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.
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