Translation: "Home"
I have now been in France for nearly 7 months. In that space of time, I feel as though my whole world and self have shifted, changed and grown, yet somehow it all seems to remain the same. I've been having incredible experience, after amazing adventure, after unbelievable and dream like travels, and all the while befriending some of the most talented, smart, funny, and genuine people I will ever have the pleasure of knowing. I have been attempting (and somewhat failing) to document the majority of these experiences so that in their publication, in my writing them, they can live eternally, for my own pleasure and memory, but also so my friends and family will have some idea of what I've been up to - not just to see how much fun I've been having, but also to keep track of how much I have changed and grown so that it will not be so much of a shock when I come home - but then again, most of the time I feel as though I have not changed at all, in any minute detail.
Living abroad has been a challenge, one very different from what I had expected. Whenever I discuss this with friends here, or back home, I become tongue tied and always fail to find the words I am searching for. It is the most difficult thing I've ever had to try to describe, and it's not due to my loss of English vocabulary while being immersed in learning another, foreign language. I think it primarily has to do with the relation of oneself, to one's home, or lack of knowledge of exactly where that is anymore.
When I think the word "home", I picture my old apartment in Santa Barbara. The pleasant breezes walking in the sun down state street, the feeling of salt water drying on my skin and the gradual growing warmth of sitting in the sun after playing in the waves, the grains of sand that always gets stuck between the pages of the book I was reading on the beach, the dancing reflections of moonlight upon the ocean surface on a clear night, the fog horn that would always make me smile before I drifted off to sleep. I would do anything to make it back there. Though I don't doubt that it has changed, seeing as all the people who made it an important place for me will no longer be there by the time I would.
But then there's Danville - the town where I grew up, which had always been "home" because it was the town where I had grown up, and it's where my family remains; but that is all it seems to me now. Going back to that, is not at all appealing. The questions and stresses as to where I would live, only soothed by the solution of getting my own apartment, be near to my family to sooth other stresses, do my duty as a sister, a daughter, a grand-daughter and come "home" to make everything better again, to take care of everybody again. But going back there seems as if i'd be moving backwards, something I wouldn't be doing for myself, but rather for my family, and the thought of it does cause me some anxiety.
And then Bordeaux welcomed me with open arms. There was something about the slowness and quaintness of this city that instantly made me feel "at home" within minutes of my arrival. It was beautiful, the gorgeous architecture, the golden lights at night, the river, though brown, would suffice for my ocean withdrawals, at least until I had time to make the hour long trip to the Atlantic. Having my own apartment with a roommate made things feel more normal than they had in Paris, since again I would have to pay bills, and run errands, and clean up after myself - it felt more mine, more space that could belong to me.
Yet somehow, every time I pass through Paris since my moving to Bordeaux, I get uncontrollably giddy. Riding line 6 of the metro, sitting on a bus through the city, walking the Champs Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe one last time, had a feeling of comfort and nostalgia that I never expected after becoming so settled in Bordeaux.
And so my compass that is supposed to point due home seems to be a little confused, always turning in circles then changing direction without any warning. I now have 79 days until my flight back to the states, and I don't know what is going to happen after. The thought of reverse culture shock is not so exciting, and though I will be excited to see my friends and family, and eat all the mexican food and gluten free pizza I will be able to get my hands on, I know it will only be a matter of time before I'm aching to get on the road again; to be doing something more than waiting tables to scrape by paying my rent, utilities and car/gas expenses. I already have so many plans for traveling in the coming years beginning with a road trip to Canada, then back packing through South America, and I need to make it to Thailand and Indonesia and Cambodia and Australia and South Africa to dive with the great white sharks (in a cage, mind you). I want to hike to base camp of Everest, touch an untouchable, ride a camel past a pyramid - I'm addicted. And though sometimes it sounds nice to be able to stay put for a year or two while saving money for grad school, or even just settling and creating a more permanent attachment to the next "home" I make for myself, I find myself already stressing out about how I'm going to be able to make enough money waiting tables to support my "home" as well as my addiction to seeing the world simultaneously, which makes me realize, I won't be settling any time soon - if ever.
So then, what to do about this anxiety of where my home is, or where it will be. I could say I could carry it with me wherever I go - though that would be ridiculously cheesy, and false. I guess I'll just have to deal with feeling as though I don't have one, in exchange for continuing my travels, until I feel it is the right time for me to build my own home, by my own accord, which can house all the memories of my journeys across the globe in quest of finding it and the people who will make it with me.
