Home.

It’s 4:42 a.m. and I’m wide awake. The house is cold because the a/c is running. Too cold for me now. So fascinating how we humans adapt to ou environment so quickly.

Happy to report that my cat Lulu has totally forgiven me. That happened at about 3:30 a.m. when she crawled on me and settled in beside my neck. She was a little shy when I came home, and easily startled. I worried. Needlessly, it turns out, but I worried. I was willing to take whatever time she needed. But now she’s following me everywhere. My purring shadow once again.

It’s funny to think I awoke 24 hours ago in Paris, ahead of my alarm, to finalize packing. I had to sit on my suitcase to zip it, as it was overstuffed – mostly with books. So cliché.

I feel good about how I left the apartment — better than I found it. Spic & Span, as my Nanny used to say. I left a few « gifts » behind, including a bottle of wine and some chocolate. I had emptied the frigo and cabinets, as requested, but couldn’t bear to throw some things away as they’d asked. Things that wouldn’t spoil? I can’t toss that! I also left my backpack, French coffee press, and the (French plug) hairdryer — all things I’d needed and purchased whilst there, and now items that perhaps the next guest can use — and all things I couldn’t fit into my suitcase.

The tears fell quietly, but freely as the triple-7 left the earth, and I left part of my heart behind in a city I love more than I thought possible. My friends, the cafés, my school, the museums, le métro, and all the balades I’d loved, and history I’d learned were suddenly far away. All of it now part of my own history.

The flight was scheduled to be 8 hours – which is 2 hours longer than the flight to Paris was. Headwinds. My phone battery was low, and the USB plugs on the airplane didn’t work, so I had no entertainment. No Audiobook, no surfing the Internet, and I didn’t feel like watching movies. I didn’t want to laugh, and I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to remember in silence. I had a window seat, and thankfully the guy next to me was an introvert and we were separated by an empty seat between us. He, at 6’5” wanting an aisle seat, and me always a window. Perfect. I pulled the shade down as we ascended. I slept on and off, and was awakened by various pleasant aromas as we were served meals and snacks during the long flight. It was all very nice. Very quiet. Just what I needed.

Customs was easy at Paris, and again in New York. Surprisingly so. A breeze! As I walked I immediately spotted my husband on the lower level. He was looking for me having tracked my flight. I texted, “look up!” And he found me. Lol! He had purposely worn his uniform; he’s an airline pilot. This gave him access to areas otherwise off limits to those picking up their loved ones. It also meant he could help me manage the 3 pieces of luggage, which I was doing fine with (somehow), but it was about to get tricky once I hit pavement, and we had to take the airport train to the parking lot. He knows all the shortcuts, this having been his “base” for 30+ years. I was still adjusting to the language and culture change. Wow, I was really home. It felt strange and familiar at the same time.

A woman in the airport said to me, “Love your shoes!” And I replied, “Thank you, I bought them in Paris,” and couldn’t believe those words left my mouth. I think I’ve always wanted to say that. LOL!

We got to the car and started to make our way to our daughter and son-in-law’s house. I hadn’t yet seen the house, as they’d purchased it while I was away. An exciting reunion was just ahead!

(My son is out of state — in airline school — becoming the next airline captain in the family. I’ll see him when his training is complete.)

Driving along, and we weren’t on the highway for 10 minutes, when my husband decided to switch lanes, not seeing a car in his blind spot. The guy honked, understandably, and Mark adjusted. But the guy wouldn’t let off the horn. Like, at all. He just held it down forever. It was truly bizarre. I mean it was a minor error, immediately corrected. No harm. But this guy wasn’t done. He pulled up behind us, driving angrily and at speed, then went around us on the left and slowed down — on a highway — to be right next to us. His window already down, he had to lean across his passenger seat to yell and give us the finger, screaming F*** You!

First thought: I miss Paris.

There’s just none of this toxic masculin BS over there. No false big-mouth bravado. No performance personalities. No costumes. Murderous rage for minor infractions. I mean, where does this guy go from there? The contrast was so alarming to me. I harkened back to my last convo on the bench with David, where we discussed guns, aggression, etc. Sigh.

(By the way, his name is pronounced Dah-VIDE.)

Welcome home.

I was calm and quietly said to my husband, “Well that was completely unnecessary.”

We arrived at our daughter’s house and I jumped out of the car as soon as we parked and ran to hug my baby girl!!! So happy! Then she gave me a tour of the house, which I truly LOVE. I couldn’t be happier! I love everything about it — and all their plans for it, as well.

When I got home, I found that my husband had bought roses and chocolates (from the local chocolatier, Pierre’s), and my favorite Veuve Clicquot champagne. Very French, and very appreciated.

I started opening my suitcases because I wanted to remove the souvenirs/books and make sure they had traveled well. They had. The house was immaculate and felt so spacious — lovely. I felt bad “trashing” it by opening the suitcases in the living room space, but it was also fun to share the artwork (I’d hand-carried), the books, the seeds I’d forgotten I’d purchased from Monet’s garden in Giverny, etc. The memories flooded back with each souvenir. It felt surreal. Which part, though? Did home feel surreal, or Paris? I couldn’t tell.

I’m wondering how long it will take my social media sites to return to English. Did I mention they’d all switched to French while I was in Paris. I didn’t do that; it just happened. My ads were all French, and even the digital keyboard on my iPad had switched to French.

The house is quiet, though the sun rose a few minutes ago. It’s nice to hear the happy birds in the yard.

I stayed awake, not feeling hungry or ready for coffee. I cut the stems of the roses and placed them into the vase, thinking of the roses I’d left behind in Paris — a color I’d never before seen. Transitioning is hard because I don’t want to do it. I want Paris to be ever-present.

Sadly, a lot of people I know here in the States have Covid. Home for less than a day, and 8 people I know are ill. So sad. Masks really helped in Paris. They were mandatory. I had a hard copy “pass sanitaire” and digital “pass sanitaire” on my phone, which allowed me to to enter museums, and attend certain events. We wore masks to class and on transportation, basically anywhere indoors (my apartment lobby, too) for the first 2 months. We all did. Some didn’t like it, but they didn’t shoot people over it. And now? Masks are off, and the cases are super low.

Praying that no one suffers too much, and that they recover quickly and fully, with no long-term effects.

Lulu was napping on (owning) my new Levi’s jean jacket, so I joined her, feeling tired. She got up and moved closer to me, and we napped all curled up together.

It feels like dinner hour, but it’s only afternoon here. Not sure where to begin with the suitcase and souvenir situation. Lots to do.