11 days later: Home in CA

Those last seven days in Paris passed bittersweetly, as I packed up my pounds of international presents, saw a ballet at the Opera Garnier as a final outing, squeezed my American friends and bis*ed (cheek-kissed) my French family goodbye, and rode the shuttle from home to Roissy airport, contacts a-blur and cheeks feeling the final drops of my last Parisian rain.

It's over. Four months of my life spent in a foreign country, four months of a completely different existence, has ended. On the plane ride home, memories of Paris seemed to be slipping by me as quickly as the land beneath us. By the time I reached Los Angeles airport, my head was only in the present, as I was struck with new old faces, overly-friendly Christmas-spirited Americans, and 76 degree weather. A deluge of new perspective on my home that was ever-before the same. Welcome back to Cali.

In many ways, it's good to be home. Car drives, grass, open spaces, family, friends, and American dollars that translate into American dollars. But, I miss real chocolate eclairs, the 58-story Montparnasse tower by my home that can be seen from almost anywhere in Paris, the efficiency of the Metro (the only efficient thing in France), the creaky floor-boards in my appartement that were bound to wake someone up at 2 in the morning, the free couscous Fridays and cigarette-polluted bars, the lights on the Champs Elysees and the French way of doing everything in the moment. Enjoying one's existence.

I think that's what I'm going to do my best to continue here in the States: living for the moment, carpe diem-ing. But, really. Taking breaks to breathe in the world around oneself. That's the only way to truly experience life, even if you're not necessarily living the dream in Paris, traveling to a different country every weekend, and exploring some new museum, park, or Metro stop every day.

They said I'd have culture shock when I returned home. They were right. The first day back was fantastic--waking up to the most beautiful southern California sunrise, riding in my dad's convertible in the summer-like weather, working out for the first time in four months, smiling at people on the street...but as little everyday exchanges sparked memories of Paris, I missed it terribly, and I realized the dilemma I had found myself in: In these two entirely-different places of Paris and California, how could I choose which one I loved more? Lucky for me, I don't have to. I'm flat broke so I'm currently an inmate of California. I guess if Paris isn't an option, though, then this not a bad place to be imprisoned.

The only unfinished business that remains now is the question, "Will I go back?" Well, yeah. Duh. But, to live? Only if I'm able to walk the cobblestone streets of the Marais on a Sunday, enjoy a cup of espresso on the terrace of a cafe in Saint Michel, or pop open a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from Bordeaux on the quais of the Seine.

7 Days

One week left. 7 days. How can I possibly accomplish all I had wanted to get done by this point in 7 days? With finals next week, and presents to buy, and packing to do, I can't. It's okay, though. I'm comin' back.

As you know, I had a tough time integrating into French society. Assimilation is impossible for a foreigner in Paris, I've found, but integration is possible. To a certain extent, the French actually will accept you for who you are. Of course, this is usually if they mistake you for a French person, or if you live on the outskirts of the city, which is mostly populated by multi-ethnic immigrants. But for me, integration is enough. Being different makes life more interesting.
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Last weekend, I visited some Santa Clara friends in London. I felt like I was back at home as soon as I entered their dorm-type living area: clothes strewn all over the floor, the trashcan overflowing, unmade bunk beds, computers and ipods and cellphones everywhere. It was just like the Santa Clara that I know and love. Despite having been engrossed with the idea of staying in Paris forever the week before, this little bit of home reminded me how awesome it will be to see friends and family again. It's weird to think, at this point, that I haven't seen any of my friends and family in four months (with the exception of my brother). The friends I've made here...we all kind of act like a family for each other, a little transplanted group of awkward Americans suddenly become half-French.

London is...big. Intelligent observation, I know. But, so true. The "Tube," as the Brits call their Metro system, is a necessity, whereas you could walk Paris if you wanted. As tourists, we did the usual--Tower of London, photo-op with the British Guard (he spoke to me! he asked me what time it was), fish & chips (never again), tea @ Herod's department store, a run by Big Ben/Westiminster Abbey/Buckingham Palace as it was raining cats & dogs all Saturday, and an evening at a 5,000 pound ($10,000) nightclub where the likes of Prince William & Harry go. You know, the usual. ;-) Actually, our Santa Clara friends had randomly met some guys who called Saturday night and invited us to this club in South Kensington, the Boujis, where they had purchased a table for the night. Ridiculous. I'm quite positive that I will never have $10,000 to throw out on any given night at a club (especially as my current form of income is writing this blog, in which I receive $0 per entry).
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Je peux parler le francais bien maintenant. I can speak French pretty well now. Thanks to my considerate host family who keeps inviting me to additional meals, to the random Frenchmen to whom I must give directions, and, well, hearing French 24/7. I'm afraid returning to 3 hours a week of French class as my only source of French conversation is going to murder my comprehension and accent. So, if and when you see me back in the States, just speak French to me, okay?

I made Mexican food last night, finally. With that taco seasoning that had spilled all over my bag on the way to Paris--yeah, I finally used that. And those jalepenos, which my host family had never heard of before. Yes, I almost burnt the house down again. But so worth it. The first thing I'm going to do when I get home is roll up my sleeves, wash my hands, and stuff my face with ridiculously greasy, chedder-cheesy, amazingly spicy Mexican food. Lots of it.

Today is 10-page-Muslim-Presence-in-Europe-paper day. Tomorrow is run-around-Paris-and-cry-and-scream-that-I-don't-wanna-leave day. And eight days from now, eight days from now is going-through-withdrawal day. Paris has become something indescribable for me. That cigarette pollution, those one-way suicidal streets, and the urine-drizzled Metro--I can't imagine life without them.