This past week was Toussaint, or All Saint’s Day, so many classes were cancelled for vacation. While I got a brief reprieve from the Sorbonne, my host siblings were off for almost two weeks, so my host family went to their country home in the Bretagne region for about a week. It might have had something to do with the weekend I had just spent with my actual parents, or the fact that I can’t cook to save my life, but this marked one of the first times since arriving in France that I had felt truly homesick—whether for New Jersey, Evanston, or my Parisian family, I could not be sure. Though I know many others who live independently while abroad, it felt strange to me to be living in a foreign country without the semblance of a family to come home to. Sure, a host family provides a room and meals, but it is the comfort that I have felt while living with them that truly makes them a family. My host family has been nothing but amazing since I arrived, two weeks into my Paris stay and slightly jaded from the home stay process. Perhaps some of my fondest memories of Paris are from experiences we’ve shared together.

Since I had arrived, my host father had often told me the best way to see Paris was by car and that he intended to take me for a drive. After a couple weeks had passed, I assumed that, with his long work hours, it just wasn’t going to happen. So, imagine my surprise when he asked me the following Monday if I was free that evening. We hopped in the car around ten p.m. (the usual hour we finish eating dinner); what followed was indescribable. I had seen Midnight in Paris this summer and found it, although charming, not without its cheesy clichés. However, when my host father turned on a classical radio station and we crossed over the Pont Neuf, one of my favorite bridges, I felt instantly transported to another time. In Midnight in Paris, Owen Wilson’s character says there is nothing better than Paris in the rain. Well, I would counter that by saying everything is illuminated when you are in Paris by night. Traveling by car allowed me to see things I had never had access to by metro. When we arrived at a neighborhood I hadn’t seen much of before, he insisted we get out and walk around by foot. Passing through chic quarters like the 16^th arrondisement, he would point out the best restaurants (ones I will probably never afford) or tell me a historical significance behind a sign or a fountain. Seeing Ile de la Cité’s Notre Dame glowing against the night sky was one of the highlights; equally interesting was climbing up the stairs to the Bibliotheque Francois Mitterand. It was a modern library made to look like open books, which reminded me, albeit subtly, of the University Library back in Evanston. Other than shared dinners, I had never spent much time with my host father; this drive proved to be an adventure that showed me another side of Paris, and a fun and goofy side of my host father.

My host mother Isabel, on the other hand, has given me the gift of conversation. Recently, she decided to go back to work, but this time, for an English company. In anticipation of the interview process, she had been working overtime to prepare. One of the ways she did this was to meet with a group of friends once a week to discuss the news in English over tea and cookies. When their English instructor cancelled for the day, she asked if I would like to take her place. I definitely got a kick out of correcting other people’s grammar, especially since my host mother does it all the time to me. It made me realize how awkward I sound when I use the wrong verb tenses or pronouns in French. Of course, Isabel landed the job, so we don’t spend as much time around the house together as before. However, she said if I ever want to strike up a conversation just to practice French—a luxury I’ll never have when I get home—to just let her know.

Since Constance and Pierre-Louis are the same age as my siblings back home, it sometimes feels like they are my actual sister and brother. Since they are busy with school, Scouts, and work, we often come together over dinner. Dinner conversations are often rushed, despite the many courses Isabel somehow finds time to make. It is not clear how we plow through bread, pate, salad, meat, any number of sides, cheese, fruit and the odd desert in about an hour’s time. In all this, Pierre-Louis and Constance manage to fully debrief about their days, create several inside jokes and make passive-aggressive attempts to be rude at the table. Their dad and I find it hilarious, while Isabel, who considers manners of the utmost importance, is horrified. I try to solace her with the fact that my brother often leaves in the middle of dinner to get back to his video games, only realizing halfway through how much I am perpetuating the American stereotype.

As we finish up dinner, Pierre-Louis puts on some music, often an American band, or shows me a funny video. It’s surprising to me how much overlaps between American and French culture, or at least the extent of what is remade. He talked about a series with a dog named Dingo for about ten minutes until I realized he meant Goofy, the Disney character. Apparently, the word “dingue” in French means silly, so the name change makes more sense to French viewers. Another time, the family laughed for what seemed like forever about a character named Fifi Brindacier; I only joined in after the video revealed a girl with orange braided pigtails- our beloved Pippi Longstocking.

Needless to say, it was strange playing house all by myself while they were gone. While I did perfect my omelet recipe and feel free to blast my music for once, I eagerly awaited their return the following Sunday. When they did walk through the door, I felt they had missed me a little too. We reunited with the typical bise (double-cheeked kiss). I could see that leaving in December will be harder than I first expected.