Abby in Paris

After watching Emily in Paris, I was filled with excitement, eagerly dreaming and planning my future stay in France. I envisioned how my wardrobe would transform, inspired by the elegance of the French chic style.  

I imagined savoring delicious meals and capturing stunning photos of sunrises and sunsets, all while enjoying the charm of French weather and the timeless taste of wine. The idea of experiencing French romance and signing off with a love padlock at the Sacré-Cœur thrilled me even more.  

In The Alchemist, there’s a line that says when you truly want something, the universe conspires to help you achieve it. While that may be subjective, for me, finally traveling to France felt like divine intervention—it was God’s doing. 

Fast forward to my first night in France: I found myself at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, surrounded by three suitcases and a handbag stuffed with all sorts of things I’d hoarded. 

Before reaching Paris, I had endured a seven-hour layover in Dubai and to say I was exhausted would be an understatement! If the flight had been cheap, I wouldn’t have minded as much. But seriously, I almost broke an arm for that ticket, only to spend seven long hours counting people in an airport! How lovely! 

On top of that, as much as I had looked forward to the adventure, the reality of doing my first flight solo was more of a roller coaster of a stomach filled with butterflies. Especially after watching countless documentaries about plane crashes, my heart felt like it was hanging by a thread every time the plane landed, took off or passed through a cloud bump. 

And then it hit me that with every passing second, I got miles away from my family and there was no turning back. There were no comforting arms to run to if things got tough, no easy escape from the challenges of adulthood. In this unfamiliar place I was to call home, I couldn’t afford to be a child anymore. 

With my three suitcases in tow, still in Paris, headed for the 8 a.m. train, I armed myself with a smile, crossed my fingers, and rehearsed the phrase, “Excusez-moi, vous pouvez m’aider s’il vous plaît,” hoping it would land on a gentleman willing to help a girl with luggage full of hoarded stuff who’s just trying to live a dream in France. 

Even as I was getting lost around the gigantic airport, I couldn’t stop thinking about the cost of living that would unfold in the coming days. Let me tell you, when your home currency is weaker than the currency of the country you’re moving to, you really feel the pinch of currency conversion. 

I had booked a train from the airport to my soon-to-be hometown, and when I converted the fare to Kenyan shillings, I nearly fainted—tens of thousands, just for a train ride! I hadn’t even factored in the bus fare or rent yet. Ghaaii! (a Swahili exclamation meaning “My God”). 

That’s when I tossed my Emily in Paris fantasy out the window because I knew my Kenyan shillings account wouldn’t stretch that far, at least for the first month. 

The whole experience suddenly started to feel so overwhelming, trying to get directions, help with luggage, ticket verification—it felt like a full-time job. My French was shaky at best, and communication was a struggle: me trying to speak broken French, and the French I met trying to speak broken English. 

But they say, it gets worse before it gets better. 

After the hustle and bastle, I finally found my train and just as I was sinking in my chair for an air of tranquillity and rest, the reality of being in a completely different place hit me even harder. I noticed the different skin tones around me, heard the unfamiliar language, and observed the interactions. 

I watched how those around me moved with such ease. They knew exactly where to get off, smiling and laughing with the familiarity of people who belonged. I felt a wave of fear. How was I going to cope?  

A sudden longing for home washed over me—a desire to be surrounded by familiar faces, a language I understood, and a culture I could relate to. I craved Nairobi’s CBD more than ever before—the noise, the control I had, knowing exactly how to navigate everything.  

Oh, what a price to pay to be Emily in Paris. However, I reminded myself that this was what I had prayed for, and I needed to show gratitude, finding joy in the experience, despite the challenges. 

I arrived at my destination mentally exhausted, physically drained, but grateful because I was finally living the dream. 

My journey had just begun, and if you’re curious to know what happened next, check out my blog on ‘Was it racism or I was just overthinking?’