Day 5: Finding Home #everydayadventure
“Does asparagus blow up?” Erica held up an asparagus and the candle lighter. “Because I just dropped the only candle down the drain.”
Instead of singing “Happy Birthday” to flaming produce, we opted for the more tame but just as unexpected option: turning on the candle lighter and gathering around.
Our second birthday party in a row had quickly turned into a mess of vegetables and cutting boards, the outcome of a group making chicken stir fry.
After miniature but elaborate French pastries, we sat together for a few hours and eventually sang camp songs. Rachel taught us all a “Hippo” camp song. It’s adorable though nonsensical. All the same, we belted out the chorus together.
Later that night, I rode the elevator back up. One of the hotel guests stood next to me, staring at my neon green socks. I smiled, adjusting the leftover bell pepper balanced on my laptop. The guest pointed at my socks again, and asked me something in French. Once we established that I was American, he nodded and grinned knowingly.
I’ve noticed that tourists tend to stand out wherever they are. But sometimes, strangers assume you know French (which of course I wish I did). Even this afternoon, while I biked to the park next to the beach, two older men stopped me to say something in French. I semi-accurately spouted out “Sorry, I can’t speak French” and then he switched to Spanish to say “Viva España!” I almost answered with “Viva Peru!”
I’ve been in France for over a week now. This afternoon, I felt a moment of irrational sadness that I’d be leaving in a month. But maybe, it’s not that irrational. I love where I am, what I am doing here, and who I’m doing it with.
In a way, Marseille is starting to feel more like home.
I’m only lost half the time. I’ve gotten used to the feel of Euros in my pocket and the sound of motorcycles barging across the sidewalk. I love how late the sun stays up and how well-dressed most people are. Street markets remind me of Peru and the malls remind me of the States, but in the end, all my favorite things belong to France alone.
For me, home has never been one place. I’ve found it in the lemony-clean smell of my grandparent’s living room in Lima. In Nina’s bright, often crowded kitchen in Pensacola. In my grandparent’s tree-sheltered cabin in Angel Fire.
And now I’ve found home in a city in France, a city I could not pronounce until a few months ago. A city with bikes on every corner and bakeries on every street. A place where cultures blend, history clings, and God works.
Home can be anywhere. But for tonight, home is right here.
