The further away from home you are, the more you crave it. It’s a stupid fact of life I can’t avoid. When I’m in Texas, surrounded by Republican hicks and big loud trucks and outlet malls and fast food obesity and suffocating summer heat waves, I get so sick of it. But the goddamn second I leave it becomes this charming place that I wax poetic about almost daily. And of course I miss my mom and dad and Gram and P-paw and Pooky the pug and the freedom to get in a car and go to a Super Wal-Mart at midnight and buy really cheap crap just because I can.
It’s funny, you might think if you’re a socially liberal, culturally minded, and so-called “foodie” that you would thrive in Europe. Not so. To be honest, I’m not sure what kind of ex-pats do thrive here. I think it’s either a.) really naïve young girls that are so happy to be independent for their first time in their life, thus throwing themselves into the nightlife, drinking heavily, and eagerly flirting with any young Euro guys whose accents they find adorable. Or b.) it’s people that forsake their American identity, refuse to speak in English, and are probably pretentious assholes. Haven’t really met any of those yet. So no, France has not taken me in its socialist arms and cradled me and made me see the light. It’s actually made me realize that I’m an American, for better or for worse. Yeah, my country has problems. Lots of ‘em. I don’t even have health care coverage right now. But that’s where I was born, that’s where my life is, and I don’t want to leave it for very long.
It’s actually very comforting to realize this. Everyone goes through that trite period of college where you think, “Man, fuck this country! I wanna go to Spain and work 30 hours a week cause they work to live, man, not live to work like these Puritanical killjoys in America.”
And there’s truth in that. But honestly, you’re not going to truly fit in and enjoy that lifestyle (or even attain it) unless, well, you’re French. Or Spanish. You can’t just breeze on into Paris in your twenties, land a great job, fit right in, make tons of friends, and start a family. It’s not that open of a society or culture. And I don’t want to. It’s not me. Is it premature for me to make these blanket statements when I’ve been here less than two months? Of course it is. But I like to think I can make pretty good first judgments.
It’s funny what I crave here. When I ride the metro or walk around the cobblestone, rain-drenched streets of Paris, I listen to Tammy Wynette, Patsy Cline, Dolly Parton, even…gasp…Katy Perry. It’s just so damn comforting. And movies. I just watched “My Own Private Idaho.” It doesn’t get any more American than a gay hustler road movie set in the Pacific Northwest. I have no desire to listen to Serge Gainsbourg or watch a Truffaut film. Hell, if you plopped a Big Mac combo meal in my lap right now I’d be ecstatic.
Now, I know I’ll be complaining about America as soon as I get back, but right now, it feels so good to romanticize about my country across the pond. I’ll be so ready to return.
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