I'm writing for the first time from the U.S. I said, "Bonjour," to a stranger I crossed on the street earlier. I'm sitting in a new French-inspired café down the road from my parents' house. The juxtaposition might be too jarring, a few days in, for me to fully enjoy this otherwise charming spot with free wifi.
Last week, I finally wrapped my 4 year au pair séjour. I hope to continue my story in France. But in order to make that happen, I'm taking a step backward and committing to a year and a half of working and saving money in my hometown; which will hopefully put me in the position to return to France someday as a university student. For as much flak as the U.S. gets on the immigration front, it's worth noting that other countries certainly aren't letting foreigners just waltz right in either.
It was a moment I'd been dreading, date unknown, since shortly after moving to France. I'd be lying if I said I didn't let this impending reality detract from the joy of my experience. While it would waver, I felt for the first time, a sense of belonging. I was making friends. (You know, one of the top reasons given to spend tens of thousands of dollars going to American colleges.) I was creatively-stimulated. There was so much to feast my eyes upon, so much to document. I was spending more time than ever outdoors. I was climbing mountains instead of the gym stepmill. I had the free time that came with a pleasant exchange of occasional help around the house and with the kids for a place to live. But all of these new thrills came with an insistent reminder that one day it would be over, manifesting itself as le vague à l'âme, my soul in the wave- the blues.
And then the day came. And I was calm; deeply melancholy, but accepting.
Perhaps because I got most of the devastation out during my five month "trial end" two years ago.
Perhaps because there is a part of my experience that left long before I did. And only now can I appreciate these moments in time for what they were, and how they go on as a part of me. I didn't get the fairytale. I allow myself to cry; to feel my disappointments. I allow myself nostalgia; a grin out of nowhere when a sweet, silly memory pops into mind. And I move on, and accept what was not a fairytale, and instead, what is my story.
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