I’ve been putting off writing this entry for as long as possible. I’m leaving this little village tomorrow. I’m almost done packing. I haven’t cleaned the apartment yet. I’m going to see a play tonight with the maîtresses. Tomorrow I say goodbye to all my kids. Friday afternoon, barring any volcanic ash in the vicinity, I land in Chicago. I’m finally going home.
This is the ultimate example of “bittersweet.” I do not want to leave this place, the kids, the people who have actually become my friends, the wind and sunshine and nature bursting outside my window, the food, the quaint little town, the trains, the Frenchness of it all. I cannot wait to get back to the States, to see my family, to see my friends, to dance, to not live alone, to be surrounded by people and things to do, to speak English every day. But even with these seemingly conflicting sentiments, there is no dissonance in my desires, no fight in my soul. I have not been divided by feelings.
If I could stay here forever, I would. If I could have left for the States months sooner, I would have. I’m following two paths — one of bitter au revoirs, one of sweet hellos — and that’s okay.