My Relationship With Things

For Christmas, my mom gave me a beautiful wine bottle stopper from Pottery Barn.  It looks vintage-y and fun and when I opened it...I cringed.

Another thing. What am I going to do with another thing?

The bottle stopper stayed in it's cardboard packaging for months after it bringing it back to Paris. I looked at it, I admired it, but I would not, could not, take it out of it's wrapping. 

Flash forward four months later, I was invited to a 100% expat dinner. All of the women there were at some stage of being an American expat abroad - one guest was married with two kids, 20 years into her life in France; two others were between 3 and 8 years along, married to Frenchmen ; another was awaiting French nationality, single; another had arrived only a year ago, in a relationship; and then there was me: 7.5 years in France, Franco-American, domestic partners (PACSed) with Copain.

We spoke Franglais all evening, bonded over common complaints, drank lots of wine and ate a dinner in a way that only expats could: potluck style - we each brought a dish to share.

After our aperitif (we do live in France after all), we sat down to the dinner table (a commodity that I have not had in years due to my tiny Parisian apartment). Immediately, I was taken with how homey the apartment felt - there was a rug, a comfy couch, picture frames, vases, and the table was set with beautiful plates, glasses and cutlery. All I could think was, wow - this girl is 100% here. She is committed to this place and she's (as far as I can tell), okay with it.

And I can't even take a bottle stopper out of its packaging.

You see, I'm deathly afraid of committing 100% to this place, and I guess I feel like the accumulation of things makes it that much harder to leave. What if one day, I want to leave and I have all these things. What will I do then?

As a child, I was a collector of things. I collected shoes (just to put on display!), lovely miniature perfume bottles, interesting photos from magazines that would decorate my wall, coins, rings, old ID cards, pointe shoes...and made a room that was 100% me. (It drove my dad nuts, but he still loves me).

I miss that me.

To be completely honest, I'm tired of being scared. I'm tired of not committing. I'm tired of this horrible limbo of being an expat. When do I throw in the towel and be 100% here? When do I stop being afraid of making here my home - with all of the things that I love around me? 

At the dinner party, we all talked about "going home" - home being the US. The guest who had been in France the longest said that it doesn't feel like home anymore; when she takes her family there, they visit like tourists. It felt sad to hear that - how could home ever be anything but just that? But that is the expats lament, I guess...the never-ending feeling that you are never 100% home.

The Expat's Lament

Every time I visit home - aka California, USA - I wonder why I have made the choice to emotionally torture myself by living in and loving two different countries.

As I pack my bags in Paris, anticipating the long-awaited reunion with my famille, I am uneasy, stressed, sad to leave Copain and nostalgic for anything and everything French. As much as I love my family to death, I don't want to leave my home.

Then I arrive in the states and everything is familiar and unfamiliar all at the same time. I am a foreigner in my own homeland but I still get the privilege of going through the US citizens line at customs. I speak the language, I know the culture, yet it all seems a bit strange, off, contrived. Everyone is friendly - and it's weird. Why are people smiling at me...I don't know them.

Then I'm hugging my Mom and Dad, suddenly the sadness and stress of leaving Paris is gone and I am driving on a traffic-filled freeway to the house that I grew up in, Suburbia, USA.  My family and I learn to live together again (not without some adjustments), my Dad makes us breakfast, my Mom has made me a cozy bed with a bedside lamp for reading - just how I like it.  My sister and I stay up late watching Friends, my Dad and I take walks and talk about my future - he tells me he wishes I lived closer.  My Mom, knowing I can't handle any planning while on vacation, becomes my social event manager and makes things happen - dinner with my cousins, a trip to Santa Barbara, reminders of the things I wanted to get or do or see while at home.

My sister and I revel in the amazingness that is Target and we treat ourselves to iced coffees at Starbucks - she asks me if I know about their new oatmeal but of course, I don't. Just like I don't know about Justin Bieber when my six-year-old cousin asks to watch "the JB movie" once we're out of the pool.  I learn about the new pretzel M&Ms and notice all of the antibacterial hand-wipe stations near the shopping carts at almost every major grocery store.  I barely sweat at all since there is air-conditioning everywhere and I make a mental note to eat less since I am definitely cutting down on my daily walking quota.

We all prepare for my little brother's wedding and I get to see my extended family for the first time in a very long time.  I have roots here. Love is all around us. We laugh when my brother wipes the lipstick off his mouth after you may kiss the bride and we cry as we watch him and his new wife sway to their first dance. The ceremony is American - the reception is American - the food is American.  Copain doesn't believe me when I tell him that dinner lasted only 45 minutes - max.  In France it would have taken on massive proportions...2 hours at the very least.

