So my trip to Paris was awesome. Not a whole lot of shock-value in that statement.

Yet slightly more dramatically (had I been told during the first two days of the journey that I would someday make the following declaration I would have figured that either myself or the deliverer of said message was tripping on acid or some other powerful hallucinogen), I would go as far as to say (and stone sober, mind you) that my time in Paris, albeit my only solo expedition to date, was not only my most memorable vacation, but one of the greatest times of my life. The experience was flanked with brief but distressing adjustment periods (strangely, I again suffered culture shock upon returning home) but it was the many wonderful days in the middle that made all the difference in the world.

To briefly emphasize the benefits I reaped before referencing a less cheery affair, Paris provided me with a much-needed change of scenery, pace and emotional climate. It provided me the chance to reclaim my identity and, for the first time in a while, I genuinely cherished the joy of living. I returned with renewed energy, insight, and perception. Most importantly, it gave me the time and space to replenish what had become a desperately starved and malnourished entity: my spirit.

Pity I just had to spend five soul-sucking days at the beach with my mother.

My mother who, nearly always driven by egocentric motives, imposes her disguised negativity anytime things aren’t going precisely the way she thinks they should. Now, don’t get me wrong, she’s as pleasant as a peach when she wants to be and she tries very hard not to be blatantly biting with her words (which are often under the breath utterances). Rather she is insidious like a poisonous snake slithering in the tall grass, donning what I call “the look” and waiting until the right time to strike using the mental inventory she’s taken. The Look is usually not made with direct eye contact; it’s simply a judgmental expression of such disgust and disdain that it manages to drain the recipient of all self-worth and value. Yet if anyone were to confront her about these things she is always equipped to cover her tracks with a reserve of manipulative tactics ranging from changing her obvious intent to flat-out lying about things she’s said or done.

Needless to say, my trip to the beach wasn’t all that beachy.

In conclusion, my voyages within the last month–the first to Paris, the second to the Outer Banks (which encompasses the graveyard of the Atlantic)–should be aptly memorialized as
the treasure and the shipwreck, respectively.

Hell, you didn’t think I chose the title for this blog out of thin air, did you?