As I stepped into the hotel breakfast Saturday morning, I knew I was home. Not my real home of course, but a place
that was absolutely familiar to me. A place I love and I miss. France.
Having traveled to France more than a dozen times now, I still very much don’t belong here. I speak only enough French to get by. I don’t look or act French. I stick out like a sore thumb wherever I go. But, yet, I still have a feeling of “home”. Maybe I am mistaking familiarity for home, or maybe familiarity is what makes something feel like home.
I always ha hoped for the chance to live in France for a year or two, but it seems that this dream is falling further from my grasp. At the very least, I see how happy I am here and am resolving to make sure that it is not 6 years before I return again.
