You can never really come home

Insight of the Day

"Home is wherever I'm with you"  -Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros

What is 'home'? What does 'being home' mean exactly? When people say 'I want to go home', where are they looking to go? What do they expect to find at this infamous place, this idealistic memory of a place that may not even exist?

I've been pondering these questions frequently as I mark four months into my exchange (I know, I'm almost half way through, it's insane). To be honest, the first two months of my exchange, I wanted to come home a lot. Even though life was great, my host family great, the food fantastic, I was well taken care of, etc., this idea of home totally consumed me. I begged my mother and my father to let me come home on multiple occasions and my mother always said, 'give it time', which is what I needed to do exactly, of course. My father, however, said something different. He said it several times and at the time I didn't really understand but now I get it. He said, 'you can never go home again'. Mulling these words over, I realize it's true. Because life has changed, because my family has changed, because my town has changed and most consequently, I have changed, meaning my idea of home at this moment may not even exist. To me, home was always where I felt safest, where I could be myself and everyone knew me and that was in the house I lived in. But now, my mother has moved and rented out that same house, my father has sold his house, and I live in a house they have never even seen before. A house I love, a house that is warm and makes me feel happy and comfortable. How is it that the closest thing I have to home right now is 4,000 miles away from my parents and everything that I once sought comfort in? And even more mind baffling, how is it that I am 100% okay with that?  It's true you know; I can never, ever, ever come home because I am home.

Paris (and other stuff)

Miss me? It's been a while, hasn't it. I feel as if I've been on a roller coaster ride, one of those that flips upside down and does 300 flips and even though I'm puking my guts out and am scared for dear life, I can't get off. And I don't want to get off. My thoughts are getting increasingly more difficult to sort and pick apart and French words seem to melt into English words seem to melt into words that I have never heard before but somehow my brain decided they exist. Again, I ask you to excuse my lack of sense, not like I ever had any to begin with....

I was just on a radical two week vacation and so naturally, I'll start our story right from the beginning middle, when I went to Paris. I changed my host family the day after Christmas (more on that later, obviously) and there was a lot to worry about like the fact that I suddenly had seven times the amount of clothes I did when I got here and whether or not my family would buy Trésor cereal. When I got there, though, I felt right at home and my adorable little sister, Charlotte, helped me unpack by sitting on my bed and cutting up pieces of paper into a million slits. Than my host mom came upstairs and asked me to pack an extra bag because we were going to Paris tomorrow. LOL WUT. My excitement was tangible. I swore that it would consume me whole. I had to rise at 6am the next day but it was totally worth it even though I'm pretty sure I resemble the grudge at that inhumane hour. During the four hour car ride, packed between my host parents, 16 year old brother, Louis, 12 year old sister, Valentine, and nine year old Charlotte, I couldn't stop freaking out (and sleeping), I was going to Paris! I'd soon be a different person, I decided. One does not simply go to Paris and not change into a different specimen entirely, I was sure.

Paris is amazing. Paris is magnificent. Paris is the epitome of beauty and history and something bursting and waiting to happen. Paris is like New York on steroids. I'm serious. The metro is huge and constantly bustling. It's dirty and grimy and smells awful and I love every inch of it. Walking into the metro is like going into a different world entirely. We walked past four old men in tuxedos playing instruments, ladies singing their hearts out in hope of a few coins, old creepers trying to get some excitement for their day. On the metro itself, held even more goodies. Three boys and a girl walked onto the same car as us and started blasting music from an old stereo. Than they started doing flips and hollering in the extremely crowded car and later passed around a tiny cup in hope of money. I was a regular old tourist and took seven million pictures of everything. "Oh look, the Effile Tower, I better take 100 pictures of that!" "Oh look, a rotten piece of bubble gum stuck to concrete, I better take 123 pictures of that!" English was everywhere. Native speakers in their true glory. It was like crack to me, hearing the English, understanding fully what the people were saying, the inside jokes, the fast flick of useless words and I understood it all. It was delicious and I could be compared to a addict strait out of rehab, knowing the English was bad for me, knowing it would reset progress, but wanting it so bad with every bone in my body. I longed to go up to the two old women and discuss flabby arms with them, the random family and discuss what they were going to eat for dinner; I didn't care what we talked about, I just wanted to talk! And I didn't. Because, one, that's just freaking creepy, and two, I have incredible will power. Probably the most frustrating thing for me was when I would speak to a hotel worker or store clerk in French and they would respond in English. This drove me up a wall and made me want to go all 'je parle français', on their ass but I didn't. I couldn't understand how they knew I was an American until my family told me obviously my accent was incredibly strong. I still found it rude considering I was making the effort! And at this point, I spoke French better than they spoke English but I knew this was just what they were used to doing and paid to do. I found it very off putting how many English speakers would speak very quickly with the French workers and not bother to slow down or even try to say a few words in French. As I waited in line at the hotel desk to ask for the wifi password, the man in front of me started yelling at the clerk in English that he needed a new spoon (why his lack of spoon was the hotel's problem, I have no idea) and all I could think was it was no wonder the French think the American's as a little rude. It isn't everyone but a few one bad experience is enough to make an opinion, we all know that.

It was Christmas time when we went and at night it was simply beautiful. All the trees were covered in lights and the Les marchés de Noël were going on which is basically huge street fairs at the time of Christmas selling things. I stood at a booth with my family where a man was making clay pots. He than proceeded to ask me for my name and wrote it onto the pot in aarabic (yeah, I have no idea why). He gave it to me but not before asking for a few euros, of course! By the time I got back to the hotel, the clay pot was a pile of mush but whatever.



More later.


Everything sucks right now. More when I feel better.