No answers. Just questions.

I've experienced a strange dilemma in the last year and a half. When American people - especially strangers - discover that I live and work in France, they inevitably pitch the same question at me: "OMG! How is it??? France!!! Do you love it???"

I made a decision before I left for my first year there that I would be honest with myself about the good, the bad, and certainly the ugly. I wouldn't idealize any part of the adventure, and as I began with little to no real expectations, I would observe, learn, and grow from whatever came my way. I've seen Amélie five million times and could easily quote the English subtitles, and maybe some of the French dialogue, ("depuis quand? depuis... toujours.") but I consider myself smart enough to realize that the Montmarte depicted in this totally surrealist film is a far cry from the real villes of modern day France. I love Edith Piaf, and I know she's a creature of the past. I see images of the Eiffel Tower, and I feel no pangs of excitement. France has never been a "destination" for me. I'll say it until I'm blue in the face. Je m'en fiche de ce pays.

I only moved there because I was bored with my lame life in Portland.

I only took French because my college screwed me over with requirements, and I knew I'd never learn it otherwise.

I have no emotional investment in France. I have no interest in France. I will leave France to the silly idealistic, naïve dreamers who moon over baguettes, waifish men, and striped shirts.

Those statements might've been true in the beginning. They might've been sincere in my own blindness, in my own unwillingness to see myself. They might've been honest in my defensive, lost, dead beginnings. But they no longer are. It's taken me a while - too long - but I care about myself; I care about my life and its directions; and I certainly care about the place in which I live it. With five days left at home before I return for my last (paid) "stint" in Bordeaux, I feel neither sad to leave home, nor sad to be returning.

How is France? What is France like? It's heartbreak and triumph and hard and beautiful and cold and surprising. People don't relate to each other in the same way. They don't express courtesy and care in the same way. They don't have the same concepts of professionalism and fidelity and punctuality and they put their elbows on the table and they drink shitty espresso and they know about the best years for wine and they like crème fraîche and they dub their movies and some people even drink beer.

Some of my friends see me and this strange sentence escapes from their lips: "Wow. So you're French now, huh?"

What does that mean?

I know I'm changed for good. I know I'll never be the Anya that left a year and a half ago. I know I'll never be that weak, sad, uncertain girl. I've said goodbye to her forever. But how can I continue? How do I evolve? How does "French" Anya evolve into Anya who has been to France and back?

No answers. Just questions.
Just me, three White Russians in...