A thief stole my macaron yesterday.
As I was having lunch along the harbor at Circular Quay with some other students on my program, a strange-looking Australian bird with a long red beak crept up behind me, grabbed the little white bag that held my carefully selected rose macaron, and began to walk away slowly. I was just feet away from the bird, frozen, wondering if I should try to snatch it back.
The bird was big, and not afraid. One of the girls sitting near me encouraged me to "grab it!", so I started to stand up. As I did, the pastry-thief hopped off of the edge of the planter that we were all sitting on, picked up the bottom of the bag to shake out my delicate little french cookie, and with hardly a peck at the macaron proceeded to stomp on it and crush it with his talons. Then he took flight to find a more satisfying treat for lunch.
I sat back down on the concrete planter, let out a little mostly-joking indignant huff, and my sunny first afternoon in Sydney wore on from there...
I really tell this story because it seems all too appropriate of an anecdote to describe how I had been feeling and thinking for the duration of my journey so far--even back in the States.
You see, the last time I studied abroad, I was in Paris. This time, as I prepared, as I packed, as I travelled, as I arrived, as I waited in queues at customs, as I interacted with local people, walked through the city, took trains and buses and taxis for the first time, I was comparing it ALL to my last trip to France.
I think what the macaron-stealing bird really made me think about right then and there is pretty simple--that I'm not in France, and maybe I might as well knock it off with all the comparisons.
Sydney is Sydney, not Paris. It's clean, sunny, and friendly--swarming with joggers and tourists and English-speaking folks like myself. That funny little flying Aussie stole my little Parisian macaron and stomped on it right in front of me, and it reminded me that this is someplace totally new.
Anyway, as I sat along the edge of the harbor at Circular Quay, with the bright Australian sun reflecting off the water, bouncing off the tips of the pearly white Opera House, sliding along the sides of boats and radiating off the spotless pavement, I began to forget about the drizzly skies and grungy rues of Paris; I began to try to really appreciate this city and the unique opportunity before me.
As I was having lunch along the harbor at Circular Quay with some other students on my program, a strange-looking Australian bird with a long red beak crept up behind me, grabbed the little white bag that held my carefully selected rose macaron, and began to walk away slowly. I was just feet away from the bird, frozen, wondering if I should try to snatch it back.
The bird was big, and not afraid. One of the girls sitting near me encouraged me to "grab it!", so I started to stand up. As I did, the pastry-thief hopped off of the edge of the planter that we were all sitting on, picked up the bottom of the bag to shake out my delicate little french cookie, and with hardly a peck at the macaron proceeded to stomp on it and crush it with his talons. Then he took flight to find a more satisfying treat for lunch.
I sat back down on the concrete planter, let out a little mostly-joking indignant huff, and my sunny first afternoon in Sydney wore on from there...
I really tell this story because it seems all too appropriate of an anecdote to describe how I had been feeling and thinking for the duration of my journey so far--even back in the States.
You see, the last time I studied abroad, I was in Paris. This time, as I prepared, as I packed, as I travelled, as I arrived, as I waited in queues at customs, as I interacted with local people, walked through the city, took trains and buses and taxis for the first time, I was comparing it ALL to my last trip to France.
I think what the macaron-stealing bird really made me think about right then and there is pretty simple--that I'm not in France, and maybe I might as well knock it off with all the comparisons.
Sydney is Sydney, not Paris. It's clean, sunny, and friendly--swarming with joggers and tourists and English-speaking folks like myself. That funny little flying Aussie stole my little Parisian macaron and stomped on it right in front of me, and it reminded me that this is someplace totally new.
Anyway, as I sat along the edge of the harbor at Circular Quay, with the bright Australian sun reflecting off the water, bouncing off the tips of the pearly white Opera House, sliding along the sides of boats and radiating off the spotless pavement, I began to forget about the drizzly skies and grungy rues of Paris; I began to try to really appreciate this city and the unique opportunity before me.
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