Ughhh.

        Holy hell, either men are dense or this one just has a ton of nerve, but Monsieur Lawyer texted me out of the blue on Saturday.

         ¨Hello. When will we see one another? Bisous.¨

        Mind you, the last time I heard from this sucker was back in February right after I'd erased his number along with all my other numbers from my phone. Once I'd figured out that it was him on the other line again, I re-added him in the event this should occur again.

        My response this time: ¨ Bah, never. Ciao.¨

       I hope he got the message once and for all.

     

From There to Here, from Here to There

       
               Roissy, France. 7 am. Tuesday morning. I descend the bus leading from the Opéra to the airport, my carry on and long-haul, overseas suitcase in tow. At the entry way is a scale to weigh suitcases, and seeing as I am used to gauging weight by ¨feel¨ when I pick up my bag, I decide to put it on the scale, for curiosity's sake.

               21.8 kilograms, beezies. Limit is 23.

               DAMN am I getting good at this!

              As I hadn't slept all night, I was also quite zombie-esque. Once I'd checked in and checked my bag, I waltzed to Relay to grab something to read for the long haul and a coffee. Book of choice, as I'd just finished nannying: Bringing up Bébé, by Pamela Druckerman. Not done with it just yet, but it sure does strike a chord.

               Then came security.

               Let's just laugh about how much I ADORE handing over my American passport and confusing the hell out of the Frenchies at the airport who look at it and then can't figure out why I speak French fluently and with near no accent.

                Greeters at the security entrance queue: ¨ But wait,  you aren't French!?¨ There is a slight edge of panic in their voices.
     
                 ¨No, American.¨

                ¨ But you have no accent!¨

                Which then leads to the inevitable explanation of why I am in France, how long I've been there, and how I no longer want to leave. We discuss what time period of literature I study, if I love Paris or France or both ( France in general, I add that I'm from California and have a weak spot for Provence and the Rhône Valley ).

                 ¨But no, no, really, it is better if you go back to the US. Things are bad here.¨

                 ¨I can't. France is my coup de coeur.¨

                And with that simple phrase, they usher me onward to border police.

       *  *  * 

                 At the airport, I am also supposed to rendez-vous with Sandrine, who is the wife of my now-former-rockstar bosses' best friend. They are a normal couple, not in show business, and have known rockstar for ages. I've seen Sandrine in and out through two summers, defended her teenage boys from ticklewars started by my girl kiddos, and chatted with her through long, lonely stretches in the countryside when I had no one to socialize with. She is a sweetheart, but I didn't know until Sunday when she was visiting on my last day of work, that she works at CDG. 

                   We swapped cell numbers and she ended up coming to the gate to chat for a bit before I had to leave. Needless to say, I have been so touched by the fact that all the people around me, on both sides of this family, have told me not to be a stranger. 

                   Rockstar's property guardians have told me to come and visit. 

                   The guardian's for the girls' house in Paris have asked if they'll be seeing me around. 

                   Rockstar himself, after hearing me tell the girls that if they want to see me this summer to call, said I am welcome any time to his place. I must say, knowing him, it was sincere. So I was very, very touched. 

                   As much hell as it was sometimes, it was not all entirely bad. And I suppose I must have done something right to have been given as warm as a farewell as I was given. 

                   When the time came, I gave Sandrine a hug, told her to tell her boys and husband I said hello, and said I hoped to see her soon. 

*  *  * 

                     On the plane, I barely made it through eating lunch before I crashed hard. The flight was half full, so I lucked out: I had the entire 3 seat row to myself to spread out on. Bref, I made a makeshift bed, popped a benadryl, and conked out for 6 hours. 

                      The flight was quick, and once again, I got the ¨you have no accent!¨ reaction from the air stewards. Which once again led to the in depth explanation of what I am doing in France and how I do not want to leave anymore. 

                       ¨Je suis française dans l'âme,¨ I said. 

                     Long story short, when I arrived at SFO and got to the lobby to greet my parents, there was even an air steward with whom I had been mildly flirting waiting for me. He had seen my in the customs line and been teasing me, but I had hardly thought he'd be out in the lobby! I peeked around the corner to see my parents and BOOM, he was right there! 

                      This led to a hilarious moment where he turned my mom, thinking she was French, and started speaking to her in French. I then had to tell him to hold up and that she didn't speak the language at all, at which point he switched to English and said to her ( about me ): 

                       ¨But she speak so good the French, I was so surprised! I thought you must be French too.¨ We laughed and then he let us go our separate ways, without my number. 

