Dear Dads,

I'm writing this in my father's pajamas, eating honey bunches of oats —his favorite— with Kleenex by my side. This year marks my 10th Father’s Day …sans father. It's a less extravagant celebration for me than it used to be.

As far as I was aware, my daddy was so great that he could have been the one who hung the moon in the sky! I was lucky to have him, and be raised in a fun loving home. Once that was broken up by his death, I was distraught. Part of my happy died with dad, and I didn’t care much about being alive anymore. Life scared me because I learned that at any good moment it could all come to an abrupt stop and be taken away. Daily tasks like unloading the dishwasher frightened me because I’d see knives and imagine myself stabbed on the kitchen floor, bleeding out for mom to find me —but at least I’d get to be with dad again. That’s not an image I’d wish on any kid. I was 11 years old. I didn’t understand much about the cancer, or why my mom could so quickly remarry after he passed. It was hard to take it all in. People who knew dad would approach me and and tell me that they could feel his spirit, or that he came to them in a dream and reassured them that all would be ok. It wasn’t fair, he was my dad after all. Shouldn’t he first and foremost, be reassuring me and looking out for me, HIS KID? Bottom line: my hero stopped being there for me.

But of course things only start to make sense in retrospect and it was about a year ago when I started piecing together that my dad actually has been there all along. How? It was usually through you; you wonderful fathers —strangers or not, having known my familial background or not— who stepped in for him when he could not physically do so. NOT when you thought I needed it, but when I happened to need a dad to look out for me. In hindsight, after each of those times when a father came to my rescue, I immediately thereafter thought to myself, I wonder if dad sent him… because the timing of a father-figure coming out of nowhere to help me was always too perfect to be coincidental. 

So without naming names, here’s a big thank you to the dads who I’ve really looked up to as if you were a piece of my own father:

• To the man in Paris who came out of NOWHERE the ONE TIME I was nearly scammed out of a bunch of money, and yelled at the scammer-guy to get away from me.
• To the dad who didn’t share my religious beliefs, but stood up for them anyway when another drunk man was shouting and cursing at me because he found out I was LDS.
• To the dad in my new church ward who was the only one to reach out to me every Sunday for the first six months of me living alone abroad.
• To the dad who wept after he gave me a requested priesthood blessing when I was sick, and told me he felt privileged to have laid his hands upon my head. 
• To the [grand]dad who I was able to Skype to tell about my European adventures when I wanted nothing more than to call and tell my real dad. 
• To the dads who told one of their dad-jokes to help cheer me up. 
• To the dad who overnight shipped me cookies, regardless of my location in the world.
• To the dads who have made me breakfast to show they care.
• To the dad who brought me flowers and chocolate one night, after I had burst into tears in front of him.
• To the dads who invited me along on their otherwise family-only events, and always made me feel welcome in their homes.
• To the dads who have treated me many times on meals, upgrades, desserts, movies, bills, etc., 
• To the dad who fixed my car free of charge, even though it would have been one pricy bill.
• To the dad who always talks about my dad, and cars, and makes me feel loved.
• To the dad (and mom) who got me a roundtrip plane ticket home when I got my heart broken.
• To the dad who ordered takeout and invited me over to watch an Audrey Hepburn film at his house.
• To the dad who let me vent about life after dad died, and often drove me to dad’s cemetery.
• To the dad who told me I was loved when I felt lower than dirt.
• To the dads who give me the biggest hugs.
• To the dad who took the time to email me when I needed advice.
• To the dad who passed me a note down the pew in church just to tell me I was an awesome kid.
• To the dads who pulled over when I broke down on the side of the roads.
• To the LDS dad with his family in SeaTac airport who asked me about France, my future plans, and looked like he genuinely cared when he told me I must be pretty amazing for going after what I want. 

I’m sure many of you have forgotten these moments now, but I will remember them always.

Thank you for loving your children, your wife, your family. Getting to quietly observe from the sidelines how you love and care for them is really a special treat. It lets me daydream for a moment what my life would be like with my father at my disposal. It makes me excited for the day when I have my own family, and can watch my kids have a dad as great as you all. And thank you for looking out for other’s kids (like me) too, even though it's not really your duty to.

Life doesn’t scare me anymore. I decided that I didn’t want to wait until I’m dying before I start living. That’s why I’ve made the things I want to do happen at such a young age. You get one life to live, you’ve got to do so as fully as you can. I miss my dad daily on so many levels, especially today. But maybe in some twisted way, I'm the lucky kid here. Because of my trial, I’m blessed with many dads who have looked out for me and who I’m sure will continue to do so. Thank you so much.

Happy Father’s Day.

