An Adieu to France
It was a random day in September 2012. I sat alone, fresh out of college, on a Boeing 777 slowly building up speed to take off for Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, France, or a city that would soon become my home.
Paris, France had been the epicenter of my dreams since I started studying the French language as a 6th grader in Raleigh, North Carolina. For years I continued to be drawn to the language, the country, the culture, the people and I found myself crossing the Atlantic whenever I could. Whether it was the desire to speak French fluently that drove me or a mild obsession with Europe, I was convinced that I needed to create a life for myself in this foreign country. My friends in Washington, D.C. couldn’t understand why I wanted to go so desperately, what I hoped to accomplish by moving to France.
Needless to say, I ignored them. My ticket was booked.
Moving abroad has its ups and downs, but for the most part, it’s thrilling. The act of wandering around a city as a stranger, not recognizing a soul, is liberating. You’re dazzled by the novelty that surrounds you: the buildings you’ve never seen, the unique sounds and smells, the people rushing past you.
During my first year of living in Paris, there was a permanent glow in my eyes. Before I knew it, any and all loneliness faded and my new little world came together. I quickly integrated myself into a group of French friends and joined them every weekend for soirées filled with strange music, cigarette smoke, and, yes, lots of wine. I moved into an overpriced 6th floor walk-up around Palais Garnier, where I attended ballets and operas whenever I could get my hands on a student ticket. I was dazzled by everyone and everything and visited as much of the country as I could. While in Paris, we were always chasing after new restaurants, and evenings after work tended to involve a 4-euro pint of beer with a side of charcuterie in the 10th arrondissement—where tourists were scarce, and hipsters were plenty.
Although the French never gave up on trying to guess where exactly my accent was from, they eventually started to accept me in their own way. The day I got stopped in the street and asked for directions was like reaching a milestone. Could I possibly be blending in? Though my American quirks were still very much a part of me, I became influenced by the Parisian attitude and European way of life.
At some point a few years down the line, however, the novelty began to fade. The cigarette smoke in my face bothered me, the croissants made my stomach hurt. Mornings spent silently cursing at tourists to move out of my way increased. I started to notice trash everywhere, and couldn’t ignore the lingering stench of piss in the metro stations on a Sunday morning.
One evening I biked from the very north of Paris to the 16th arrondissement. As I biked past kebab stands and drunken men accosting me, I felt a sense of unease. I kept my eyes focused straight ahead, and thankfully, wasn’t hit by a swerving car.
Then all of a sudden the scenery began to change. The glowing Eiffel tower and its magical twinkling lights came into view, and I could hear myself sigh. As always, I would feel the urge to take a photo, because, ah, this view would never get old.
For those few minutes, you’re reminded why you came to Paris in the first place. You’re swept off your feet by a city so picturesque it doesn’t quite seem real.
But Paris, to me, was not only a picturesque city filled with cozy cafés and beautiful men and women sipping wine on terraces. It was not just baguettes and cheese, enchanting strolls along the quais of the Seine. As much as it was and will forever be all of those things, it was also getting out of the metro in the center of the city and stepping into a refugee camp, staring open-mouthed at the dozens sleeping amongst filth, and feeling a rush of deep sadness and anger overcome you. It is gray, rainy mornings, crowded commutes, and unsmiling faces. It is a protest here, a closed boulangerie there, and unfathomable bureaucracy and red-tape. It was a slight air of judgment that never really seemed to fade. I would never be French, that much was clear.
Most of the time, however, everything that bothered me about Paris still didn’t outweigh what I admired. I just couldn’t bring myself to give up on the city of lights that I held so dear. I loved the language, the people, the food. I was surrounded by culture, history, and art. I had a job in Europe. The city itself was conveniently located, and booking a weekend getaway to escape the gloominess of Paris and enjoy the warmth of Lisbon, or a Guinness in Dublin was both easy and affordable. For all of these reasons and many more, I continued to stay; moving back home wasn’t an option. My life was great, and to the outside eye, it would seem as though I was living the dream. And hell, maybe I was.
As they say, all dreams must come to an end. And sure enough, mine did.
November 13th, 2015, the night of the Paris terrorist attacks, led me to view Paris through a new set of lenses. A city that, for years, had felt like a safe haven, now made me stiffly look twice over my shoulder. As much as I didn’t want to admit, that night played a role in my choice to move back to the U.S. a year later.
