Winter’s last vacation has rolled to its final Sunday, students and teachers and language assistants shrink away from Monday’s early morning. Poor cursed Monday, nobody loves Monday. Spring slowly shows through the cracks in the clouds and we don’t know whether to smile into the sun or mourn the first two thirds of our time here lost. I know how this goes; the end comes up faster than you’d think. There you are waiting for the next vacation to roll around and then it’s over and then… it’s time to go home.

And I find myself wondering what I’ve been doing while time snuck away behind my back. I came to love the culture I plunged myself into. I don’t mind the poop on the sidewalk or the impossibility to buy anything on Sunday or having to walk everywhere I want to go or eating duck liver for lunch or having to chat about nothing for fifteen minutes with shop owners each time I want to rent skis or waiting in those plastic chairs for my number to come up, no, I don’t even mind bureaucracy anymore. But the thing is that after a few months of learning the rules it all becomes easy, navigable.

These silly Frenchy cultural rules are mine, now, too, but that means that living here has become the day to day that could be home or anyplace. And when you fall into a rhythm it all goes so fast and you forget to go sight seeing and you’re not really in awe of that medieval town across the river anymore and, well, you understand just about everything that people say to you. Now that almost all of the puzzle pieces fit it’s just so normal.

So if this has become normal, what will home feel like? Will it be even normaler? Or will it seem so different? I think home will be new for a month and then it will be the most normal thing – unless I could show it to someone who didn’t know its ins and outs and subtleties that we forget to see on our way to work or in the supermarket.

I think I like change, but changing back is something else. Ohhh that scares me more than I’d like it to. There are those people I miss and the color green and the drips on the leaves (there are plenty of things) that come and go in dreams and place little pangs for home in my chest but then there’s the thread connecting it to Pau. And travel and adventure and youth. I don’t think I’m ready for all of this normal, yet. Is that okay?

And if you find I’m on an island in the South Pacific, somewhere off the coast of Australia and if you think you might want to come and join me, please do.