1) Firstly, a note about the flight over. Ever wondered what hell is like? It's a trans-Atlantic flight with "Two and a Half Men" as the in-flight entertainment. AH remarked, "You know how we keep hearing the statistic that this show has such an unbelievably large viewership, and wondering who would actually watch this? I wonder if they count people like us who are forced to watch it against their will." I hope he's right, otherwise my faith in humanity has dropped just a wee bit further.
2) After only being in France for a few measly months, there are some things about the U.S. that, while normal to me only last December, are now fairly jarring. (Don't worry, I have no intention of going Euro-snob on you, just some things I happened to notice). For example: American waiters talk a lot. Now of course I cannot deny the exhilarating joy of walking into a store in the Charlotte, NC airport, and realizing that tiny knot of dread that wells up in my stomach every time I walk into a shop could dissipate; there was no need to stop and worry about finding the right words to say, or to be concerned that I was going to unknowingly commit a cultural faux-pas. I could speak Amurican, Dammit, and get my mentos and trashy mags without fear, thankyouverymuch. So I assumed that my thrill at being able to communicate with strangers would cause me to want to jabber ceaselessly with the wait-staff at Cap City Diner. Not so. While our waiter was very pleasant, I mostly found myself wishing he would cut the small talk and just bring me my beer so I could talk to the people I love but hadn't seen for six months. That being said, realizing that my drink had been refilled (with ice! Glorious ice!) without having to beg for a caraffe of still was quite the pleasant surprise.
Also, dag, did I see a lot of sweatpants.
3) Driving still sucks. While I'm no fan of sweaty armpits on my head, neither am I fan of this:
3) And now, for one of the strangest and most unexpected things I discovered. I was at the wedding of two dear friends, surrounded by people I've grown up with, people who knew me when I thought it was cool to wear six necklaces at the same time, who witnessed my 21st birthday, who came to see me in "That Famous Women's Play by Eve Ensler" (as my father instructed me to list it on my resume), people who surrounded me with love at my own wedding. And still something was wrong. I should have been totally at ease, but I wasn't.
On my way to the loo, I was stopped by a woman from my church who asked me how I was enjoying France. I shot off some quick remark (a rum and coke bladder is not prone to wait for pleasantries), and was turning to leave when she said, "You know, sometimes coming home can make you homesick." And even through my rum and coke haze I thought, boy, did she hit the nail on the head. So backwards, so not how it's supposed to work, but so true. I remember when I first arrived in Paris, a girl at ACP told me that she had just gotten back from a Christmas trip home, and now she was so bummed and homesick. I thought that sounded a little nuts; don't we shell out good money to go home and cure our homesickness? Wasn't I supposed to return to Columbus to fill up like a car on gasoline on enough Dirty Frank's and Maker's Mark, Short North drag queen sightings, homemade cookies, nights out with my girls and long talks with my family to get me through the months, even years until I can make it back?
On our last night in town, I ended up sitting across from my father at Schmidt's (which is much better when you can eat the sausage and drink the beer, I must say). Now for those of you who don't know (so most of you), not long after my parents had my older sister, they did the unthinkable: they left Kentucky for Cleveland. And for them, Cleveland might as well have been Paris: their families were there, they lived next door and down the street from people who had become (and still are to this day) great friends of theirs, but life (and my dad's boss) was calling them elsewhere. And so I asked my dad, how'd you do it? What magical formula is there for getting the most out of your visit home so that you return to your new place feeling better? And this is what he told me:
"You know, I can tell you the moment I would always get homesick for Kentucky: it was the moment I would be crossing the Big Mac bridge [the bridge we always drive over from Cincinnati into Kentucky to see family]. I would immediately start to think about where I would live if we moved back, where I'd look for a job, what schools you girls would go to. But the second I crossed that bridge back into Ohio, I would start thinking again about my life in Cleveland, and about how I actually did kind of like it there."
Getting back on the plane to Paris, I took a second to appreciate the irony of how I was probably the only American on the plane with such mixed feelings of being on my way to France. In my mind, the way that a trip is supposed to go is this: on the way there, you get excited because you are about to go and have a new adventure. On the plane ride back, you are relieved because you're going home to your own bed, your own shower, your friends and family. And that's not how it works for me anymore. I get on the plane, excited, but also longing for the comfort of my old life, and all the wonderful people in it. And on my way back, I know I'm on my way back to new adventures, but also, to my own bed. "Safety" and "adventure," "comfort" and "uncertainty" have all gotten mixed up. And "home" has become a fraught and confusing word.
And so we are back in Paris, and things are already so different from when I got off the plane at Charles de Gaulle six months ago. Seeing signs in French is no longer exotic, a reminder of the great adventure I'm on; it's a reminder that my knowledge of the French language is still painfully inadequate, and that I'm probably going to get my butt kicked tomorrow by my two tiny little Francophones. But I also understand so much more of what they mean; the mystery is giving way, ever so slowly, and often painfully to understanding.
If there was a way I could be in two places at once, to have the adventure and possibility of Paris and the comfort of Columbus, I would. But I can't. And as my father predicted, now that I'm back here, with my beautiful view of the park and my fabulous crusty bread, I feel much less sorry for myself than I did 48 hours ago. But there are still those pesky Dana, Barbara, and T-Dog shaped holes in my heart (and many more besides). And no amount of brie can fill them.
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