Love, Hannah

Our last Father's Day - 2007

Expect the Unexpected

Expectations. I believe that when given adequate time to ponder, most of us will try and conjure up a pretty good scenario of what is going to happen, or how something will feel. For the most part, my predictions don't even come close to the real deal. Even still, whether it is just a subconscious effort or not, we all have expectations to some extent.

When I dreamt of what Paris would be like, my brain mixed together all of my favorite films set within the city, and I was certain I would recognize enough to at least navigate a little bit without a map. (That was a pipe dream.) I also envisioned the street where I would live, it would be decked out with cafés and flower shops, and I would feel so small surrounded by those towering buildings. Upon arrival however, I learned that the standard Haussmann architecture in Paris only had around 6 stories per building, and that most streets did not even have a single shop or café on them. So to my fellow daydreamer, future expat, or even just a city hopper looking to get a better idea of the accuracy of Parisian stereotypes before you go, here are the expectations vs. reality that I learned while adjusting to my new life in the city of lights:

EXPECTATION: Everyone in Paris is rude.

REALITY: Everyone in America is overly nice.

If you are reasonably polite and attempt to use the minimal amount of high school French you still remember, the French people will gladly accommodate you! For the most part, they loved practicing their English with native speakers. It was only when American tourists came through and just expected the French to know English, that yes, one could expect to get a little bit of a cold shoulder. But in The States, we just love to talk to everyone. The French are more reserved, and do not feel it necessary to smile at you in passing, or chat about your kids while checking out at the grocery store. It is merely a matter of culture, not kindness. In my whole two years there, I only met one rude French person and even she was not all that bad.

EXPECTATION: France has the best food you will ever eat!

REALITY: Bonjour McDonald's.

I come from a family of amazing cooks, and with my knowledge of French cuisine, I kind of just expected that I would be eating Michelin Starred food every night for dinner. Realistically though, I gained an unhealthy addiction for highly processed chocolate cookies and fell into the frozen meals trap. The good food definitely exists, but keep in mind that the bad food does too.

Another thing to note is that Costco sized grocery warehouses do not exist, rather, there are small supermarkets and épiceries with very limited selections of whatever it is that you are looking for.

EXPECTATION: The streets will waft smells of Nutella, crêpes, and baguettes.

REALITY: I think I picked up secondhand smoke.

Some days I felt lucky if I could go every two or three people without having to hold my breath from all the smoking. Parisians are human chimneys! Do not even get me started on the urine smells, and how much worse they would be on a hot day. To top it off, it is a city. So unless you are in a park, then you cannot smell earth. Just smoke, urine, and car exhaust. Whomever put the idea in my head that Paris smells delicious, I would like to send you to the Pacific North-West with free airfare.

EXPECTATION: Berets. Thin mustaches. Striped shirts with suspenders.

REALITY: Black attire. Scarves. Perfectly coiffed hair.

Girl please, Parisians have so much more style than that! But to be fair, every Parisian's closet that I went through had a striped white and black tee shirt (or two) in their closet.

EXPECTATION: They smell bad, and the women never shave.

REALITY: Hannah in hypnosis.

I do not really know where these stereotypes come from, but I am so glad they are all just a hoax. I regularly missed my turn on the street because I would become mesmerized by the cologne smells wafting from the person walking in front of me. And not only were the women hairless goddesses all the freaking time, but they also managed to shave without needing to reach for the Hello Kitty bandages. Like I said: goddesses. 

EXPECTATION: Lots of dating.

REALITY: Forever alone.

It is the city of l'amour after all, so I had this idea that everyone was constantly trying to woo each other. Makes sense, non? No! Dating is a bigger deal in the United States. In France I found that you only date somebody if you both are already interested in steady dating each other. How you get to that point without going on dates is still beyond me. One thing is for certain: if you fail to find somebody for your own, then you will never feel more single than you will while staying alone in the most romantic city in the world. Trust me, I know.

One final [soul crushing] reality which was really the hardest of all to face...

EXPECTATION: Mimes.

REALITY: Crushed dreams.

Man, I was so excited to see those striped-shirted men with suspenders, painted white faces, white gloves, just performing their act on the streets; walking down stairs without even needing a staircase. But to my dismay, there was not a single mime during my two years in Paris! I truly did not see that one coming.

The biggest lesson I learned about expectations while living in France was that while it is fun to daydream about the what-could-be's, if you let yourself get too carried away with your raised expectations, then one day you will find yourself faced with disappointments. This can be applied to more than just mimes and thin mustaches. For example, while planning trips to new locations, try not to focus too much on everything that you want to fit into your schedule. Instead, pick a couple of must-do's and let the rest happen on its own. France taught me the c'est la vie attitude, and reminded me that it is OK to go with the flow. I learned that by easing up on my predictions and just trying to enjoy whatever life presented me with right then, that the outcome would surpass all of my wildest expectations and create wonderful memories. 

Dream big, live bigger, and expect the unexpected.