The Final Countdown, or Lisi starts feeling nostalgic

I have three weeks left in Paris.

I’m at home here. I’m not sure when it happened, but I’ve gotten to the point that checking my map has become secondary. And it’s terribly, achingly bittersweet, knowing that I’ve got to say goodbye in less than a month.

After all, it is partly thrilling – I’ve missed all of you so much, and I cannot wait to settle back into lovely, chilly New England – but it is also terrifying, as I STILL HAVE SO MUCH TO SEE. There are hundreds and hundreds of side streets I haven’t stumbled upon yet, countless monuments and historical sites to discover, and yet instead of going out and exploring I’m stuck inside studying for finals for at least another week. Staying holed up in my bedroom is harder than you might think. Beyond all the temptations of drizzly but lovely Parisian streets just begging to be walked through, my host mom will knock on my door enticing me with some new cheese she’s just bought, or say, “We got you a pain au chocolat for breakfast!”, and every shred of concentration flies out the window. Oh, French food. I blame you for my so-so scholastic performance here.

I’m going to miss so much of this wonderful, complex city. I’ll miss the questionable color of the Seine and the exquisite lamp posts; the mix of Haussmann-style buildings and remnants of older, cramped medieval architecture. I’m going to miss the people who, time and time again, have disproved the snooty Parisian stereotype with gestures of true kindness. I’ll miss the graffiti in the metro tunnels and the cheesy advertising. I’ll miss speaking in French, the walk home to my apartment by Notre Dame & Berthillon ice cream, and the presence of at least one boulangerie on every other street. I’ll miss the museums. I’ll miss the long, winding walks and the unexpected, hidden parks. There’s a sort of thrumming magic to Paris, and God knows I’m going to miss it, too.

There’s so much I still have to do here, explore, tug out. But as awful as it is to stare at the assignments in my agenda written in red ink, sucking away my free time – it’s almost exhilarating, too. Complacence is not the way of Paris. This is a city meant for impassioned and proactive journeys, whether there’s time for them or not. And after all, the drizzle of Parisian rain never feels better than if you’re procrasti…I mean…exploring the city as it’s meant to be explored: with an oh-so-French joie de vivre.