A Parisian in America

I’ve been back in the US for 96 hours now, and... I’m still waiting for the sadness to kick in.

Of all the reactions I had anticipated upon my return from Paris, this was not one of them.

No doubt the tristesse will arrive eventually, once the novelty of being back in America wears off. 

Puzzlingly, I never did cry before I left. I felt my tear ducts activate while watching the Eiffel Tower sparkle for the last time and when walking away from Le Calbar on Tuesday night, but no rush of anxiety or despair ever occurred on Wednesday during our taxi to the airport, our long wait for the delayed departure of our flight, or during the eight and a half hours in the air.

At first I figured that it just hadn’t sunk in that I was actually leaving/gone. But shouldn’t that have worn off by now? Then again, I’ve heard a theory that our spirits travel more slowly than our physical selves, and in the past I’ve felt this to be true. Perhaps my spirit, undoubtedly the part of me most reluctant to leave Paris, has taken an unusually slow route across the Atlantic in an effort to delay the rupture of my connection with the City of Light.

I keep having flashes of random things in Paris: the smell of the boulangerie at my neighborhood’s main intersection; the voice on the metro saying “Denfert-Rochereau”; the passing of the cruise ships on the Seine; the smile of the ever-friendly crepe vendor on Avenue du General Leclerc; the sound of scooters at all hours of the day and night; the view of the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe from Place de la Concorde; the waves lapping gently against the quais of the Seine; the men with their well-tailored suits and long, narrow shoes; the women wearing all black and looking effortlessly stylish... the list goes on. But as each of these things flashes without warning into my head, I have no reaction. A slight twinge of nostalgia, perhaps, but nothing approaching the “ohmyGod I can’t believe I’m here instead of there, someone please take me back, I can’t stand it!” reaction I’d expected. It’s very bizarre; I’ve never before had this type of reaction – or lack thereof – upon returning home from a life-changing experience abroad.

Have aspects of being back in America amused, surprised, or irritated me? Of course. On our drive home from Dulles on Wednesday night, my mom and I stopped at a Panera to grab salads for dinner, and of course I ordered mine with baguette. Just as the best way to get used to cold water is to jump in rather than gradually submerging yourself, I figured I should just get the disappointment with baguette/bread in general over with at the earliest opportunity. I had to chuckle nervously before we even got our food because of the sign advertising baguettes for $2.99, so much more expensive than in Paris (even with the exchange rate). Once I had my plate in front of me, I knew from the moment I touched the piece of baguette that it was going to be awful. True French baguette only has three ingredients: flour, water, and salt. That’s it. In America, we have to complicate things; more is always better! The baguette at Panera was rubbery both inside and out, not at all flaky on the outside or airy on the inside. I probably made a face when I first bit into it.

Things like that I did expect, along with thinking “God, our system is so stupid!” each time I buy something and see the seemingly random final price after taxes (in France all prices include tax) and feeling confused upon receiving bills rather than coins for $1. People are indeed fatter here, and oh my gosh, it seems like women everywhere are wearing gym clothes rather than real clothes while out in public. It’s truly disorienting to see that. And flip flops! So many flip flops! I felt like a stranger in my own land when I went shoe shopping two days ago and doggedly searched for sandals that would stay firmly attached to my foot were I to be walking down the grand boulevards of Paris.

I’d forgotten some of the charming perks of American life, especially in warm weather. I visited my law school on Thursday and saw a number of well-toned guys running without shirts on. You would never see shirtless runners in Paris, and more’s the pity. (It is an irony of European culture that although you might see a somewhat jarring amount of exposed skin on the beach relative to American beachgoers, you will never see anyone walking the streets shirtless or wearing a covered bathing suit.) I’d also forgotten how, even in a city like Paris with beautiful gardens and parks everywhere, your eyes become accustomed to seeing buildings more than greenery. I love the uniform limestone architecture of Paris and do miss its grandeur, but it’s also so refreshing to see greenery everywhere. Spring has arrived in Virginia after a truly ravaging winter, and there are so many trees, particularly the dogwoods with their lovely white and pink blossoms, and lush green lawns that I find myself constantly marveling at the beauty of my home state.

Perhaps I’ve done a good job of finding “replacements” for Paris here in Richmond. On the subject of gardens and greenery, I’ve now tried to channel my sunbathing in the Tuileries by sitting on my back porch, reading from my enormous stack of accumulated magazine subscriptions while gazing periodically at the contrast between the clear blue sky and the shades of green in the trees and grass. I’ve traded my run along the Seine for a run to a park about a mile and a half north of my house, where there is a small lake with lots of lily pads that, if they had blooms, would be reminiscent of the Monet paintings I admire so much. This afternoon, still not having quenched my thirst for the aesthetically pleasing outdoors, I drove to a park I hadn’t visited in probably a decade or more. It has two themed gardens, one Italian and one Japanese, and my memories of visiting these as a child didn’t fail me: they were beautiful. They do not and cannot replace the void left by the gardens of Paris, with their angle-backed chairs and the multi-lingual chatter of passing tourists, but they do provide a similar sense of peace as you sit to read while surrounded by beautiful nature.

I have had many moments of thinking about what’s happening in Paris, six hours ahead. This is probably what has bothered me most in recent years after I’ve returned from longer stints abroad. It’s not so much the physical as the temporal distance that pains me. I hate waking up, even at 6:30 as I’ve done since my return, and knowing that already the people I care about in Europe have already been up and living their lives for six hours. As I settled onto the couch last night to watch TV after dinner I thought about how the boys at Le Calbar had already shaken their last cocktails, cleaned up, and gone home. Or how, at only 7 p.m. here, they have just turned off the lights illuminating the Eiffel Tower. I still furrow my eyebrows for a second when I receive daily emails six hours earlier than I’d previously received them.

It may be that I’ve been unusually effective at persuading myself to see my summer sojourn in the US as a vacation – a trip abroad before I go back home. And really, aside from the fact that I have to study for and take the bar exam, that’s what this is. I’m not really a resident of the United States anymore; I’m just passing through. My life is waiting for me back in Europe. Paris seems a bit like a dream to me now, but that’s a good thing. It will always be there in my heart and mind, and someday – many of them, and soon – I will be back.