We fill the dance floor and sing along to American songs until our voices are hoarse and our feet are sore. Then we head to a family restaurant in the middle of the teeny tiny town for our own after-party complete with fried chicken and the best fries of my life. Back at our hotel, our family stays up late talking about my Dad's tearful speech, the fun night, our dancing aunts and uncles, the fact that my brother is now a married man.

After a groggy morning we go to Flapjacks for a much-needed greasy spoon.  Bottomless coffee, water, pancakes and butter, butter, butter.  My Belle-Mère would just die here. My brother gets the biscuits and gravy with a plate of bacon on the side. My new sister-in-law gets a breakfast quesadilla that takes up her entire plate.  We talk about my cousin who may have had way too much to drink and I quietly appreciate this shared weekend that we will all look back on one day.  Remember when Aunt D did the fist pump? Remember when the littlest cousin stole the show with her breakdancing? Remember when...

Then it's time to say goodbye. My eyes well up with tears as I give my brother a hug and wish him a wonderful honeymoon.  The drive back to Suburbia is long.  I pack my bags, save all the photos of my time here - precious memories that I will share back in Paris. I tell myself that this is my last night at home and I am uneasy, stressed, sad to leave my family and nostalgic for anything and everything American. As much as I love Copain to death, I don't want to leave my family.

I tell my family that we shouldn't cry at the airport, but I am the first one to let the tears fall.  I try to remember my expat friends who have also chosen to live this torn life, consoling myself - I am not alone.  We tell each other that we'll see each other soon and remind ourselves how quickly time flies.  One final hug, one final kiss, one final hand squeeze and I force myself away and into the security line.  We send air kisses, waves and I love you signs until I hand my passport over and we can no longer see each other.  I say a silent prayer that I will see them again.  See you soon, I whisper, sending my cosmic wish into the universe.

Waiting to board is long.  I'm physically here but mentally I try to travel all the way back to Paris lest I abandon my French life completely, unable to manage the pain of leaving everyone I love. I send them texts, reminding them that I will see them soon, of how much I love them.  I know the texts are mostly for me, but their responses help ease the down-in-my-guts feeling that this is not right.


The air in Paris is thick with humidity, people push to the front of the baggage line making it hard to see the orange bow I have purposefully tied to my suitcase. No one is smiling, everyone is tired.  Despite my nausea, I experience a tiny moment of joy when I get in the line for French citizens and use my French passport for the very first time.  Bonjour, I say, and I walk right on through into my other life.

Copain is happy to see me and I feel instantly better to feel his hug and a welcome-home bisou.


Paris takes me back with open arms.  The boucher sells his roasted chickens, the buttery croissant smell wafts from my favorite bakery and as I walk to work, I remember all of the reasons why I love it here.

I confide in my friend and colleague, another American expat who has made a full life for himself here.  He puts it perfectly when he says, the longer I make Paris my home, the less I feel at home anywhere.

Good People

Do you ever happen upon genuinely good people that just make your heart smile?  I know this post is already sounding gushy and cheesy beyond words but sometimes it's good to have a there are good people out there reminder every once and awhile.

I have had two good people reminders in the past three months - both times correlating to my visits home to see family - and strangly enough, both have to do with airplanes and airports which are two of my most dreaded locations on earth (since I've lived in France).

When I went home in December, I cried my eyes out along with my mom and my dad as I inched through the security line.  It was time to say see you later (never goodbye before getting on a plane!) and what can I say...all three of us were falling apart.  I didn't even notice when the metal detector guy asked me to walk through the machine.  He had to ask me THREE times before I got it. I sobbed my shoeless self through the machine and then through to the end of the conveyor belt to wait for my things.  "Have a good day," the man said, looking me directly in the eye and shooting me a huge white smile. "Thanks," I half smiled back. "Don't be sad," he said, "you'll be back. This just means that you have people you love to come back to." 

He was right - and he made me feel a lot better just by being kind in a moment when I really needed it.  I admit that I at first thought he was a weirdo when he shot me the big smiley face, but he was right to insist because he got through to me and my pathetic tears.

I just recently went home again in March and on my way back to Cannes I was blown away by the KLM staff.  I know that sounds ridiculous but they could not have been nicer flight staff!  I contemplated writing a thank you letter to KLM - that's how great they were.  No bad attitudes, always trying to be accommodating, witty jokes for all passengers, smiles - you name it.  They were on top of their game. Normally I would say that they were just well trained (this training obviously did not happen in France!) but these people were different.  They seemed really genuinely nice.  I loved them.  I didn't even care that the TV in my aisle didn't work.

There are really good people out there...sometimes we just forget.