Coup de Foudre

It's that moment where you're finally past the rosy glasses and the blatant appearance of a tourist, when you're starting to settle into the humdrum existence of that new, beautiful place that you're going to inhabit for a painfully short time. It's that moment where you wonder why it has to end, and you realize that this could very easily be your humdrum existence for a good long while, if you could only find a way to make it work. Perhaps that's why it's so fantastic: get a decent job, make some new friends, and spend your days roaming about the city, taking time every once in a while to prendre une verre in the company of your very own Gothic church, wherever it may be. Eating a sandwich in a lovely park where the children babble in a tongue that you'd never imagined you'd be able to speak like you can now. Yes, if you lived here for a while, maybe you would grow tired of it, but after you left, you could revel in the beautiful memories of all those pieces of perfect tranquility: the violet horizon on the rare clear day in Normandy, the rolling hills of Bretagne, the breathtaking, romantic quality of Paris. I knew that when I came here, I would love France. Who knew I would fall in love with it, though. J'en suis amoureuse, je l'admets. Come what may, I can only hope that sometime, in the not-so-far-away future, I will find my way back to this ancient, quintessentially classy country, where I will have left a little piece of my heart. Words cannot express how thankful I am to have had the opportunity to have a post-dinner glass of cider while admiring Caen by night, when the lights of the city illuminate the looming steeple of St. Pierre. La France, je l'adore, et c'est ici où je laisse un peu de moi, pour le retrouver un jour quelconque, ou pour qu'il puisse jouir de cette beauté incroyable, parce que le monde m'a attrappée et ne veut pas que j'y retourne. Mais je vais retourner quand-même, parce que qu'est-ce que c'est la vie si on ne rêve pas, et si on ne vit rien de ses rêves?