Americans tend to be planners. They book their vacations months, sometimes years in advance. Restaurants, too. They’ve got daily schedules and annual check-up and weekly meetings. The French are a bit more laissez-faire, you can’t even reserve a TGV more than three months in advance and lots of restaurants will only book up to one month out. Which works for me. I mean, really, how do I know what I am going to be feeling like for dinner a week from next Wednesday? I’ll only really know Wednesday afternoon, probably about half an hour before heading out the door.
With the BAC results out, French families are only now beginning to figure out where their kids are headed this fall, which is just 6 weeks away. This is normal over here. Those headed for the UK have a slightly better idea, but they’re not 100% guaranteed a place, yet. Which is why I was somewhat taken surprise when everyone started fussing about how E was going off to Chicago and with whom and when. DATES. Friends and family were clamoring for dates.
Thank heavens. A few days ago I received a FB message from a dear friend who lives in Chicago and who had invited us to stay with her for the big drop off. “Hi, Sylvia, what dates are you coming to Chicago, exactly? Because, well, you see, I invited you to stay with us when you take E to university, and well, my husband kind of invite your X-husband to stay here, too. For the exact same dates. And, well…” Now wouldn’t that make for interesting house guests?
Compelled by my US friend to give it a bit of thought, I made a decision; I wouldn’t be going at all. At least not at first. Which kind of blew my neurotic mother mind. I hardly recognized myself. Who is that crazy woman who isn’t going to check out her daughter’s new digs in a foreign city, thousands of miles from home on the very first day that she moves in? Would I loose my rights as an Italian-Jewish Mom? Had my hair gone straight overnight? Could I still make chicken soup?
It is really thanks to my friend, Mary Kay, who has been-there, done-that, and who told me about Family Weekend; a month after classes start, just as the kids are getting home-sick, have run out of laundry detergent and would do anything for an off-campus meal, parents are invited for a little visit. How is that for American style planning par excellence? And since I was in planning mode, I noticed that Family Weekend just happens to be during the first school holiday of the next school year; M could come along. And while we were at it, why not invite the proud Grandpa to join us to make it a party!
I was so excited about our plans that I called my BFF in San Francisco. The one my Grandfather set me up with when we were only nine years old, obsessed with Encyclopedia Brown and still wearing polyester. The one with an adorable 18 month young baby I have never met. She was in a state of shock when she realized that I was going to be flying all the way to N America and I was not planning on going home for a visit.
And that is when it hit me, Paris is officially home. Warts, fonctionnaires and all. Even if someday I pull up stakes and move back to California in my 70’s, like Michael Stein (Gertrude’s brother and fellow art collector), for better or worse, Paris is my home.
Home is where the heart is, of course. We only go back to Australia about every 3 years (I once didn’t go back for six years) and I usually do include my home town which is way up north. However, this year I’m having the BIG FAMILY REUNION in another State so won’t have to travel north just to see one of my brothers and his son. The only other time I didn’t go to my hometown was when all my family came south for a wedding. All the other people have moved to other places so I really don’t consider my hometown “home” any more. It does have a very beautiful coral island opposite that I might be tempted to go to next time …