So I’ve been in Europe…
(In a traditional Bavarian dirndl because a year and a half in Europe ought to include dressing for the occasion)
A year and a half in Europe has given me a fondness for thermal baths, an occasion to wear a dirndl, and several competing opinions about whether life is better here.
Europe is often presented as a beautiful rebuttal to American life: an Aperol spritz, an beautiful old church, someone apparently free to spend three hours at lunch. I understand the appeal. But living somewhere for a while complicates the image.
My time has taken me through Vienna, Lyon, Budapest, Prague, Poland, and Germany. Budapest and Germany remain particular favorites, partly because I’m unusually susceptible to the argument that an afternoon spent in warm water is a perfect afternoon. I’m beginning to suspect that pleasure doesn’t need any justification.
I’ve had unusual freedom to explore, so I wouldn’t confuse my experience with that of someone commuting to work every morning. Still, among the people I’ve spent time with, evenings seem less like the exhausted remainder of a working day. There is more space to go out, linger, and just enjoy someone’s company.
Germany, especially, has made me think about the difference between friendliness and kindness. People are less likely to smile at strangers, and I’ve found that unexpectedly restful. There is less pressure to perform pleasantness before anything has actually happened. Consideration often arrives more quietly: someone making room as you pass, respecting your space, or noticing that you need a little help and mirroring the confusion in your eyes with an attentiveness often lost at home.
As an American, I’m accustomed to warmth being expressed immediately. I still enjoy that openness. But I’ve grown to appreciate people whose care becomes apparent a little more slowly.
Of course, my affection and patience has limits. Obtaining tylenol after working hours can involve ringing a pharmacy doorbell and explaining myself with a seriousness I would ordinarily reserve for an immigration interview. Everything is closed Sunday. I remain American enough to believe that a simple headache should require little administrative work.
Yet I often feel calmer here. In Munich, particularly, I notice how much I value being able to walk around just feeling at ease. Small courtesies and a respect for personal space have become part of what makes a place feel comfortable to me.
The more interesting difference, though, is what happens when I stop being busy.
I can spend an afternoon enjoying myself and still hear a small American voice asking what I’ve accomplished. Shouldn’t I be building something? Becoming something? Making better use of the time? My German and French friends don’t always seem to share quite the same urgency in the same way, or perhaps they’re simply better at declining the invitation of the thought.
Despite attending college partly in Europe, attending a bilingual school, and having European family, I still see much of this through American eyes. Familiarity hasn’t erased that perspective. If anything, living here has made it easier to recognize.
I like my curiosity and ambition. I understand the difference between entitlement to things and advocating for oneself, or at least I like to think I do. I also like extremely long dinners, warm water, and conversations that become more interesting because neither person is watching the clock. I’d like to make more room for those things without feeling obliged to earn them first.
The dirndl, at least, I’ve embraced without much internal debate.
- Elise
Why I Didn't move to New york, after all
I’ve always wanted to live in New York. For years, I imagined finding the right excuse to go: a new opportunity, a change of scenery, a little adventure.
The excitement of the city thrills me, and I love the dining and culture. I mean, how could you not? People say it’s loud and crowded, but don’t people say the same things about San Francisco?
So I decided to take the leap. How hard could it be? I could meet people everywhere, I told myself. The weather? Surely a good coat could solve at least some of my problems.
I announced my plans on Twitter, thinking that if I announced them, they would somehow become real. I couldn’t back down now; I had an audience, after all.
The plan was to settle in temporarily and explore, neighborhood by neighborhood, until I found somewhere I felt comfortable. Somewhere I fit. I imagined excitement, new experiences, an expanse of things I couldn’t even yet imagine.
On the flight there, I chatted with a woman who loved living in New York and assured me I would, too. I journaled my thoughts and ideas. I wrote down what I wanted to manifest there (I am from California, after all). There were snacks. There was extra cheese. I took these as very good signs.
I was feeling practically buoyant.
Somewhere between all that optimism and the journaling, though, I began to feel vulnerable. For all my enthusiasm, New York intimidated me. It’s “the big city” of big cities, after all. Where everyone goes to make it or break it, or so they say.
But what does it really mean to “make it”?
I got lonely. I missed familiar faces and the ease of being somewhere I already knew. There were missed connections, plans that fell through, and the particular exhaustion of trying to build a life while still figuring out how to get from one place to another.
An event I’d been excited about didn’t materialize. An apartment disappeared before I could see it. A dinner I’d looked forward to became a dinner for one. It was still wonderful, but still.
None of these things was a catastrophe. Together, though, they made the city feel less like possibility and more like hard work.
The comfort of the place I had so yearned to leave began to beckon me. I wanted to go home almost as much as I had wanted to leave.
Had coming here been the wrong decision?
Eventually, I booked a flight back to San Francisco. The return journey felt rather less glamorous. My entertainment screen wouldn’t work, and without moving pictures to distract my brain, I closed my eyes and simply breathed.
I missed driving with music playing and singing along. I missed familiar places, familiar company, and the feeling of knowing my way around.
New York had been kind to me, too. There were museum dates, wonderful performances, and dinners that reminded me why I’d wanted to come in the first place. There were lovely people.
But California is somehow buried deep in my bones. I hadn’t realized quite how deeply until I left.
Back in the Bay Area, I caught sight of houses glittering on the hills above the water and wondered how I could ever leave. A far cry from how I’d felt before going.
Will I try living somewhere else again? Perhaps. I still love the possibility of another chapter. But I’m beginning to appreciate that I don’t need to decide the whole story at once.
For now, I’m settling back in. Going to events, making room for writing, rediscovering my interests, and doing my best to savor the moment.
I tried New York, and I didn’t fail. I learned something about what I want, what I miss, and what makes a place feel like home.
I don’t claim to have a perfect definition of that word. But I do know that my heart, or a very big piece of it, happens to be here.
And that is something. <3
Thank you for reading my first blog post! Some future posts might be a little spicier, but after sharing my New York plans, I thought you might enjoy hearing how the adventure unfolded.
-Elise
a little prose
(The book is James Joyce’s Ulysses, if you can’t the title. Was trying to recreate Marilyn Monroe’s famous image, in my own way)
This was the first site copy I ever wrote as Elise Jensen, and I still think it gives you a glimpse into who I am, even now. I hope it transports you closer to me, however far away you are tonight.
My idea of utopia is a perfectly hot bath, smelling of both lavender and roses. A touch that feeds you and makes you desirous of more. A kiss that excites you, deep in your bones.
A book that takes you to another world. A perfect cup of green tea, fragrant and sweet. A vacation that makes you think differently about the world around you, and fills you with a new hope for humankind. Kindness.
A conversation that takes you to new depths of understanding, that feeds your brain in a way that feels nourishing. Listening without thinking more about what you are going to say next; truly attempting to hear the person next to you. Connection, if only for a moment. Touch.
A babbling brook in the black forest, wandering under the bridge above the river and feeling the cool water on my toes, the smoothness of the stones under my feet. Walking through the trees in Golden Gate Park at dusk, the shadows falling in a way which reminds me of something comforting and foreign at the same time.
A perfect sunset at dusk across a beautiful ocean, paled and shining with white light.
I hope to hear from you soon.
-Elise