Welcome Home, and Cheesy Fries

So I thought I was feeling nostalgic Saturday on my last walk through le Marais, baguette in hand and another in the other, enjoying the slow paced, boutiquey quaintness/richness/gayness of my favorite neighborhood in Paris. But ever since I stepped off the plane at O’Hare, the real sensation of “OMG I’m not in France anymore” has definitely hit. Multiple times. Like a cannonball. Or wrecking ball, as Miley Cyrus is on the radio here. Holey Moley I’m back.

Can I get some cheesy fries with that?

Suburban America is… BIG. Big portions. Big driving lanes. Big… people. Walking around in Europe I mostly noticed the clothing worn by passersby and judged accordingly, but returning back you can’t help but notice the size of people. The corridor leading to the plane was lined with wheelchairs not simply for the elderly or handicapped but those who just don’t… walk. Motorized scooters in malls, and lines at the drive-through pharmacy when there’s no wait inside… doesn’t anybody walk? And the portions… boy I love me a Portillo’s cake shake but a medium-sized drink is bigger than a large anywhere else in the world. None of this is new information, of course. It’s just, back in France I didn’t have to worry about portion control because the portions were just… already controlled for me. But you know the American way… more, more, more!  

Also, screens are EVERYWHERE. In restaurants, in stores, even in the library. At my 8am dentist appointment (no problem, as I was up by 4am), I get seated in a chair with an HD television screen in my face showing Good Morning America. I can’t help thinking of that episode of Black Mirrors I recently watched and suddenly feel claustrophobic about the screen and noise and just want it to be turned off but at this point I’ve got sharp objects dancing away at my gums so I just hold my tongue (away from the sharp objects). It’s a stark contrast to my French doctor, who operates out of her apartment living room, no thrills or frills (I wasn’t even allowed to use the bathroom).

Now lean back!

Some things have changed, at least in my little suburbia. We have a new Trader Joes and the cutest family moved in next door. I went to the movies yesterday and the seats are literally armchairs with adjustable footrests that are more comfortable than my couches at home. And there are the sweet things that I’ve missed. People say thank you ALL the time. And it always feels good. I can call a cellphone provider and a human answers. 2pm appointments actually start at 2pm. And there’s frozen yogurt galore!

So now it’s day 2 of being back, and I guess by now the shock factor has faded. I feel myself sinking back into old habits. Hummus and pita bread. Ice in my water. Coach purses. I haven’t even worn black all week! And if feels great to let it all go but at the same time, I’m a bit scared, afraid that those layers of my French years I’ve built up are beginning to peel away. Walking through the same mall I went to back in high school, I got a sort of vile feeling that I’ve landed back where I began. I used to be that girl that was just home for the holidays, off again in 5 days to her exotic life in France, where they don’t even speak English! I’d say “oh stop, it’s really not that great” but it was still cool to be that somebody that did something different. Now I’m back to being the American girl living in America and following her American dream. Just like any other American girl. And it’s not so exotic but it’s what I want. And I don’t think I would have been this sure about it if I’d never gone away. But still… I wish being the girl who “used to live in France” sounded just as cool.  

Saying Goodbye

Hello, goodbye. Let's keep in touch. Until we meet again. If we meet again. 

The thing about saying goodbye to friends abroad is that you're never sure when you're going to see them again. It's the same for anyone who's ever made a big move, but across continents to lands with different cultures and languages and rhythms, it feels extra heavy. More concrete. More like goodbye. Of course, those memories will remain close at heart, in a glass ornament brought out once in a while to reminisce the good times of that epoch in Paris, or wherever. But man, I'm really going to miss some of you.

Oh yeah, so some context. I'm moving back to the states in four days. For good (for now). OMG. Apologies for the lack of posts as of late, but this decision has consumed me and I've been traveling and... and... and you know how it goes. Anyway, this marks the end of my life in France, this pretty little thing that came and went so unexpectedly, so abruptly. Am I a changed woman? Perhaps. I drink sparkling water now, and am open to eating raw meat. I speak another language, and don't wear sneakers out in public. Though I doubt these habits will follow me home. Really, all I can think about at the moment is gorging my last croissants and what I'll be doing next. And prolonging the goodbyes.

People keep asking how I feel about leaving. Truthfully, I'm just excited for what's to come next. Sure, I'm nostalgic and will miss things: it's been glamorous, no doubt. I've seen places and eaten foods and experienced things that I never would have back home. Things that have opened my eyes to new ways of understanding people and governments and it's certainly changed my attitude towards America. A lot is wrong with the US, no doubt, obvious things like gun control and healthcare, and the amount we waste on food, light, litter, gas... it's really shameful. And needs to change. Some things are much better, more secure, in Europe, and I've appreciated them in my time here. 

But if I'm being honest, as a feminist who's loud and competitive and prefers smiling but loathes cigarettes and people who wear scarves when it's not cold out... France has been a terrible fit. Cheating ex aside, I've never been so frustrated with people as I have been here. To all the chauvinists who have told me girls can't play soccer, or that I'm too pretty to wear sweatpants, that I'm too ambitious professionally or that Americans are all racist... fuck you. Seriously.The doctors who prescribe without listening, those who hang up or close doors because my French accent isn't perfect, and everyone leaving problems unsolved because it's time for the two hour lunch break... I despise you. This country has a stigma for being unfriendly and cold and after three years I can't say I disagree. You're beautiful, France, no doubt, but the echoes of the complaining on every street corner can be a real drag. 

So thank you to all those, in spite of the debbie downers, that have still made it worthwhile. Made it fun. Made me happy. It's a little bit the baguettes and the cheese. The cheap wine and cheap flights. The chateaus and terraces. But mainly it's you, my soccer team, those special colleagues, roommate and friends of friends, and random encounters here and there on dance floors in metros at markets and over drinks... you are my Paris, my years abroad, my early twenties, my days and nights of not knowing what the hell it all means but moving along anyway. France was never in my agenda, but life throws curve balls like attractive men and job opportunities, and so I decided
to go for it. It's been a remarkable chapter in my life. I mean, I speak French now! I've visited over a dozen countries. I even dated a model (which I will be bragging about forever). And mostly, I've made friendships that are in for the long haul. And I'm truly thankful for that.  

It's come to an end now. Endings are sad, and I still have some goodbyes left that will no doubt be tear-filled and hard. You know who you are, and I'm writing this for you. It's funny how your excitement for me and what's next to come makes it that much harder to leave. Wish you could come away with me, along with all the things I love about my life here. The camembert and the fois gras won't make it past airport security, but I'll do my best to safely carry that little glass ornament of memories with me wherever life takes me next.