And now we’re done and we’re back in that in-between spot, that sort of suspended point in time where you’re neither coming nor going but you’re waiting to do both. If I thought it seemed surreal and strange when I was leaving the U.S. for France, I need to invent a new word for what I feel like now, because this is probably about as surreal as you can get. I can’t believe we’re leaving. I can’t believe it’s over. It happened so fast and so suddenly. I can’t believe I won’t be speaking French on a regular basis in a few days. I can’t believe I am about to see my parents, here! I can’t believe I’m going home! But more than all of that, maybe, I can’t believe I’m leaving Dijon.
I can't believe this all already happened. I can't believe everything we were anticipating and wondering about has already passed. I can't believe it's already June. I can't believe junior year is over! I can't believe it when I look back on our first week in Europe, Helen and me wandering around London with a great unknown semester stretching out in front of us, and think about where we are now and what we've done since then.
I have kind of been putting off writing this blog, this last, good-bye blog, and I’ve been really busy but I think I actually just didn’t want to write it. I’m so full of different emotions that it’s kind of hard to think about sometimes—I feel like I can’t contain all the thoughts I have. I remember feeling this way at the beginning, when it was all new: I wanted to write down every other thought I had so I could remember everything. I feel that way now, but it’s because it’s all old, and everything takes on significance that way. I went into the FNAC to buy cell phone minutes and a man working there walked up to a customer, shook his hand and said, “Salut, ça va?” and I wanted to write that down because I suddenly realized I would miss hearing that. The littlest things seem significant now that we’re leaving.
The saddest part is leaving everybody. I don’t think it has actually sunk in that I am leaving my host mom yet. Maybe I'm trying to ignore it. Big changes are always weird because your life has to go on as normal in the days preceding. I’ve been going to school and getting lunch and doing everything as usual. It feels like normal life, except then suddenly in three days I’m going to leave and I’m never going to live here again.
Yesterday we had our very last Wednesday dinner at the Condorcet and it was so much fun. It was just us and Nathalie for once, and we just had a great time in each other’s company, singing and joking and talking. Dani had put together a surprise slideshow for us of pictures from throughout the semester, and it was really emotional watching it. Afterwards, we were all hugging and some people were crying and we started singing songs with lyrics that meant a lot to us in light of our departure. After we finally left the Condo, we went to a bar and reminisced about the semester and told stories. It was a perfect last dinner and a really good thing to do. It was filled with laughter and tears, but mostly with a lot of love. That sounds cheesy, but I really feel like our group became a little family this semester. We’re all going to miss each other so much and, again, I am so grateful that this is the group that got chosen and that we were all here together. It was better than I could’ve asked for. I’m so glad we all go to Puget Sound so we don’t have to truly say goodbye right now. And it goes without saying that saying goodbye to Nathalie is going to be really hard, as well; she’s been such a wonderful guide, teacher and mother to us all throughout the semester.
The last few days, I’ve been loving walking around Dijon and just looking at what has been my home this semester, all the places we go and everything I pass by every day. It’s a pretty city. I know I’ll come back here someday, but it is still hard that this is ending. I am ready to go home and I’m definitely ready to see my parents and friends; things like this do come to their natural end. I don’t feel like I am necessarily going to miss France, but I am going to miss the people and the language and the experience. We can come back to France, but we can never get this experience back again. It was something so singular and special and once-in-a-lifetime, and no matter how often we see each other next year or when we return to France, we’ll never be able to have it again. That’s probably the hardest part. I know I’ll see my host mom again, I’ll see the Dijonettes all the time next year, Nathalie is coming to visit us at Puget Sound in October. But the experience, the combination of everything we had here and the way we lived our lives, can never happen again.
There is so much to say and it’s so hard to remember all the things I’ve thought and felt over the last few weeks, but I also feel like it’s all just different incarnations of the same thing. To keep this fairly short, this just feels weird. I honestly can’t believe it and I’m sad to go, but I’m excited for traveling with my parents and for this summer, and I have lots of great memories to look back on.
When I left my host family in Costa Rica the summer before my senior year of high school, I said “adios” as I was saying goodbye to my host parents. We were crying, and our host mom hugged us. “Nunca es adios,” our host dad said. “Siempre es hasta luego.” It’s never good-bye, it’s always see you later. And it’s true. I’ll come back to France and I’ll be able to spend more time with Nathalie and my host mom in the future, whether in France or the U.S., and I know that our Dijonette family will still find time for Wednesday dinners next school year. So, France, I guess this is it. Thank you so much for everything. I won’t say au revior—it’s à bientôt!
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