Départ imminent

I don't like to be dramatic here. That belongs to the realm of eighth-grade xanga entries or blogs with subjects more profound than a happy semester spent gallivanting in France. My writing has leaned more towards sarcasm, profanity, and flippant observations on earthly vices, with the occasional italicized French word thrown in. On those beautiful days when I am filled with love for this city, I write fragments decorated by a smattering of adjectives because complete sentences feel too affected somehow. But now, approaching the end, I am letting myself be a little self-indulgent. So here's a sentence for you:

The thought of leaving this place is painful. It feels like uprooting and all words associated with it: tearing, ripping, wresting, arracher.

I can already imagine the things that will remind me of France. They're little details, like the passing exhale of cigarette smoke or the decisive crunch of a knife cutting through the crust of a baguette. Removable showerheads will remind me of France, as will the bitterness of whiskey sticking to my tongue. I won't be able to make pasta without thinking of my host mom's sauce bolognaise, and every time I see a floor length skirt I will hear Anna swishing through the doorway. I already compare every park to Jardin Public and every bar to the Cock and Bull.

My friends who know me well know that I grow very attached to places. I blame it on all the moving. 3 countries, 7 cities, and 5 elementary schools make for a strange upbringing. I don't resent it; it's made me adaptable and given me a unique perspective on a variety of things, and it is of course an integral part of my identity. But at the same time, I feel constantly unsettled. The only thing that has ever been a constant is nostalgia. I cling to places because I no longer have a place I can truly call home. My parents currently work in China. We still own our house in Texas, but it's been rented out to strangers for the past year. So now more than ever, with no permanent address in the world, I find myself trying desperately to find a patch of earth to claim.

This is true for France, but with Bordeaux it was never just about geography. I haven't traveled much this semester, partly due to my broken ankle, partly due to time and budget constraints. Ultimately though, it's because I find it hard to tear myself away. In the beginning of the year I had made a list of places I wanted to visit - Stockholm, Zurich, Dublin, Lisbon, Santorini - and then a list of weekends I had left. I remember feeling so frustrated that I couldn't see everything I wanted in so little time. But when push comes to shove, I am so happy that I spent most of my time here. I would have missed football games, nights with French friends until sunrise, quiet afternoons spent picnicing by the river, taking photos of children running through the miroir d'eau. I can come back later to see the world, and I'm sure I will. But never again for the rest of my life will I be in the situation I'm in now: 20 years old, not a care in the world, living in a beautiful European city, a language I love flitting all around me, surrounded by amazing friends and French people my age who have taught me more about French and France than any textbook or lecture. This is a one-time intersection of time, place, and people that expires the second I step on an airplane. And while I'm enjoying every moment, it's the fact that this experience is so ephemeral and irreplaceable that makes it all the harder to leave.

All this has felt like a dream, the type you wake up from only to squeeze your eyes shut because you want it to keep going. The sad truth is that in less than two weeks, I'll be awake - and there's no falling back asleep. There will only be the memory of the sweetest five months of my life.

--

Expect much more entries like this over the next week.