Yogurt with a side of tears

If there is one thing I learned in college, it’s that sometimes you can’t always control your emotions, especially homesickness.  It tends to hit you like a wave you didn’t expect.

You have to just ride it.

Last weekend, it hit me.  One second I’m sitting at the table eating a yogurt, the next minute I’m tearing up.

It seems silly to be sad for even one day when you’re spending four months living in Paris.  At the same time, I’m trying to tell myself that my feelings are valid no matter what.

There I was in the laundromat, then wandering through Uniqlo, then in a café, feeling a lump in my throat every time I thought of calling my parents or how I’ll miss spending my 21^st birthday with my friends.

They say that around your third or fourth week abroad you hit an emotional low.  I don’t like to think I’m that predictable, but sometimes the experts know best.

It’s disheartening when you try to speak to waiters or store clerks in French, and they respond in English.

It’s disheartening when your card gets declined AGAIN, even though you’ve called your bank twice.

It’s disheartening watching two people make out on the metro, or on a bench, or in a café; don’t they know that you miss your boyfriend?

I miss wearing leggings and eating Kraft mac n cheese.  I miss smiling at strangers.

My host family told me be careful, because I don’t look French with my blond curly hair and almond shaped eyes.  I love those things about me.

And it’s strange to miss the US after feeling so disdainful towards it for so long.  But I find myself excited to talk about our way of life to my host family, and I feel a little pride when an American song comes on in a restaurant or a professor talks about how efficient American workers are.

It is a weird feeling, wanting so badly to fit into this culture, but still not wanting to give up parts of my own.

It has given me a new respect for people who permanently leave their home countries and have a lot more to handle than I do; renting or buying a house, raising kids, working, etc.  I know that nothing can quite fill that gap of missing home, but I hope that when I return home and someone else is the foreigner, I am as compassionate and understanding as possible.

Sunday morning, I couldn’t imagine putting on jeans or slacks, so I put on leggings and my jean jacket and I jammed to Lady Gaga the whole way to the laundromat.  It didn’t make me feel better exactly, but it made me feel more…comfortable.

I realized it’s ok to embrace the role of the American in Paris.

The rest of the day I continued to walk around, got coffee, and enjoyed a delicious dinner alone. I finally took a moment to just focus on the food and wine and to just be.

The next morning, I felt like myself again.  I rode the wave, and now I could come up for air.  I spent part of the week planning a trip, then this weekend I got to enjoy Dijon.

I remembered that the things I love about home will still be there when I return in four months.  For now I’ll keep facing the challenges, practicing French, and tasting the pastries.

In a year, those will be the memories that make me homesick.