BACK HOME IN LILLE

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So here we go. A new school year, a new blog. Well, not new, but more of a reprise après une longue pause, if you will.

It was certainly no picnic getting all of my things from the Brussels airport to the Brussels-Midi station to the Lille-Europe station. Though I was grateful to have the big suitcase so that I could bring everything I needed at once instead of having things sent over, it definitely isn’t the easiest thing to maneuver. Chelsea, a friend of mine, and I decided to name my suitcases. The big, ugly suitcase with the grandmother’s couch green floral pattern on it was dubbed Marge. The smaller, black American Airlines suitcase became Bessie. Finally, my fading leather duffel was named Frank.

Anyway. Rewind.

When I finally got onto the train heading for Lille, I had an overwhelming wave of emotion rush over me. As the less-than-beautiful industrial area surrounding Lille came into sight, I took a deep breath. A teardrop actually broke away from the salty, warm pool that was struggling to hold together as it filled the bottom rim of my eyelid. The Castorama building came into sight, nondescript and unimpressive as always with its unevenly weathered dull yellow letters, but I knew I was home. And then, before I knew it, I was stepping out onto the train platform (number 44, if you are interested), and I was home.

I stepped outside the station and was greeted by a rush of familiar sounds: the SNCF’s little announcement tones, the same woman announcing arriving and departing trains and platforms, the clicks and shuffles and pat-pats and clop-clops of people moving though the station, and the glorious French language being spoken all around me.

I hadn’t a clue where I was going. I knew that I had a few hours to wait until I could go to my friends’ house, where I was to stay until I could find my own place. So I decided to do the only thing that made sense to me at the time: go to the nearest boulangerie, buy a baguette, and go sit and people-watch. And did I. I went to a small boulangerie near the train station and was almost overwhelmed by the familiar (and almost filling) aromas of baking bread, pains au chocolat, mini apple tarts… Mmm. I bought a baguette, which the teeny French woman in a baking hat handed to me with a smile (reminding me of just how friendly people in le Nord - or el Ch’Nord in Ch’ti, the local dialect - can be) and crossed back over to the train station.

I spent the next few hours eating my baguette slowly, tearing off small piece by small piece. How I had missed the famous French baguette and what a total sensory experience it is. A thin, crackly-crispy, perfectly golden-brown crust gives way under a little pressure to the soft, light, airy (and, in my case, still warm) dough inside. The moment the inside of the bread is exposed to the outside air, the wonderful aroma intensifies tenfold; it is as though the bread is still baking. I don’t know how they do it, but baguettes are so light and airy inside while maintaining such a fresh and intense, filling taste… and somehow it is entirely possible to eat a whole one without feeling overwhelmingly full.

Sorry, I got distracted. Anyway, I people-watched while I ate my baguette. I love train stations - you can see all kinds of people there. There are businessmen that live and die by the ticking of their watches, people like me who had just come to people-watch without a particular agenda or rhythm; there are people who are alone and herds of people; there are people old and young, running and sauntering; there are people for whom coming in and out of this train station has become such a routine that they have an almost vacant, unimpressed look about them as they walk, and then there are those for whom it is obviously their first time in Gare Lille Europe… you can spot them even without hearing them speak or without spotting a map in their hand by the look in their eye - it is a combination of that wide-eyed, completely non-judgmental look that babies have in their eyes as they just soak in the new world around them as input that they are not even processing yet and then a slight look of confusion and feeling lost, anxious, and overwhelmed.

When I finally got a phone call from my friends, I met them at their apartment, unloaded my things, and we talked for hours over first a grande crème (that’s a double espresso with hot - and sometimes slightly steamed - milk) and then a few Belgian beers. It was so nice talking with my friends. Although we had only spoken a few times during the summer, we picked up as though we had never left off, which is a really nice feeling… not to mention the fact that I got to have both of my favorite and most missed beverages the very first night I arrived.

The next morning, I woke up, had another grande crème, and headed out into the city with my headphones on. As I wandered the familiar streets, I was overwhelmed - it was as though I had never left. I saw so many people - most I didn’t know, some I recognized, and some I knew. I walked around for a good seven hours, stopping occasionally to sit on a bench or a stone to watch people go by and write in my journal. When I came home that evening, I was exhausted but incredibly happy. Despite not having a clue where I would actually physically be living, I was home again.

I am home again.

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Comments

[Daria]

He was wrong!
You CAN go home again! It almost brought a tear to my eye just reading your emotion. Happy to hear you are there. I send my love and look forward to your sights, sounds, and smells of France.