Mind the Gap

Before I begin this blog entry, I think it might be appropriate for me to rant briefly about the horrors of heat waves in Europe. For the majority of my time here, the temperature has topped off at about 77 degrees…on a HOT day. And with the ancient architecture and absolute lack of air conditioning in Parisian buildings, 77 degrees is nothing to laugh about. It’s hot.

Now, let’s raise that up to 90 degrees…with 70+ percent humidity…and you’re bordering on absurdity. Heat radiates off the buildings here, and the sun seems to zip around on the horizon to ensure that—no matter where you try to hide—there is absolutely NO shade.

Yes, this seems terrible…but let’s delve into the issue a bit further…and examine said effects on the Parisian metro system. To illustrate this point, I’ve whipped up a highly advanced mathematical equation (yes, impressive, I know) to calculate the exact temperature on the metro during insanely hot days in Paris:

[(Current temperature outside) x 2] – any sort of breeze or ventilation + the unrelenting stench of sweet, pustulant rot = Your daily metro experience

The term “hell hole” has never been more accurately employed, I assure you.

But, anyway, I digress. There’s really nothing you can do about the heat on the metro except close your eyes and pretend like you’re somewhere else—until the person next to you sneezes directly in your face and jolts you back to reality. Trust me. This happens.

Whew…anyway, the fires of hell aside, Paris has still been—and, I’m certain, will continue to be—an absolute joy. What’s strange, however, is the lingering sense of surrealism that I’ve felt since I arrived over a month ago. (Note: The term “surrealism” doesn’t quite seem to fit here…as it reminds me of some sort of artistic movement [e.g. impressionism]; however, since “surreality” isn’t exactly a word…”surrealism” is the closest

term I can conjure up to describe what I mean. Thank you for understanding.) It’s not that I don’t feel at ease in Paris now… I do. It’s more the feeling of, “Wow… This is amazing…but it could never be home to me.”

Before I go any further, I don’t want to give you the impression that this is any sort of negative commentary about Paris…or France…or Europe in general. I LOVE being here…but there’s just something different, something intangible about life in Europe that never seems to dissipate. It’s both unsettling and wonderful at the same time.

For a while, I had concluded that the whole “big city” factor was creating this sensation for me (and, to a certain extent, I think it is). At home, I live in a quiet suburb on a dead-end street—not overly far from the city of Pittsburgh, but far enough to be removed from the vigorous pace of life in the city. In Paris, you are hard-pressed to find a truly peaceful section of town—somewhere quiet, somewhere empty. I certainly don’t live right in the “heart” of the city, but I am often awoken in the mornings by screeches from party-goers who are just returning home at 5:30 A.M. (the time that the metro reopens in the morning). That’s city life for me here.

The sensation I am so clumsily attempting to describe, however, extends beyond that sentiment. Just yesterday, I ventured out to the Valley of Chevreuse—a peaceful, little hamlet about 30 minutes outside of the city—with my family, and the feeling still remained. Chevreuse could not have created a more striking contrast to life in Paris; the entire town seemed to be silent, save for the ever-present singing of a family of blackbirds. Golden wheat fields—occasionally splattered with shocking, red poppies—swept past the sun-baked cottages of Chevreuse, vanishing into a cloudless horizon. My mind fluttered with a variety of thoughts: This is wonderful. I am speechless.

But this could never be home.

It’s difficult for me to conclude this blog entry in a way that provides any sort of resolution. In fact—and I’m sure this has been painfully evident throughout my writing—I’m not even entirely certain what I’m trying to express. I love France, and I love the idea of living in Europe—the idea of owning one of those cottages in Chevreuse and just staring at the beauty of my surroundings for hours at a time. But there’s still a very large part of me that can’t wait to be home. I know a lot of that feeling stems from the people that I miss (perhaps in conjunction with some of the conveniences of life in America), but I can’t help but feel that there’s more to it than that.

Maybe the best way for me to sum up this journal entry is to provide a quote from an American friend who has lived in France for over seven years now.

“It’s wonderful. I love it here, and I feel like I have adapted extremely well. France is my home…but I’ll never be French. Even after years of living here, there are still daily reminders that I’m just a little step behind everyone else. It’s a constant challenge, but, for me, it’s the greatest place in the world.”

So, I’m not sure if you’re going to take anything meaningful away from this entry. I’m not sure you’re supposed to. This has just been a way for me to elaborate on a tiny part of my experience here that has, thus far, been undeveloped.

And what is there left for me to say? France is magnificent, and there are so many things that I will miss about living here. But, at the same time, I know I will be very happy at the end of my journey to be returning to the United States. Home.