There is a part of myself that I didn’t know had a name until I heard the word “flâneur”. According to Wikipedia,
The term flâneur comes from the French noun flâneur—which has the basic meanings of “stroller”, “lounger”, “saunterer”, “loafer”—which itself comes from the French verb flâner, which means “to stroll”. Flânerie refers to the act of strolling, with all of its accompanying associations.
The flâneur was, first of all, a literary type from nineteenth-century France, essential to any picture of the streets of Paris. It carried a set of rich associations: the man of leisure, the idler, the urban explorer, the connoiseur of the street.
…a “connoiseur of the street”… Magical. The concept resonated in my soul because the first time I went to Paris, I spent hours a day wandering around with my camera in my hand with no agenda and no timetable, armed only with a Plan du Paris for when I inevitably got lost. At the time, I wasn’t aware that there was an actual word for what I was doing, because it came so completely naturally to me. *That* is why Paris will forever and always retain a piece of my heart. Le sigh.
I was “that girl” in school from as early as I can remember – the one who always had camera in hand, photographing daily life and sometimes shenanigans (for better or worse).
I never feel more like myself than when looking at life through my camera’s viewfinder. I don’t know if it’s the process of scouting out a sight, or framing the shot, or the *click* itself that thrills me so. All I know is I am at total peace when I am taking photos. I forget that the rest of the world exists, and I am simply, and only, Me.
I love to be alone, and I have to remind myself periodically that “it is not good for man to be alone”. Sometimes, I actually physically crave silence.
Having said that, I love, love, LOVE music, and I have it on most of the day. Spotify is the best invention since sliced bread.
I firmly believe that life is too short to sleep on scratchy sheets, use rough toilet paper, or drink bad coffee.
Periodically, I will try foods that I dislike, just to see if maybe my taste buds have matured. This has led to a new-found love of once-hated foods, for example: black olives, Brussels sprouts, and gin (just add a wedge of lime and call it dinner!). I still, however, think that lima beans are from the devil, and I don’t think my taste buds will ever forgive me for trying them the second time, even though I promised I’d never, ever do it again.
I firmly believe that a day without wine is a day without sunshine.
I like to read the book before I see the movie.
I am a Christian who considers the word “religious” a derogatory term. In my experience, “religious persons” tend to focus more on the adhering to the tenets of their sect rather than their actual relationship with God. And that makes me sad.
I consider myself a free-thinker, yet I live in Suburbia, where assimilation and conformity are de rigueur. I stick out like a sore thumb.
I do not adhere to the societal “norms” practiced by the people around me. Examples: my kids don’t play sports in a state where football is practically a religion of it’s own, I use a MacBook Pro and find PC’s to be sub-par and annoying, Bordeaux is my drink of choice, and my musical taste is more similar to a 25 year-old guy than my peers.
Oh yeah, and I LOATHE Ed Hardy and Affliction clothing, which is worn by 99% of the people I see on a daily basis.
My name is Nikki. I’m in Suburban Hell. Travel is my escape. When I can’t travel, I blog about it.