"Where we love is home- home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts."
-Oliver Wendell Holmes
This is the blog post I've put off writing because that means I'm actually home and my time in France is now my memory, not my reality.
Coming home has been a whirlwind of emotions and I don't even think I've honestly processed half of them yet. I still expect to wake up and catch the 100 bus to SKEMA. To walk across the street to the boulangerie to get a baguette and croissant. To walk that tried and true route to the Blue Lady or Hop Store. To run along the Cap d'Antibes. To sit around with friends and no worries. Instead, I sit in Arkansas. Spending my time reading books, watching Ellen, working my new job at Taziki's, cooking numerous Pinterest recipes and in general, missing France. Each time I walk into my house, I'm not only reminded that I'm not walking into 23bis Boulevard Wilson, but that I no longer can walk in and say, "Baby G!" and see my dog running towards me (or as she got older, a slow amble). It still gives me pause every time I come through the door.
On May 1st, I got on the plane in Nice, flew to Munich, sat for 2 hours, got on a 9 1/2 hour flight to Chicago, and prepared for a five hour layover. To my surprise as I went up to re-check my luggage after making it seamlessly through customs, I was informed that I could be put on standby for an earlier flight to Little Rock. The conversation went something like this...
"I can put you on standby for a flight at 4:40 if you want?"
"Uh, sure." *Looks at my watch and notices it's still 7 hours ahead* "What time is it?"
"3:30. Here ya go!" Hands me my new boarding passes and tells me to proceed to Terminal 1. I was in Terminal 5.
Let me paint the picture of my sprint to Terminal 1. It's 80 plus degrees outside and in the tram. I'm wearing long sleeves, and three layers underneath, fleece lined leggings, Keds, and carrying two 20 plus pound carry-ons. I arrive at Terminal 1, and realize that I still have to re-go through security. I'm walking up and a security guard says, "You can't have three bags. Put your purse in one of your other ones." I look at her, on the verge of tears, and numbly shove my purse into my duffel bag. I can't zip it shut, but at that point I just dealt with it. She was rude, I was tired and hot, and not all that happy either. I get through security, make it to the gate and find out that I'll get on the flight.
On to the next hurdle.
I don't have a phone. I look around and look at the people standing around me to figure out who I think would let me use their phone to call my parents so I wouldn't be sitting alone at the airport in Little Rock for hours, or be forced to take a cab. Unfortunately, none of my prospects seemed viable, so I scramble to produce a dollar in change so I can use the pay phone- yes they still have those- at the terminal. First call to my mom? Voicemail. Panic sets in as I realize I know three numbers by heart. My mom's, my house, and my own. I never learned my dad's new number after he changed it a few years back. Try number two? My house. Voicemail. But just when I thought all was lost, my dad picked up. "DAD! It's me! I'm in Chicago! I'm on an earlier flight!" I gave him the information and assured him that I'd keep him posted if that changed but I was pretty sure I'd see him at 6:50 instead of 10 at night.
Once I was safely seated I breathed a sigh of relief. This was it. I was heading home. Circling around Little Rock there was a range of emotions battling each other in my heart. Immense sadness at the thought that my adventure was actually over. Happiness at finally be home. Relief I was finally touching down at home, and an overwhelming realization that I didn't know what to expect now that I was home. It was a wonderful homecoming, seeing my mom, sister and dad standing at the airport to welcome me. Coming home to my wonderful house. I've been busy since being home. Going up to Fayetteville and being reunited with my best friends, finding a job at home and starting work, and catching up with life here in America. So far, I'm still recovering from jet lag. I go to bed at 9, before my parents even, more nights than not. I'm still trying to not get overwhelmed by culture shock every time I walk into Walmart. I'm still trying to unpack everything. Maybe it's the denial that I've left that's made me procrastinate fully going back to normal. Maybe it's just my laziness. Either way, I know that yes, I'm home, but I think I left home also. France became part of my heart, and part of my home. I miss it every day.
Jackie
