What No One Tells You About Leaving the Gulf Coast
Leaving my small town was one of the most nerve racking things I’ve ever had to do. How does a 19 year old go from white sand beaches and salt air to fields and rivers? (Especially if that’s all she has ever ever known!)
The answer to that question is simple: I sucked it up and stepped on a 9 hour flight to a different continent. I’m not going to say I didn’t cry, because that would be a lie. (I cried during the whole flight and one and off the first week and a half I was here.) However, the more I looked around the more I realized that Pontlevoy — my adopted village in France) isn’t so different from my home back in the states.
Don’t get me wrong: there are too many differences to count when I think about France versus Florida. But it’s also true that looking closely at things here has led me to find a small essences of home in my new French world. Little things — like local shops and restaurants you visit all the time and miss when you don’t go, people you pass in the street or in the bakery who smile and say hello — remind me everyday of home. It may not take much on most days, but these little reminders of my native world are enough to keep me sane until I return to heat waves and sunburns.
Meanwhile — for three months anyway — I’ve traded palm trees for “hershey kiss” trees, while swapping out sweet tea for wine and replacing seagulls with the most annoying pigeons ever. And at the same time (at least temporarily) I’ve found a new family to stand in for my people back at home. And the truth about that last point is this: I wouldn’t change being in Pontlevoy with these amazing people for the anything in the world.
P.S. I’m not good at writing so if you make it this far thanks for not giving up.
P.P.S. Seriously, thank you.
