The Longest Year

It has been a long year.

I have not written much; despite having the rest of my travels from last year and another séjour in Lyon to write about, I couldn’t bring myself to sit down and write. Even now, I can barely look at pictures from last spring, when I was galivanting through Europe for two weeks with seemingly no care in the world. Even looking at the calendar in the spring started a surreal thumping in my chest when I look at the date: March 12 was the day that President Macron closed the schools, and, well… the rest is history. Deep down, I think that I am still grieving the loss of a life that once was, and I have been going through this form of grief every day since last March. For each week that we were confined, for each night that we had curfew, for every moment I have to push my mask up higher on my face, I am reminded that it is not over. It was naïve to think that it would last for two weeks, which is how long the schools were originally closed for, but how could I have known back then- weeping out of sheer terror alone in my room with President Macron’s address in the background- that more than a year would pass and we still would not be out of the woods?

So, I have not written much this year. I like to blame it on the fact that I haven’t been able to travel, but this blog was not created for me to write solely about traveling. I started this blog to write about my experiences as an American abroad, and on that subject, I have much to unpack from the last year and a half. But I think that I have not written much simply because I cannot face reality: I can’t sit down and process all the feelings that have been thrashing around in my head. For a year, I’ve been pushing down the sadness that planted itself in my chest on March 12, 2020, and I’m afraid that if I open up that box, that if I face my emotions head-on, that if I let myself to go that dark place and spiral… I am just afraid. I am not ready to deal with this past year.

I also think that, as spring approached, I was struck with the realization that my time in France would shortly be coming to a close. (I write to you today from my desk in sunny Charleston, my hometown, having departed Lyon almost exactly a month ago.) I plan on returning to France, but I can’t help but think about how my two years in France didn’t end up being what I had imagined. That’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy them- I loved living in France- but I am heartbroken that this time in my life that I had dreamed of for so long is over, and how it feels like, in some ways, the pandemic robbed me of my full experience here. I know that everyone in the world is feeling the same thing, and I am more than aware that I fared better than millions of people during this crisis, but, please, allow me one minute of selfishness: I am sad that the dreams I had for my two years in France didn’t pan out. I spent more time in confinement and under curfew than I did in normal times. All the fiery dreams I had for what I wanted to accomplish and how I wanted to grow and where I wanted to explore were extinguished in a week’s worth of presidential decrees, and I know that these complaints are grains of sand compared to the mountains of troubles that have been thrown at other people, but I feel that it would be wrong to ignore the reality of my pain that my dreams did not happen. What used to be a clearly laid-out life plan has been blinded by a fog of uncertainty, and deciding the “what’s next” of my life feels like searching for the shore while lost at sea.

With all this being said, there have been more than a few bright spots. Déconfinement is a time I will not forget: the bizarre hesitancy of liberation, the sun-drenched paint sessions by the river, and the peace of lazy evenings with friends and the cheapest wine we could get our hands on. I learned the bliss of doing nothing, of laying out in the sun, a book carelessly strewn aside, enjoying the luxury of being outside for the first time in two months- and the importance of soaking in every moment with friends that you can. The second confinement and curfew reiterated that point: you can’t take the time together for granted. And spending so much time at home allowed me to strengthen the relationships with my community here, spending more quality time with the people I love and drinking in every second in their presence- the sound of their laughter bouncing off the walls of our kitchen, the crinkle in their eyes when they smile behind the mask, the comfort of the moment when our eyes meet, and the knowingness that we are bonded by this insane life experience.

I did not write much in the last year because I was figuring out how to exist in the present, not letting myself be dragged down by the past and raising my eyes to the bright future. I was being content with exactly where I was.

I do not know what the future holds. I don’t know when I’ll be able to live in the France I once knew. I don’t know if I’ll be lucky enough to return to France at all. But I do know this: my Papa always tells me that life is all about choices. So I am making the choice to dust off the boxes in my mind that hold my memories from the last two years. I am going to open them, to sink into the memories of Before. I am going to take a good, long sip of nostalgia, and then I will choose not to dwell on what could have been. I will choose to take account of all the good that has come into my life in the last fifteen months, and I will be thankful for the experiences I did get to have.

I can’t wait to tell you all about them.