the french novella year

I suck at blogging. That is a fact about myself that I’ve resigned to. I know that I could be better at it if I really really wanted to be, but I guess I just have other priorities. I’ve always been more of a journaler, even though I’ve also been slacking on that as of late. In journals, I know that I can be completely honest, or at least as honest as my subconscious will let me. I don’t feel the same way about blogging, where I feel like I have to restrain myself in certain ways. And if I can’t be completely honest, then what’s the point? I know there’s more to it than that, but this post isn’t about all that.

I’ve been home from Europe for seven months now. And between that time and now, I haven’t blogged about it at all (as you can see, the preceding post was written last June). I’ve written about my experience in my journal during my time in Paris and since I’ve been back, but not to the extent that I would’ve liked. That was where this blog was supposed to come in. Before I left, I gave the address to this blog to a few of my friends for them to see what I’m up to across the world. But as the three lone posts on here can attest, I didn’t chronicle everything like I envisioned I would. But the thing is, I also wasn’t writing in my journal either. I think that as I was going through everything, and even now that I’m still processing it, it’s hard to put into words what it was I was experiencing. Some words pop up into my head as I think about it, like transformation or self-creation. But how does one write about it when you don’t know how to explain it to yourself, let alone to other people?

Now that I’m back, I’m curious to know if some of my close friends can tell that I’m a different person, and if so, in what ways? I know what about me has changed, but what do they see as being different? Maybe they can point out something that I can’t see. Like how a couple of months ago, my godsister commented that even my voice has a brighter tone to it, she doesn’t hear the stress that I guess was palpable before. Of all that I’ve gone through and seen in Europe, the thing I’m most proud of is how I’ve changed and the person I am now. Questions about the museums I’ve been to or the foods I’ve tried aren’t as important to me as ones about what I’ve discovered about myself, what I’ve learned about people and relationships and family, and did I find what I was looking for?

But people don’t ask questions like those. It would be generalizing for me to believe that everyone who studies abroad goes through the same self-exploration/creation period that I did. I’m sure that many go through something like this, and I would be interested in hearing about some of them because I only know my experience, but then again, I’m not sharing much either. People always say that studying abroad was a life-changing experience for them, this epic journey of self-discovery. But they never really say how or in what way. I count myself as a member of that group, and I can see why details aren’t mentioned. Because even I have a hard time telling someone else about it all, especially someone who hasn’t studied abroad.

I love sharing when people ask about my time abroad. But I think I’m too honest for their expectations. This coming from a girl who had very high expectations about the city of Paris and her supposed-to-be life-changing experience. I think it’s hard for people to hear about how I was depressed for the first four months of my time there due to the fact that I had a horrible home-stay experience at the start, then moving and having to deal w/ rats and a crazy landlord, and then moving again to another apartment, all within three months’ time. And while that was going on, I also had to deal w/ getting a bank account and my Carte de Sejour (temporary residency card), which meant dealing w/ French bureaucracy, and for which I’ve never been more glad for clear-cut American rules and details. And I’m pretty sure I had a strong bout of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) as it was winter and the sky was overcast for months at a time. Hard for me who is used to the California sun nearly every day and the gorgeous deep blue of the San Diego sky. After I found out I would have an extended winter break lasting two months, I was eager to spend a few weeks back home.

Paris is not the romantic, rosy image of vintage nostalgia that it’s made out to be. Before you start disregarding that statement as bullshit or say that I didn’t see the “real” Paris, I should mention that I grew to love Paris and I miss it immensely, but more on that later. I’m also about to make some generalizations about French people, so my apologies in advance. I really do admire the French. They are just proud people who hold their culture and language to the highest regard. But most importantly, they have different cultural nuances than Americans do. Walking down the street and just smiling for smiling’s sake isn’t that weird in America. If one were to do that in Paris, people will give you looks as if you were completely crazy. The French has always been known as being private people. In the Metro, everyone is living in their own world. Most people don’t talk and have a stoic face on, so I adopted that too to blend in. I got really good at it and even perfected my Bitch Face in the process. I was getting used to the requisite black and greys of wintertime wear. This was the bad side of anonymity and I’m sure it didn’t help my mood.

The weather was taking a toll on me (a true Cali-girl at heart). So all that, coupled the fact that I had a horrible home-stay experience, made it all the more worst. I think that played a bigger part of my depression more than I would care to admit.