                        Mom: ¨ I think he wanted your number.¨

                        Me: ¨Yeah, me too.¨

                        I laughed, got into my stepdad's Camry, and started dishing out Parisian chocolates from my carry on. Family tradition. 

 *  *  * 

                         I have been home for three days but I can tell you this: I cannot fathom anymore how this country is where I came from. Everything looks so weird to me: the fact that homes are separated from commerce, strip malls in one part and residences in another. It is so quiet and big. Streets are so wide and so straight. All the food is processed. 

                         I already miss France like you wouldn't believe. I miss speaking French. I have been listening to Clo Clo, John Mamann, and Vanessa Paradis on repeat. And all I want is a real baguette, dammit. 

                         Things are not as unfamiliar as I thought they would be, but it does not help me feel like I want to return to this at all. It feels like putting on an old, stretched out pair of pants that fit me once and that I remember but don't quite work anymore. 

                         But one thing is clear now: I have hit the assimilation point. There is no return. I am rapidly going native. 

                          And I don't think I want it any other way. 

                       

                        

Miles to Go Before I Sleep

           It is nearly four am and I am wide awake in my studio after cup of coffee number two. Tomorrow, or rather, today, I leave for California. Not definitively. Not permanently. At least not yet, and who the hell knows? France is now home, come hell or highwater. I spent Monday running around this city doing last minute errands--chocolate to buy for the stepdad, laundry to do, friends to see--before I leave.

            Let's repeat that: in six point five hours I will take off from CDG en route for San Francisco for the first time in eighteen months. I am so excited to go see my family but I am also terrified: what if America isn't how I remember it? Or worse, what if it is and nothing has changed and it all just feels so fucking unfamiliar? What if I don't like it? How strange it is to realize that the place you grew up in and where you are from feels so out of tune with who you know you are at present. Like layers of old selves long shed.

            I had usual Monday apéro this evening with R, and we were discussing just this: how it is good to go back, necessary even, to get some perspective. She just returned from job interviews in Boston suburbs sucking her lungs out for dear European life. But she said it was good to know she didn't want to be there. It gave her perspective. I hope I can get some too.

*  *  * 

              There are many miles to go before I sleep. In the few times I have flown back to California, I have found it much more efficient to pull a nuit blanche and stay up all night. I then dress, go to the airport, stay awake. Once I've boarded, I eat something, pop a benadryl, and then I conk out hard for the ensuing 12 hours in the air. If I can make it through the first 8 hours in the air asleep, then I've only got to entertain myself for four other hours, which include a few walks up and down the aisle to stretch my legs and my lumbar. 

               Not to mention check out the insanely attractive Air France male air hosts. My mother reminded me while we were chatting earlier to have fun oogling the sexy attendants. Now if only one would PACS me...

               Actually, no thank you. Warning: a rant will ensue. 

               In my quest to stay in this country, I have finally hit a nerve. I am tired of every single person telling me all I need to do is find a Frenchie and get PACSed or married. 

               I DOWN RIGHT REFUSE. 

               Not because the idea of being with a Frenchie is repulsive or because I would not enjoy having a significant other ( lets be real, singledom is getting somewhat boring), or because I do not want to PACS or marry the right Frenchie if that happens, but on principal. I WILL NOT make a man my means of staying in this country. I came for this country, not for its men. I admit that if I stay here, odds are I will end up with a Frenchie. Just saying. I will not start hunting one down for a visa though.

                 The fact that every single person who tells me that I need a Frenchie and then laughs nonchalantly as if it's truly funny  does not thoroughly grasp what they say when they are saying it; ultimately, what they are saying is that I, as a female immigrant, am incapable of coming to this country on my own terms and need a man to make it possible for me. 

                I have two words to respond: eff that. 

                 Now that the rant is over we can return to our regularly scheduled programming. 

*  *  * 

                 Yesterday was my last day with girl kiddos. Everything ended on good terms, and I was much more emotional that I expected to be. I definitely got weepy. It hasn't hit me yet that I am no longer obligated to play mommy. It has hit me that I will be missing being around kids, in general. 

                  If anyone out there on French, mostly Parisian, soil feels like temporarily lending me their children so they can go to dinner, you're looking at a very well trained, very experienced nanny! 

                 And so the transition to a whole, strange other life begins.  

                 With a pitstop in California first. 

*  *  * 

                 I won't be asleep until I've been up in the air for a good hour or so, so I've got seven hours left and will have been awake for 27 hours at that point. All in the name of a long flight. 

                 And I am flying through the proverbial night of my life: I know where I want to be, I have a vague inkling of what I want to do, but there are many, many miles to go before I can finally sleep. 

                 Literally and figuratively.