1. I talked to my friend Robin. She made me laugh, as she always does.
2. I got an entirely unsolicited email from one of my favorite students, reporting both an excellent grade on an English essay, and the fact that he "misses me a lot." French boys - even 17 year olds - sure know how to flatter a girl.
3. I ate really delicious Chinese string beans.
4. I had a really good talk with my mom about where she perceives me in my life. As previously mentioned on this blog, my mom is a very smart lady. She also knows me well.
5. My local barista of choice made me one of the best (and most beautiful) cappuccinos I've ever had. Ever. I told him so.
With Uña's Bonnes Choses du Jour out of the way, I can get on to this:
My name is Anya, and I'm recovering.
I've been home for two weeks + one day. I keep expecting to wake up and be in a better mood. And it just isn't happening. There isn't any of the immediate "holy fuck what have I done" feeling I've had before. Unlike those first days in Bordeaux, or at college, for that matter. I'm not disoriented. I'm not uncomfortable. I hear the birds singing in the persimmon tree, a dog barking. The sun is streaming through my windows, and rather than having to listen for roommates in our "WC," or the seemingly constant rain drumming on the sidewalk, I get to traipse into my own bathroom and plot which pair of sandals I want to wear. And while I do love having a closet full of clothes I more or less like and which more or less fit, even my shoe collection cannot distract me.
My name is Anya, and I am suffering from a Fit of the Sullens.
[On an extreme tangent, I just googled "fit of the sullens" and read "did you mean: fit of the cullens." Holy shit. That's too far.]
Moving to Europe was always part of my plan. I'm not sure how it entered my consciousness, and when, but I have known for as long as I can remember that I would eventually find myself twisting my ankles on uneven streets, admiring crumbling buildings, and speaking a foreign language - most likely with a dark-haired older gentleman who was both alarmingly aloof and sensitive. I probably thought those scenes would take place in Italy. That is, until I studied abroad there when I was 17. Italian culture is a lot of things, but above all it is LOUD. And volume is not something I handle with grace. Discovering Milan Kundera and his obsession with expatria (I know it's not a real word. Just go with it.) only furthered my conviction:
Intelligent, brave, passionate, and unhappy people with emotional problems leave their countries and move to other ones. According to Milan, they also cheat on their significant others and take long drives in the countryside. Many of them hate women. A lot of them are Czech.
The same girl who not only pursues but dreams of pursuing aloof men ate that shit up with a spoon and a fork. I'm ashamed to say that on some level, she still does. Milan Kundera isn't my only expat hero, though.
Samuel Beckett.
Vladimir Nabokov.
Julia Child.
Some of the strongest and kindest people I know have chosen to leave their "countries of birthplace": my friends Judith, Guillaume, and Silvina. My French professor Catherine. They're people whom I admire so much. They're adventurous, and intelligent, and open, and full of heart. How could I not take the plunge?
The thing is, though...
I never prepared myself for the day when whatever took me away from the U.S. and to Olde Europa, piss in the air and euros (coins, not bills mind) in my wallet, couldn't keep me. I never prepared myself for coming home. Was that a problem of short-sightedness? Or because I never thought that day of returning would come?
How do you compromise one of your lives with another? How do you NOT put the past behind you, but instead carry it with you? How do you muster the honesty to tell people you aren't happy to be back? How do you learn how to be okay with it?
[read: CHANGE, I HATE YOU.]
Lastly, how do you find a good baguette when even the best Whole Foods has to offer taste like mildly chewy cardboard?
over and out,
anya
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