insert gasp {here}

In my early years, I was introduced to the glossy-covered Clairefontaine notebooks at Carden Memorial: five new staple-bounds a semester, a color for every class. They were used for absolutely everything from Bible Study to Algebra, and whenever a field trip called for reflection, they became our journals, too. I loved those little notebooks: the blocky lines and foreign measurements. I couldn't imagine writing seriously without Clairefontaine guidance, and whenever an odd shipment came about, my teachers knew who would take the difference. By graduation, I had a small collection of nearly new notebooks, kept empty for my next adventures.

The few I managed to squirrel away, however, lasted all of one month into high school. By October I'd scribbled across the very last page of the very last notebook (something about Lord of the Flies, no doubt). And while that wasn't necessarily devastating, it was rather sad. I slipped fully into a world of tear-away spiral notebooks and tried my best to move on with graph paper notes. This carried me through four years of rush-writes and lecture learning, and I even came to love the classic Composition Book as dearest confidante, recording nearly every day in 100 page volumes. With the discovery of the Moleskine (squared notebook small, sketchbook large), french-ruled lines were a thing of the past.

Or so I thought. For two years now I've always had a Moleskine near, tucked in between text books and stacked neatly amongst my journals. Fellow members of the trend would nod knowingly whenever I pulled one out, some even occasionally giving me an atta-girl thumbs up as if welcoming me in on the secret. Coming in every possible paper variety and handy-dandy sizes, the Moleskine fits all kinds of creativity. The small file folder at the back is pure genius. And with Hemingway, Picasso, and Chatwin for company, who wouldn't be smiling? There is simply no reason you'd need to look elsewhere for notebook nirvana.

Except . . . well. Truth be told, I don't fully love Moleskines. This entire time I've been trying to talk myself into them, carrying them close in the hope that I'd get used to the idea. Thinking that maybe one day I'd feel the need to fill Flickr sets with their pages. Wondering if they really are an acquired taste, or if I was (as ever) the odd man out. Yet no matter how long I stuck with it, the feeling never left. With the last page of my NZ journal, I made the decision. It was time to take a stand.

My first day home at university I was back in the bookstore, debating. I felt almost guilty walking past the Moleskines, sensing that this probably meant something about me and society and how I didn't quite fit. The Composition Book, too, had lost its flair, and no new notebook stood out to me at all. Exasperated, I took a turn in the Art Department, looking through sketchbooks and Manga pads for possibility. Wandering helplessly now, it's no wonder I ended up on the engineering aisle---I was desperate for anything. And there, surprisingly enough, I found happiness. In the form of the orange-bright Rhodia, available in all sorts of clever sizes with a most modern old-fashioned feel. I was instantly enamored, stealing a No. 16 off the shelf and never looking back.

Today, I went back for my second Rhodia, hardly hesitating in my choice (though the No. 08 looks ever-intriguing; a to-do list, perhaps?). At the register, I paid a happy $3.69 for the book, flipping it over to peel off the price sticker as I skipped up the stairs and to class. It was then that I noticed the small triangle in the corner, a vaguely familiar logo. I scanned the rest of the cover, a chart dedicated to all the different formats available, noticing that the information came in both English and French. Could it be? I flipped the notebook open, taking a good look at the graph paper. Lavender lines: easy on the eyes and so completely . . . comforting?

A quick stop in the computer lab and a Google search later, my connection was confirmed: Rhodia is, indeed, a child of dear Clairefontaine. The even better news? Every one of their notebooks comes not only in ruled or graph, but my childhood Grands Carreaux. Sure, I'd have to order that sort straight from France, but with the way serendipity's been playing with me lately, I just might push my luck.