You Say Bagel, I Say Croissant 

A would-be Parisian abandons New York for the glories of Europe. But when visa troubles foil her plans, she finds the distance between the continents significantly smaller than imagined.

by Jenna-Marie Warnecke

When I moved to Paris in January of 2012, I left behind a life in New York I’d spent seven years building: my career, my friends, and the familiarity of American culture. I didn’t know how long my savings would last, and so, stupidly, I never applied for a proper visa. Naturally I ended up overstaying my three-month tourist visa by a good six months, and when I left for my best friend’s October wedding in New York, I was pulled aside and interrogated by airport border control before my connecting flight in Amsterdam. My visa was electronically flagged, ensuring that I would not be permitted to come back to France a week later as I’d expected. In fact, if I tried, I could be banned from Europe forever, according to some frightening websites.

With the exception of a week’s worth of clothes and my journal, all of my possessions remained in Paris. After a few days of panicking, I decided that I didn’t want my dream to be over, and nobody was going to tell me what to do or where I could live–not even the French government (typical American arrogance). I still had some savings left and I was going to go broke in Paris if it was the last thing I did. I would apply for a proper visa and kill some time in New York, spend Christmas with my family in Arizona, then go home to Paris in January. After all, New York was the place I’d called home for seven years, and Arizona was where I grew up. Once I’d formulated a plan, it wasn’t scary so much as annoying.

But expat life is something special and specific. While trying to build a life someplace new, you end up ripping yourself away from your home culture. In just ten months I’d gotten used to hearing French around me all the time, the rhythm and wandering mentality of a slower, un-gridded city, the fresh seasonal produce and strange French sitcoms. Immediately upon re-entering America, I longed for my beloved apartment in the 18th arrondissement, the rain and the cozy cafés, the cheap wine and the startling sight of the Eiffel Tower, which always seemed to appear before me when I least expected it. I wasn’t sure if I belonged to New York anymore, or if it belonged to me. Its trains were louder than I remembered, stuffed so full of people I felt like I couldn’t breathe. At restaurants I overheard hipsters having conversations like, “I know the most amazing organic egg farmer in Long Island City. I know you’ll just, like, connect so quickly, I mean you both have blogs.” I very quickly wished I could understand them as barely as I did the French.

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