In less than a week I take a plane to North America. I will travel 4,942 miles by plane, train and automobile. I will carry 99 pounds of luggage. It will take 35 hours in total, from the home and life I made for myself in Lyon, to the home and life I left behind in Tennessee.
I hate numbers, usually. I’m convinced I have some sort of dyslexia for numbers. But they’re a great distraction in times of duress, such as the time I am entering now, as I Tetris my suitcase together and cancel phone plans and bank accounts. Every night this past week I’ve had goodbye dinners and brunches and drinks with people I might never see again, and all we talked about were the numbers. How many miles are you travelling? How much for the ticket? What’s your destination time? How long is the layover?
We talk about the details to avoid the big picture. One of my friends says we sound like Joan Didion characters, but I wouldn’t know since I only read her nonfiction. Last night, huddled around a coffee table, someone asked the girl who was leaving soonest what her favorite memory will be, and she burst into tears.
Things are made even more thorny by the way France seems to be behaving towards me. The more I pack and plan, the greener, the kinder, the warmer it becomes. I know the people on my block and return smiles and conversation. The sacred hill I can see from my window is blossoming. I know the bus routes and the puns in the graffiti. Just as soon as I have my hands around this place, I have to put it down and move on. How is that fair?
I’ll likely make one more post after this one, after I get home, and then retire this blog. I want to thank all of you readers for your support.
Bises,
Allison
Flan in France 