Next Friday by this time, I'll be on a plane zipping over the UK to Dublin. (And then a plane lumbering over the Atlantic, and then one hopping from Chicago to Detroit.) I'm not sure how to feel; I'm thrilled to be going home, but I am starting to wonder what leaving is really going to feel like. Although I've spent my fair share of time being frustrated with France this semester, I realize that it is because I am living here. Not hanging out here, not having a cozy summer-camp kind of experience -- living. Getting caught for an hour and a half in horrendous metro snarls, popping over to a favorite neighborhood restaurant, standing in line at the post office, buying groceries. I know my neighborhoods here. I've memorized the subway. Other than heading off to Bard in August of 2006, I've never really moved. I think next Friday will be the second time.
There's been a cold snap in Paris. It snowed about an inch on Monday, and then the snow froze into a sheet of ice. The temperature has been hovering around 20. I didn't bring any of my warm upstate-New York winter gear, since everyone told me that it never gets cold in Paris. My host mother cheerfully announced that the last time she can remember it being this cold was about fifteen years ago. Wednesday, my first day back at university, there was no heat in the classrooms, and I left after five hours of feeling my toes go numb.
There's also the sales, which began on Wednesday and have thrown the whole city into a bit of a frenzy.
There's also steaming fresh crepes to help stave off the cold.
To do: finish the last exam, pack, go to the Louvre, say goodbye to all of my favorite places (and people).
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