In four days, I depart the U.S. for three months to live in southern France. I'm determined to take only one big bag, (because dragging multiple suitcases up subway stairs that one time was embarrassing enough), and it is currently 1/3 packed. I've been brushing up on my French (repeating phrases my Kindle says to me while I lay face down on my bedroom carpet) and researching the area (zooming in on the town using satellite view of googlemaps) in preparation, but I have a feeling that everything I think I know about France and its culture will be blown away by my first week there. It's strange to think that in less than a week, I'll be waking up on the other side of the world.
Friends have been asking me if I'm excited, and I am, but I'm also wary. After spending so much time planning and talking about it, I have this irrational fear that something's going to go wrong, like I won't be allowed into the country or the members of my host family will turn out to be crazy swingers. I'm afraid to believe that this will be the experience of a lifetime, because after this summer, I feel like I'm one false move away from disaster.
But when I stand in front of the mirror, during my 3am dress-up time which became a habit during my accidental conversion to a completely nocturnal person, in the dresses and classy pants I bought to fit in better over there, I imagine walking down the street in this tiny town that barely takes up one square mile and heading to the bakery or church or local cinema, and I do get excited. Misunderstandings and culture shock and embarrassment are inevitable. I will miss peanut butter and cold, non-bubbly drinking water. There will probably be times when I'm scared. But if nothing else, I'll have stories to tell, which is one of the only things I really need to be happy anyway.
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