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The regular flights and evenings of Dr. Suess followed by late-night Parisian adventures have come to an end, and the big weekend family breakfasts and small-town church services filled with weekly hugs from the congregation recommence. The travels have come to a pause, and the suitcases are now empty. The children have gotten bigger and louder, the cars and houses have been upgraded or modified, and the trees have grown taller than last summer. However, the people have mostly stayed the same -- except for me.
I now speak with a lighter accent and find myself with a greater abundance of patience than before. I see little boys with trucks and cars on their t-shirts and have to smile. I listen to the geeky guys who tell me stories and can actually appreciate them. The rare intellectuals and travelers who I come across find me fascinating and "so accomplished for such a young American." I can even keep up with them in conversations about the world economy and participate in their debates over the controversy between Isreal and Palestine. Sitting in a cafe a few towns over with Angela, before she left, I was approached by their local French Club president and asked to join.
The life I lived in New Hampshire prior to my trip to France was full of hard work and complicated social situations, accompanied by the boredom of living in the middle of nowhere. The world I entered when the front door of the Bouyoux home opened for me was, indeed, an entirely different world. The work was far from the farm, and the people around me knew the difference between two different types of cheese or red wine without so much as a glance at the label. I doubt they know how to weed a garden or bleach a mildew stain, but then again, why would they need to know when they have "people" for that?
I was not one of them, but one of such "people" who worked for them and handled the situations that were simply too inconvenient for a bourgois to take care of on their own. Still, I lived in their house, and saw first-hand what it would be like to drive home in a new Mercedes and announce to everyone that the vacation home in Corsica has officially been bought. "We've decided to go to Rome," was an amusing sentence to casually hear tossed into the evening.
Here and now, back in this world, I spent a night with old friends driving around back roads on a four-wheeler and eight hours of my day on a farm occupying myself with produce plants, turning myself green on the skin of my hands. I put gas in my dad's car when I used it, and finally bought a new wallet before heading out to the movies. It's all mundane in the eyes of any ordinary stranger, and many would even deem it as a mediocre way of life. For me, however, the stress-free aspect of caring for a plant that cannot talk back or get angry is refreshing, and the people of small-town living know how to enjoy their lives better than most of the wealthy people whom I have encountered.
Still, the memories of my year in travels and moments of bliss replay in my mind, allowing me to miss them in my nostalgia as they burn their way into my brain for ever. I can remember how it felt to have Etienne reach out for my hand and smile at me the first time, and when we spent an entire afternoon making paper airplanes and putting stickers on my face. He was so cute when he showed me how he had put his shoes on all by himself, but they were on the wrong feet! Minutes quickly transformed into hours of make-believe and great white sharks swimming in between the furniture...
Then there was Marie, always there to be tough or gentle and pass a great conversation with over so many cups of coffee. Angela always looked so cute and had something to say to me. The au pairs from my school were there to meet up at a bar or hang out at Trocadero and even go to Amsterdam and discover the combination of sins and beauties of the city with me. I bought jewelry made of camel bones and pet a cheetah in a wine estate during my visit to South Africa with Ali in her dorm room. Amel quickly became the girl I could talk to for hours and share stories and create adventures together, like discovering Rome, standing in fountains, and singing sober on the sidewalks.
Then, there's the boy who I can't get out of my mind, who held my hand when I taught him how to ice skate and cried with me at the airport for my flight home. He shared with me many afternoons of art and culture, and always helped me find a good place to stop for ice cream. He's an intellectual who enjoyed explaining world history and international affairs to me, but who could also make me laugh and give great hugs, the ones that hold on tight so that I never wanted to let go.
Marko traveled with his dad and thought to bring me back souvenirs in the form of glass shoes. When I dropped them and shattered one of the liquor-filled Cinderella slippers, he told me he loved me, and it was real. I remember the repeating thought of desire to kiss him after we spent the whole day looking at art, after we had booked our flight to Barcelona together when I had been hours late without any power in my cell phone and he never lost patience with me, and after his school's concert in the Sorbonne when we hugged and started to say good-night several times until we finally realized we both wanted it. We spent hours together on the Champs Elysses just looking at each other and kissing under, on, and around the Arc de Triomphe. I hadn't enjoyed kissing like that since I was fourteen.
When the time came to pack our bags and fly to Spain together, he was calm and collected through the whole process, leading me around subways and the airport, always incredibly prepared. I think he must run a checklist in his head of items to prepare and check regularly. His patience never ran out, and he never complained about waiting for me or having to stop for me to get something I forgot or needed. Not once. He's the only person who woke me up successfully without making me bitter in the process. He let me spend too much time in the bathroom and gave me medicine and the afternoon to rest when I got sick. I don't know how many men there are in the world who are as considerate as he is, but I know I'm lucky to have him in my life. No matter what there is to come, I already know I can never forget him. I slowly fell in love with him every time we saw one another, and now I've lost track of how deeply I've fallen.
As gloomy as it is to accept the past year as a memory in place of a living reality, I still know that I can always return, and that regardless of what happens, "we'll always have Paris..."