I am in France. A dream come true for a lot of people out there. I have spent 3 nights in Paris, 4 in Blois and I am now about 15km outside of Cognac. The gite is very nice. At 1:52 am I ought to be asleep dreaming of croissants and designer shoes.
But I am not.
My thoughts are tumbling around my head in whirlwind of things I do not need to be thinking about. Not now. Not thousands of miles from home. Not things that can’t be changed simply because I wish them changed.
Part of the thought is my disappointment with France in general. After all I had heard about Europe in general, I am disappointed to find this part of France to look exactly like rural Minnesota. The fields, the farms dotting the land, the clumps of groves protecting the houses, the wind breaks lining the fields are all the same. I feel as though I have been transported through a timey/wimey wormhole to a French, medevial version rural Minnesota.
And I was never fond of Minnesota. 10 years there felt like an eternity.
I am also disappointed with myself. I can not find the wonder or beauty here. The narrow cobblestone streets and ancient stone buildings hold no awe for me. They just look old and rather tired.
The people here are far more polite. Children are very well behaved. There are no screaming kids in restaurants or stores. You can eat in peace, even with a toddler at the next table.
But that’s it. That’s all I find here that is different from home.
And I’d rather be home. Home is what is keeping me awake. Home is what is calling my heart and soul almost to the point of pain.
I have been a lot of places in my life and never once been homesick. I have always been able to make where I was home. Even those long years in state I disliked so much, I managed to make it home.
Not here. I don’t know what it is about France that blocks my ability to get past the disappointment and enjoy myself. But I can’t.
Three more nights. I have to make it through three more nights. That’s all.
Then I can go home.