Lived in France from January to May of 2007

Oh France.
A year ago I was packing. A year ago I had less than two weeks in California. A year ago I was eager to leave this country.
Things just weren’t the way I thought they should be. Life wasn’t happening the way I had planned. And I was tired of it.
The trip to France just couldn’t be stopped — even when it should have been.
My mom had a stroke a month before I left and I decided I wasn’t going. But she wouldn’t have it. We booked my flight while she was in the hospital. I even later learned that she sent a certain Dr. McDreamy on a mission to convince me of the trip.
So there I was with my life packed into three red suitcases. I left this city, this state, this country and I didn’t look back. I needed this. It was time.
I wanted to see these mystical parts of the world. I wanted to learn new things. I wanted to be more alone than I’ve ever been.
Or so I thought.
It started off with the delayed flights, turning into multiple flights, turning into me arriving an entire day late, with no luggage. No luggage for FIVE days, in a foreign country. Alone.
Now trust me, Chrissy Ramoneda does not wear the same outfit for five days. Especially not in an unknown land. (But she had to).
Then it was the eight-bedroom apartment, with the all male roommates (one from Toronto, Jordan, who I went to school with, the others … French boys), and just a single, tiny bathroom.
All this was followed by the welcome greeting from the five cockroaches that climbed out of the heater in my bedroom.
Certainly, at that point, I needed a rest. So I went to my miniature cot bed for some much-needed shut-eye. Until I discovered the broken leg on my bed that left me riding a seesaw I was less than thrilled over.
I sat there that first night and decided I’d made a huge mistake. I cried. I regretted all the time I had spent preparing for France. Suddenly, sitting there, this well planned decision seemed so irrational.
But when you’ve taken a semester to study in France, you’re already there, have no phone, no internet and no idea how to yell “Taxi” in French, I guess you just stay there.
Then you sleep for 12 hours on your broken bed, wake up and make your new roommates take you for a sandwich. And after that, you should be good. Or close … at least.
I’m glad to say, that aside from the continual visit of cockroaches, the mouse we named Timmy, who lived under the fridge, the showerhead that even while held up with masking tape would suddenly fall from the tile wall, and the lack of cleanliness from roommates who suddenly decided as a women I was obligated to become full-time housekeeper, things went up from there.
I dealt with it. I made it work. I laughed at things that I would usually throw a fit over. I made some amazing friends. I have days in California that don’t seem right without them.
Jordan and I found any reason to make deadly jungle juice and throw a party in our cramped kitchen. I fixed my broken bed by stacking my favorite Nora Ephron books underneath it. I bought insect spray and bleach. I used both vigorously.
I learned that you could find lifetime friends in four months. Grant, someone who will scrub down two flights of filthy stairs on his knees, just so you can get your 300-euro deposit back. Or Amanda, a girl who will show up at your doorstep offering to cook you “supper” or take you out for drinks at a moments notice.
I went to smoke infested pubs, had deep conversations with people I will never see again, and got lost walking on cobblestone streets in total darkness.
I went to wonderland parks with friends, where we drank bottles of wine and just sat in the grass. I took 3 righteous “snow days.” I shopped for food when I had no idea what I was buying, and managed to become a member at a French gym using no words, only smiles.
I lived. I didn’t see it then. But that was exactly what I did. And if it had all been easy, if there had been no struggles, I don’t think I would feel the way I do today. I don’t think I would have changed.
That girl — a year ago, she was lonely. And sad. She felt like she couldn’t breathe here another minute. Everything she needed in order to become better and stronger would only be found on the other side of the world. She was sure all the answers would be found there too.
But the truth is, you never find all the answers. No one does. You live, you learn, and if you’re really lucky, you love. And what I did learn was how much I love the life I was so ready to get away from. I have the best family. I have true friends. I love everyone in my life.
I stepped off that plane from France knowing one thing: how badly I wanted to see my family, my friends and sunshine. I didn’t have answers. And I still don’t.
I don’t know why some people get sick … amazing, wonderful people. And other people stay healthy. I don’t know why some people have 3 cars and others have none.
I don’t know why we are in this war, watching people die over something I can’t even explain. I don’t understand how people can argue over the earth changing and resources vanishing.
I don’t understand why you can live your life and be just fine, and then somehow, someone can take your heart and make you feel like you were never whole before them.
I don’t even really understand why clouds look like fluffy cotton candy.
Things will never be simple. But I did live in an 8-bedroom apartment in France, with 6 (smelly) French boys, one toilet, and no one to hold my hand when I thought I needed it.
So in my book, I can handle anything.