The red, white and blues

Paris is hard. I feel like it's wearing me down. The days when it all seems like a wonderful dream, to be living in France, working in French, sleeping and eating and dreaming in French, are few and far between. There is the sense of achievement, there are the new experiences, the new friendships, there are the pains au chocolat. But there is also a sense of banishment, of being stuck in France and financially unable to go back to London and see friends, the sense of always being other, and foreign in this city. 

I went to London at the weekend for one night, for work, but it coincided with my Granny being taken into hospital so I spent the evening in her room at the Chelsea and Westminster, with my mother and my cousin. Despite the worry and the shock of seeing Granny looking tiny and every one of her 97 years all swaddled up in the hospital sheets, it was kind of fun. I felt like I belonged there. I do belong there. We had cups of tea and sat around the bed and talked about old times. The nurses were kind. An evening in an airless hospital room in London was one of the best nights I've had in a long time. This is not a great reflection on how Paris is going!

It's so beautiful, the food is delicious, the experience is priceless, but I miss home. If the Colonel works until 5am when we were supposed to have dinner plans, it's kind of a disaster. I know about 15 people in Paris, most of them English, and only 2 of them such good friends that I could call at the last minute and just see what they're up to. I miss my family, even my cousins and boring aunt and uncle. I used to sit in their garden on a Sunday afternoon and chat about some boring play they'd seen, and somehow it felt comfortable and cosy. I don't know anyone with a garden in Paris. I think what I really miss is knowing "grown-ups", my grandparents, my godparents, all that stability in one city was something I never knew I'd miss.

And visiting isn't really enough. The homesickness doesn't keep to a schedule, so that I can ward it off with a well-timed weekend in London. It sneaks up on me in the monday morning meeting at work, when I think back to the days of being able to really express myself in the office. It jumps out at me in the metro when I look around at the sea of faces and realise my morning commute is the closest I'm going to come to being a part of this city all day.

I miss being able to call a friend and chat while we both watch big brother on tv. I miss the friday evening train to Suffolk to see my parents, hour long wait at Shenfield and bus replacement service and all. 

I miss tea-time in the office and drinks after work on a Friday.  I can "integrate" in Paris as much as I want (give it 20 years and I might just be able to speak fluent French and call some Parisians my friends) but it still won't be England, and that homesickness is going to sneak up on me just when I least expect it.