jews, 20 million Russians, 10 million Christians and 1,900 Catholic priests Who were ‘murdered, raped, burned, starved, beat, experimented on and humiliated’ while the German people looked the other way! Now, more than ever, with Iran, among others, claiming the Holocaust to be”a myth,” it is imperative to make sure the world never forgets. This e-mail is intended to reach 400 million people! Be a link in the memorial chain and help distribute this around the world How many years will it be before the attack on the World TradeCenter ‘NEVER HAPPENED’ because it offends some Muslim in the  U.S.  ??????