First of all HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!
I’m obviously supposed to be studying, but some girl just posted that she’s going to be blogging about her life for the next three hundred and sixty five days and I thought to myself “Well I doubt my life is interesting enough to write about every single day, but once in a while I do have something interesting to say.”
You like you’re having a blast on exchange, which makes me really happy. As you know, my experience with overseas studies had its ups and downs, though at the moment I miss it dearly. Then again, the Bar school is so bad I probably half miss calculus.
As much fun as you are having the (sad for you, happy for me) fact is that you are to come home soon. So today, I’m going to tell you about my coming home experience.
As you might know, I had to spend a night in Paris before my plane took off the next morning. My wonderful mother had booked a hotel room for me at the Sheraton in Charles-de-Gaulle airport. I finally got there, with my four bags, which I got brought up to the room, and got on the elevator. What happened next brought tears to my eyes.
You see, airport hotels are often used by captains or flight crew members on odd schedules, who are possibly horrible jet-lagged and need to sleep so they can function properly on their next shift. This hotel was designed specifically for the purpose. The lights in all the hallways are dimmed and shaped like stars. The floors are carpeted and the rooms are laid out in an oval shape. And all these features contribute to the most important aspect of this jewel of a hotel : silence.
The elevator doors opened and all was so quiet, it took my breath away for a second. Then actual tears came to my eyes. When you live in a dorm you partially hate because of the rude french staff, for forget just how amazing silence is.
Obviously, my room was amazing, even when you consider everything is after 4 months in a dorm.
I went back to the lobby, where everyone seemed happy to be on Christmas holidays, to talk to my mother for a bit. She bore bad news : the power had been out for a few days now due to a snowstorm and it was unclear where Christmas was going to be held and wether or not we would even get a tree (you know how much this matters to me). But I was just so happy to finally be coming home that it didn’t matter. My mother was trying to sugarcoat it, but she really didn’t need to. I kept telling her they’re would be other Christmases (a reasoning I doubt I will ever have again).
Early, the next morning, early (not bright and early because it was like 4 in the morning) I awoke like it was actually Christmas morning, that’s how excited I was.
It took me forever to get to the terminal, I was sweating like Marie-Pier doing hot yoga and I had to take stuff out of my suitcases three times, but I finally got to the waiting area. I found out I’d lost my SIM card and spent the rest of the time internally laughing at the french people in Canada Goose coats and shoes. (I mean, not matter how hot your coat is, you’re going to be unhappy if your feet are freezing and wet, just saying.)
The flight back went by fast enough. When we started approaching Montreal and the plane turned so we could see the ground and the snow upon it, my eyes filled up with tears. That’s actually the moment I cried the most, right there on the plane, seeing the brown suburbs with white spots all over. We landed and the captain announced the temperature was minus 9, which resulted in a general “Oh, that’s not so bad” from the passengers which was quickly followed by a cry of horror when it was announced that with the windshield it felt like minus 17. The lady next to me could not figure out why that made me cheer.
The rest is simple enough. I found my luggage and my parents. They took me home and the power came back just in time for Christmas eve.
So here’s to hoping you’re homecoming will be as wonderful as mine.