But during that year, I reminded myself that I had worked so hard to establish myself in Paris and make my childhood dream come true—having gone so far as to get a master’s degree at a French university to later help me get a job. I had succeeded in finding an apartment, sorting out my carte vitale, becoming fluent in French… I was terrified to give it all up. As though giving it up would mean that I had just wasted four years of my life. For a while, the fear of the unknown kept me grounded—the fear of abandoning my exotic, international life.
As pressure from my family to move back increased, it became more and more apparent to me that I wasn't entirely satisfied with my life in Paris. My career simply wasn't on the right track, and I was eager for a change. Going home made sense, and so I booked a one-way ticket and told my landlord that I wouldn’t be returning after Christmas.
For the most part, the fact that I was moving back didn’t register. I shrugged off my decision to my friends, telling them that if I found a great job, not to worry, I would be back. No going away party would be organized. I was in denial, and not making a big deal of things. Because to face the truth, to admit that I wasn’t moving back to Paris for at least a few years, or ever, consumed me with dread.
I knew in my gut that I was making the right decision, but preferred to repeat every day “maybe I’ll come back!” It was a sort of coping mechanism. And for those last few weeks in Paris, unemployed, I was truly delighted—able to finally see the city as I used to. I visited museums, ate out much too often, and didn’t deny myself little treats. I had morphed back into the bubbly girl enchanted by Paris, eager to see, to do, to feel. Knowing that I was leaving, I had nothing to lose.
I did, halfheartedly, continue looking for a new job. Part of me wanted to stay and had I received a great offer, maybe I would still be living in Paris. But ultimately, I chose to let fate ride its course until my deadline was upon me. My fervor to fight for Paris was gone, and my ticket was booked, just as it had been 4 years ago.
My last weekend was the hardest. When I had booked my ticket, I hadn’t considered how difficult it would be to say goodbye. I am undeniably nostalgic, too often lost in the past. And as much as I welcome change with open arms, and look forward to the future, I fear making a wrong decision. To me, leaving Paris was taking a fork in the road—whether for better, or for worse.
Those last few days, I threw out and gave away the things that wouldn’t fit in my three suitcases—slowly emptying out my apartment. I tossed out the Halloween decorations that had helped me throw the most impressive annual parties, proudly introducing my favorite holiday to my French friends, and giving my beloved neighbors a reason to despise me. Notes from classes, books, souvenirs from internships, little trinkets from European cities, old sweaters that had kept me company on the coldest February days–it all went into the bin in the blink of an eye. I was throwing away my life abroad.
I saw everyone that I wanted to see: friends from my master’s, the French group that had adopted me, and those who had come to be my closest friends. With tears in our eyes, we hugged each other goodbye, unsure of when we would see each other again. Of course I knew that we would, but it would never be quite the same, would it?
Saying goodbye to one friend, in particular, was the worst of all. We had been close since we met each other in an ice skating class back in 2014. Briefly catching up once a week while learning how to pirouette had somehow turned into watching the World Cup religiously, sleepless nights dancing in Carmen, wandering around Pigalle like fools with french fries + Algerian sauce in our hands, sipping coffee in trendy cafés while fretting over this or that, a mutual love for pizza that led us to try every notable pizzeria in the city, weekend excursions to new cities, and a solid friendship.
On my last night in Paris, we met up in our beloved 10th arrondissement, because some things just never change.
Together we stood at the intersection of the attacks, where I hadn’t dared coming back for over a year. I observed the three restaurants, filled with Parisians enjoying a meal before Monday morning rolled around. I stared inside the Maria Luisa, and didn’t cry like I thought I would. I simply stood there with my friend, staring at the life around us, the life that had returned back to normal. That’s when I officially said goodbye to Paris.
We then strolled to one of our favorite spots, El Nopal–a little take-out Mexican restaurant where the chefs knew our names and always put a smile on our faces. We ordered the same burritos as always, and sat down along the dark Canal Saint-Martin water. Eating my warm burrito in the cold winter air felt like a bittersweet ritual. Unlike in the summer, the Canal was dead, but we pretended it was just another July evening. I could almost see the pink sun setting in the distance, hear the laughter and the beer bottles clinking.
As we shivered and reminisced, I began to feel a shred of optimism. My worries aside, I knew that wherever I ended up, whether it be London, New York, or a tiny island in the Caribbean, it would all work out.
Most importantly, I would be back. So when my plane took off for Atlanta International Airport the next day, I closed my teary red eyes and embraced the journey ahead. A chapter had ended, but a new one was just beginning.