where are all the Philly cheese steak sandwiches?
Brotherly love. Bah humbug, sister. Not that I was actually expecting the fulfillment of such a lofty motto when debarking my stuffy 767 at Philadelphia airport, but a canceled flight and no remorse or reimbursement? Neither philos nor agape nor even eros (except maybe from the underground cabbie who snatched me out of the taxi line and hustled me down to Leesburg at midnight) was to be found in the frigid arms of Philly and so it is with great joy that I find myself surrounded by Virginian woods and my mom's hugs.
It's strange to be back on American soil, though, after nearly 2 years of living in Paris. Particularly as the East coast has never been "home" to me. Absorbing the scenery, the folk, and the quotidian that is Leesburg, I feel more like an anthropologist than a person on vacation at their parent's house. I remark, somewhat shocked, upon the appalling number of SUVs and the staggering gas prices and wonder why so few residents seem to have gotten the fuel-efficiency memo? Or the ubiquitous smile and inquiry as to my well-being that accompanies every commercial exchange. Or being carded at a Mexican restaurant (although there's nothing like someone doubting, even slightly, your seniority to boost your ego). And the strange, not altogether agreeable sensation of being the solitary walker in a city whose downtown is smaller than the bar-hopping district in my Parisian arrondissement. To think that only a few days ago I was moaning - in typical Parisian style - about the crowds, slow walkers, and sidewalk blockers. I'd give my right running shoe to be surrounded by other walkers now, marveling at their posturing, gossiping, or simply strolling in silence.
But then there is the luxury of being chez my mom, a cozy house with large, grassy yard, spotted with a few dormant trees, and no raucous neighbors on top of, below, or next to my bedroom walls to startle me from slumber. And the obvious facility of being able to communicate in an innate, unaccented way with everyone. (Although my mom and I have been getting a huge kick out of my newfound speech impediment when encountering a "u.")
I'm off to Giant grocery store to buy yogurt. When my mom told me the name of the market, I thought she was describing its size.
It's strange to be back on American soil, though, after nearly 2 years of living in Paris. Particularly as the East coast has never been "home" to me. Absorbing the scenery, the folk, and the quotidian that is Leesburg, I feel more like an anthropologist than a person on vacation at their parent's house. I remark, somewhat shocked, upon the appalling number of SUVs and the staggering gas prices and wonder why so few residents seem to have gotten the fuel-efficiency memo? Or the ubiquitous smile and inquiry as to my well-being that accompanies every commercial exchange. Or being carded at a Mexican restaurant (although there's nothing like someone doubting, even slightly, your seniority to boost your ego). And the strange, not altogether agreeable sensation of being the solitary walker in a city whose downtown is smaller than the bar-hopping district in my Parisian arrondissement. To think that only a few days ago I was moaning - in typical Parisian style - about the crowds, slow walkers, and sidewalk blockers. I'd give my right running shoe to be surrounded by other walkers now, marveling at their posturing, gossiping, or simply strolling in silence.
But then there is the luxury of being chez my mom, a cozy house with large, grassy yard, spotted with a few dormant trees, and no raucous neighbors on top of, below, or next to my bedroom walls to startle me from slumber. And the obvious facility of being able to communicate in an innate, unaccented way with everyone. (Although my mom and I have been getting a huge kick out of my newfound speech impediment when encountering a "u.")
I'm off to Giant grocery store to buy yogurt. When my mom told me the name of the market, I thought she was describing its size.
Comments
I always feel like a tourist now when I go back home to the States!
Hi Tim from S.C.. In concept, it's my mouth relaxing after too much cul de poule(!), except that I'm not pronouncing it like "tu" but like "vous." As in, I say gamut "gamoot." What can I say? p.s. I'll be driving through your state in a week!