Upon leaving the States, I knew that homesickness, at least to some extent, would be pretty much inevitable. I knew that I would have moments of missing my friends and family back home, especially on their birthdays, or even at random moments when I just feel like a late-night Dr. Who marathon with my brother would be awesome. There are certain comforting smells and sounds that are missing from this temporary home of mine, such as the coffee pot brewing its distinctly american interpretation of the beverage in the kitchen on a Sunday morning. Apart from all of this, though, I've discovered a completely new brand of homesickness that I never saw coming.
When in a completely foreign country, you may lack the comforts of being around people and places that you know, hearing a language that you can actually speak, and simply feeling at home. This is the homesickness that I felt during my week in Spain and Portugal (see "Breaking the Language Barrier"), missing the city in France that I now call home. Although I'm clearly a foreigner here, easily identified as such within the first three seconds of conversation with any french person, I now feel more at home here than I would if I were to venture a few cities over back in Illinois. I know which streets to take, where my favorite bakeries are, and how to (at least borderline successfully) communicate with people.
Spain and Portugal were some of the most beautiful places that I've ever been, but after even while walking down the ornate mosaic sidewalks, among colorful buildings covered in gorgeous tiles, I found myself longing for a good baguette, some chèvre to spread on it, and a nice spot in the Parc Jourdan to sit and enjoy it all near the shade of a platane. This brought to mind the distinction between a place where you love to be and a place that you love.
Maybe it's that I don't speak an even remotely acceptable amount of Spanish or Portuguese. Maybe it's the uncomfortably high level of poverty in combination with the evidently low level of health care (I had never previously expected to have to warn a friend that a creepy man with a jenk leg was crawling toward us, but then again I had never previously seen anybody so greatly affected by and untreated for polio). Maybe it's my genetic predisposition to avoid places with so much sunshine. Regardless, I've vacationed to countries that I absolutely loved being in, but I could never see myself calling them home. For me, Aix-en-Provence has been the best home away from home that Europe could offer me, and although I can't wait to see my friends and family again back in the States, I know that I will once more be feeling a nostalgic malady for this city of fountains and the people that I've met here when that time comes.
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