This is probably one of the biggest lies I have ever heard dealing with the French, or so I believe. Never once have I been shamed for being an American (except with my old host family, but even the French think they were weird). Revealing my roots, they get excited and ask me about where I am from. If they have traveled to America, they will recount about their experiences abroad. It is quite interesting. Continue reading “Xenia”→
Give me 6-12 months in a new town or city, my mind will start to think about the next city to live in. It is a habit, something I cannot help. I noticed it the last move, between Oregon and Indiana. I absolutely adored the suburb I lived in outside of Portland, the friends I had made and the high school I went to (my teachers made going to school worthwhile). Then when we arrived to Indiana, I cried for months. Why had I agreed to move when I loved home so much?
The hardest question for me to answer. I cringe when I hear those words, I start stuttering over noises that seem to be coming out of my mouth and I start running through all the of places that I have lived the past 19 years of my life (13 to be exact). Ever since I have moved to Paris, I seem to be hearing that phrase more often. Continue reading “I Am a Melting Pot”→
I never know how to say goodbye. Either at times I choke up and cry or I try to sustain what I am feeling until I am out of sight. For a girl who has moved 13 times in her life, you would think that goodbyes would be easy. Continue reading “Au Revoir”→