Let's call a spade a spade: in case you haven't heard, the eleven months I spent in Paris last year was hands down the most transformative experience of my life. However many months removed -- eight, I think -- I'm still figuring out exactly how transformative and what the ramifications are.
I probably couldn't tell you exactly what happened. All I know is that I spent a good several months after I came back trying to reconcile the person I had been and the person I had become. It was like staring in a mirror and having no idea who the person looking back was.
Well, I'm going back. Five weeks to the day, to be exact. And I'm not quite sure what to think.
Of course, I'm excited. I've been told by numerous sources that they have never seen me so at home as when I was in Paris. I found something I wrote about halfway through my time there: I don't know if I love Paris, but all I know is that I fell into living here as easily as breathing. There are people I haven't seen in months, and the culture, the city, the food...
But I also know that when I left, I left some incredibly powerful energy behind. And honestly, I'm not sure -- and I'm a little concerned -- about what will happen when I reopen that existence. It's not anything I can prepare for. Hell, I tried to prepare for the culture shock, but found myself facing a monster whose face I didn't even recognize.
Of course it won't be the same. A lot of time has passed since I left, and I've changed again. But I do wonder.
And then there are times when I don't worry, and I just remember how completely and ferociously alive I was, and I can barely speak for impatience.
I may have to amend the title of this post. I'm not going back to Paris.
For a week, I'm coming home.
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