It continually surprises me how much I miss being in France. It sounds ridiculous for someone my age to be missing something of that caliber, but I find that my obvious addiction to the country I have visited several times this year only deepens with every visit. I arrive there not really visiting to hit the tourist hot spots so I can come home with my bags full of shot glasses and keychains emblazoned with the Eiffel Tower or Sacre Coeur, but rather looking for a way to spend my time as if I were a citizen of the country. I visit small towns where boulangeries line the streets stocked with baguettes begging to be sliced, cheesed, and devoured. I spend time with some of the most welcoming and warm people I have come into contact with, especially considering the fact that our common words are that of a couple of toddlers playing in a sandbox. I have had countless memories made there that will be engrained into my psyche forever, continually making me feel like there is somewhere a part of me will always be. I can’t explain my connection to this place, but it seems to be something that not even my pharmacist will be able to override.

My first trip to France was a fantasy. It was a mere 11 days of brand new. It was the first country since Japan I have been to who’s native language wasn’t English. It is a huge deal, language. You never really realize the difficulties of communication until you’ve forced yourself into a place where communication is stunted. I arrived surrounded by new words and customs. I had taken 3 years of French in high school, but along with the Geometry, US History, and Government classes, the information that once was force fed to my brain has since been released to a currently - and probably eternally - undisclosed location. Seeing these words again started bringing back vocabulary as if it were mini epiphanies. I would read a word and have an overwhelming confidence that it was indeed saying “Exit” - french word: Sortie, for those who are in a learning mood. I was whisked away in a dream to the city of Paris for the day that was both whimsical and magical. It was like living in an Ang Lee film - visually stunning and incredibly slow paced. We took our time wandering the angled streets of Paris, passing shops, art galleries, parks, and monuments that all whooped the USA’s ass in cumulative age. There was more history and culture at my fingertips than I had ever experienced before. I was walking around one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen in my life - it was then I realized why American housing developments are aiming for European design: it was better.

The drive back to our accommodations was long, dark, and conversation-filled. Upon arrival, we walked up two flights of spiral stairs that smelled of oak and creaked with each step. The lack of elevator - or any means of making carrying my bag easier - proved to be difficult as I had packed as much as Delta would allow. I arrived in the apartment and found a comfort in both it’s location and aesthetics. It was a modern apartment in an extremely old building. The mix of the two was a juxtaposition that made my excitement flare. I felt incredibly at home. The following 11 days was filled with travel between Marseilles and Milan, making pit stops in Nice and Cannes, seeing more of the world than I had ever seen before. I was constantly faced with something new, stunningly beautiful, and best of all: French. When I arrived back home, passport still smoking from overuse, I booked my second trip to France in a heartbeat and made sure that the next time I was there, it would be both exceptionally longer and fulfilling.

I spent the month of September 2009 in France. I left August 26 and returned September 25. After making a pit stop in England to visit a friend, I made my way back to France for three and a half weeks of as much French as I could wrap myself around. There was much less cross-country travel in what I refer to as “France: Round Two,” but this proved to sell my soul to the country. I returned to the apartment that was beginning to feel more like a second home, along with its oaky, creaky stairs and timed light that left just enough time for a one way trip up or down the stairs. I devoured homemade French cuisine, learned how to hone in my cooking skills to finally cook a chicken, and also how to conserve water while showering and brushing my teeth. I began getting more accustomed to the customs that they French held so dear. I would begin to naturally slip into habits that I learned in France. Eating habits, for example, slowly morphed from American to French, putting my forearm on the edge of the table and drinking wine in the afternoon - two things that were incredibly easy and took no convincing for me to abide by. I was falling in love with everything about that trip, and I knew from that moment that I would spend my time finding ways to always be able to return to France.

“France: Round Three” proved to be just as enticing as the previous trips. I made my way to France, then to Hong Kong for New Years Eve, spending it with some of the people I am closest to on a boat in Hong Kong Harbor watching as the 50-80 story buildings exploded with fireworks. It was a dreamlike start to a vacation that continually felt less and less like a vacation, and more like a relocation to another home. January 8th was my return to France. For 2 weeks, I would relive my memories of 5 course meals, complimentary ESL courses provided by the family that knows no end to fantastic cooking, and figuring out how to miss my train. Though I seemed to always catch my trains come the end of the vacation, I have always had the chance to leave a piece of my soul in France. This time, it was a snow covered paradise in which I experienced temperatures no Californian would dare enter. Sandals and shorts with a light jacket won’t suffice here. I was layered and layered in jackets and coats and, with red nose in tow, I walked through the streets of Nancy, kicking around the snow and tasting the crispness of the snowflakes I would scoop into my mouth. Living in a place with such dramatic weather changes doesn’t seem to phase me as it only provides a means of expanding one’s wardrobe - a habit that is already near and dear to my heart. I found that sipping on tea as snow fell early in the morning was not only a fantasy of mine, but something I had wished to live. I didn’t want to open the curtains to look out the window of my Holiday Inn Paris and grab my room service coffee and plan for the day while watching snow fall onto the roof of the building next to me. I wanted to feel like there was nothing more than that moment - and I found it.

I have a ridiculous relationship with this country. I have had the ability to feel as though I was living in a place that made me feel more at home than I have felt in a long time. I felt as though I was finally in a place that made me feel whole. My time spent in California - as infrequent as it is becoming - is now spent waiting for the next time I get to visit this country. I want so badly to just book a one-way ticket and see what happens - though I’m sure the government will have something to say about that. Maybe someday I will find myself booking said ticket and finding a small flat to call my own; snow on the windowsill and sparkling water in my glass. No offense, America. It’s been real, but there is something out there that just fits a little bit better.

x.