Home is a Peach

I’ve had lots of people ask if I plan on staying a second year. They seem confused when I say no. I would guess it might be the utter lack of hesitation in my voice; they respond with things like, “But you speak so well!” as if my talent for the language should equal a corresponding talent for life in this city, or “Ah, but you might change your mind,” while quirking their eyebrows knowingly, as if I perhaps I’m just being silly and homesick and haven’t yet grasped that Parisian life is far superior to anything I’d find elsewhere.

Even if circumstances did not demand I return home at the end of the year, my feelings do. I love this city, I do, but Paris is not for me. Paris is that wild crazy passionate love affair that every person should have before marrying the one they want to see every day over breakfast. Paris is crème brulée, not a perfect summer peach picked from the tree in your garden. In truth, even if I were to form emotional attachments here that were as strong as those I have at home, I would still prefer California. It’s home, and I’m just too American, I suppose, to consider a permanent transplant. Some flowers are never really meant to be uprooted.