I bring you yet another post from the middle of the sea (God I love Brittany Ferries Internet@Sea). I mentioned in this post that I had very mixed feelings about the fact that I am nearly done with this whole experience, and I thought I would use the time I have now to reflect a little bit. Before I left back in September (was it really that long ago?), I didn’t hold back an awful lot about how much I was dreading this year. It just didn’t seem fair, that simply because I chose to study a language at University, that I should have to say goodbye to everyone I love the most in the world, and spend 7 months living in a different country, trying to speak a different language, and cope on my own. I was genuinely terrified, and I know that I wasn’t the only one. Lots of people were scared, but the expectation is that the Year Abroad should be one of the defining years of your life; a chance for self-discovery, to get out there and make it on your own, and somehow come back fluent in a second language at the end of it.
The thing is, I don’t really deal with change all that well. I spent nearly seven years at boarding school where we did the same thing every day, and the only changes were invariably temporary ones. Some might say it was a sheltered existence, and they’re probably right, but it doesn’t seem to have done me much harm, all things considered. But anyway. Change. Hate it.
But, as you probably know (or indeed should know, if you’ve been reading this…), I was pleasantly surprised when I arrived in Caen. I settled in really quite quickly, at work and at the Foyer, and made friends as well. Sure, there were (and still are!) some hiccups, but I was able to deal with them, and any moments of panic or fear were outnumbered in vast quantities by the good moments where I felt better.
I made the decision myself not to come home before Christmas. Whilst it meant I was away for longer, and had to say goodbye for longer, which was of course really hard, it was the right decision. It meant that the idea of “coming home” was a far off thing, and it forced me to get on with life, rather than counting down the days until I next came back to Blighty. In general the first few months passed really quite well, and when it came to coming home for the festive season I was almost sad, which I took as a really good thing.
After that, however, the initial excitement, the novelty of living somewhere new, started to wear off. By the time it came to coming home again this February, I was so ready to leave it was untrue. I needed a holiday, not just from school, the kids, the early mornings, but from France, French, and everything else. I was tired. My life had become one big countdown towards the next time I would be able to eat toast, bake cakes, and have a hug.
Hugs. Easily top of my “things I miss” list.
And so now, as I head back yet again across the channel, there’s a part of me that wants to run away and never go back. There is, however, another part of me that wants desperately to go back, to eat real bread again, to get back to school and face whatever those kids throw at me, to see as much as I can. Because it really is nearly over. And that’s sad too. Whilst I can’t wait to have all my possessions in one country, to be able to see and speak to any of my friends whenever I want, and to get back into good old fashioned academia, I know that once I leave, I will miss it. I have, despite all of my misgivings, had a great time, and I know that these last couple of months are going to fly by like the ones before them. And of course I can’t forget the people I’ve met here, without whom it wouldn’t have been the same <3.
As for my French, I can’t claim to be bilingual yet, but my tendency to slip French phrases and words into conversation has definitely increased, which I hope means that come September, I won’t be sitting in my Oral exam looking completely clueless.
Biz.
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