The strangest thing happened today. I was sitting at my desk reviewing an analyst report while mindlessly listening to my iTunes library when, for the first time since my arrival in France four months ago, I had a pang of homesickness. It hit me hard, out of nowhere, and my stomach dropped the way it does when you’re flying down the back side of a roller coaster. I lost my breath. My mind flashed to my bedroom in San Francisco and I was there, my feet on that densely-woven circular rug next to my bed, Pete standing by my side, the sounds and sights and smells of home all around me. It lasted a split second but when I turned and looked out the window and saw Paris, well, I wanted to cry.
A lot has changed in the last few weeks. The company has finally recognized that my initial six month assignment will soon be drawing to a close and they’re eager to make less expensive arrangements for my next six months. They’ve been dancing around this for a while but yesterday they laid it on the line – transfer permanently to the Paris office or come home. This had the predictable effect of sending me into a tailspin. I expected to have a year of this expat life, so pleasantly suspended above reality. I expected to have a year to travel around the continent, bring friends over, galavant. I expected to have a year to evaluate my relationship with Cyril and decide if this is something I wanted to pursue long-term. I no longer have the luxury of time so will have to make some pretty big decisions pretty quickly, definitely not a strong suit of mine.
It’s ironic, really. Just last week I was walking on air because I received my Carte de Sejour from La Republique francaise. Getting work authorization in this country, despite the help of the lawyer we hired to expedite the process, has meant months of useless exams and the frequent filing of paperwork in triplicate. I had given up hope of ever obtaining legal status. But last Thursday, with far too little fanfare, it was delivered in a plain white envelope wedged between an electricity bill and a bank statement. I expected the Carte de Sejour to be some sticker I'd affix to my passport. Imagine my surprise when I opened that envelope and found it to be a French ID card, valid for three years. It looks just like the ID cards of all the frenchies around me and when I held it in my hand in all of its laminated glory, well, I almost broke into the Marseillaise.
That ecstatic moment seems an eternity ago. I'm sitting in my apartment thinking of all the things I haven't yet done in Paris, all of the museums I've been meaning to check out, the cafes I've been meaning to experience, the streets I've been wanted to explore, and I'm downright sad. I'm not ready to leave but I'm not ready to commit. Unfortunately, those are the only two options available and if I don't choose one then one will be chosen for me.
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