Home?

My week-long fall break is over. After ten days away from Paris, I’m certainly ready to go back. I’m ready to go home.

Home? Is Paris home? I think it is. I find, however, that as a college student, I’m sort of rootless. Over the past week, I’ve called all of the following places ‘home’: Seattle, Georgetown, Paris, a hostel. I’m unsure which of these is really my home (although I can happily confirm that it is not the hostel), but, right now, I think that Paris is home. It feels like home, and I miss it like I would miss being at home.

It helps, too, that I can speak to people in Paris. It’s so much more difficult when you have to communicate through gestures and words of broken and accented Spanish. Hearing French tourists throughout my break made me feel just as at home as did hearing American tourists. It was familiar and comforting next to the Slavic-like sounds of Portuguese.

I’ve certainly come to take Paris for granted, but being gone has made me anxious to return. I miss the elegant window displays of patisseries, the gloss of an apple pastry, the perfect crescent of a croissant. I miss the convenience (though not the grime or the crowds) of the Métro, whose extensiveness seems unparalleled, and I miss knowing my way around the city. What felt so strange and intimidating eleven weeks ago now feels comforting. The bustle, the honking, the quiet side-streets – it all puts me at ease. So although Paris may only be a temporary home, it’s a wonderful home. My very own bed awaits!