This week is reading week for two of my courses. That means that while most of my classes are cancelled so that I can work on my essays, I get to laze around, eating English Breakfast at 10:30 am and watching episodes of absolutely brilliant British television. However, the extra time, while allowing me to be quite lazier than usual, also allows more time for deep introspective thought. And we all know how dangerous introspective thought can be.

I've been feeling many different things since my return from Paris this past Sunday night. These feelings come over me in a heat, and, as a fever, break and drift away into the coolness of the British night. Feelings of home, of hate, and of hypocrisy.

I've begun to discriminate against other Americans. Not all of them, mind you. All of you back home are beautiful--I love you and miss you dearly. Even a few of them here at Middlesex are amazing. However, it is that brand of American that is far too common here that disturbs me. They are like pack animals, grazing upon the culture of a certain European city, only to poop it out in a mutilated form that somehow only Americans can manage. The top layer, the blades of tourist cites and stereotypes, that is their nourishment. They trample from London to Paris, knowing nothing about the culture beforehand and, through their method of pre-selected munching, come out knowing only slightly more. Perhaps this is perpetuated through the likes of British tour guides who cannot even pronounce the names of famous french foods. All I know is that, when traveling by myself, meeting up with various people for moments along the way, I am less loud, less obnoxious, and more open to learning true culture from those who live in it. It's all about context. Although these other young American students, most likely very similar to myself, are exploring a foreign country, they are doing so with herds of other Americans. The scenery changes, but does the context of culture truly change if you surround yourself only with the ideas of your home country?

I had a couple of ideas upon coming here to Europe. These ideas were by no means premeditated, but I'm trying my best to stay true to them regardless. First of all, I want to be myself. I want to be spontaneous, to have a good time. I dont want to be the Elise that people back home, many of which have known me for years, expect me to be. I want to be the Elise that doesn't have to worry about what people will think of her. So far, that has led me to being quite free, happy, and socially healthy. A close friend back home, one of the most astute people I have ever met, was able to perceive this change in me through my silly set of Facebook pictures. Second, I want to meet new people. By new people, I mean people not from the United States. If I had wanted to hang out with Americans and travel with Americans, I could've studied somewhere in America. I am here in Europe, surrounded by different peoples from many different countries and continents--those are the people I want to be friends with. I want there to be a whole slew of friends that I will miss when I return. I want to miss them as much as I miss my people back home right now.

But where does Paris fit into all of this? Ah! Paris, the beautiful city of lights! I've studied French culture for such a long time, in the scale of my short life. The Eiffel Tower was so much larger than I had expected, the Arc du Triomphe so much plainer than I had imagined, the Seine so much dirtier than I could have ever hoped. Seeing the Louvre and Notre Dame in real life for a change was fabulous. Being up on the top of Montparnasse was simultaneously embarrassing and breath-taking. The French were nicer than any stereotype could ever allow them to be and their pastries more delicious than any American or British recreation. That weekend in Paris wasn't about running past the Mona Lisa in order to catch a train to Versailles. It was about eating Chouquettes in a Parisian's flat with a view of the Eiffel Tower and eating steak tartare just to prove that I could be adventurous. Instead of squeezing through crowds to climb the Eiffel Tower, I squeezed through crowded mètro stations and No. 1 trains and missing stops. Getting lost in Montmartre, munching on a sausage and cheese crêpe, looking for a cemetery that I couldn't even get in to. Picking up a copy of "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" in french ("Le Guide du Voyageur Galactique") after stumbling accidentally (and completely frustrated) into a mall that exists under the Louvre. Paris on Valentines Day was, apart from the hoards of American couples doing the clichéd-yet-romantic thing, refreshing. There were no pink heart-shaped lights on the Eiffel Tower, no pink croissants. It was merely Paris on a Sunday.

But it was on that Eurostar ride home that I felt it. Night had fallen and we had been soaring through England's countryside for nearly half an hour, but as the train slowed down and I saw the towering glass buildings of London once again, I had that gurgle in my stomach. You know that feeling, I'm sure of it. It's that feeling of "I'm home!" that you get when your plane lands on the tarmac of your home town. It was that same feeling I felt this summer, landing amongst the concrete jungle of Los Angeles after a 10 hour flight from the very city I'm living in right now. But, how can my "home away from home" be a "home sweet home"? I love California dearly, yet I know that when the time comes, I will be torn to bits at having to leave London, my new home. My roots (perhaps egged-on by the rain) are growing deeper than I would have imagined at this point. I want to live here. I want a flat here. I want to curl up in this culture, in this huge city full of unsavory characters and lovely human beings. I thought that the magic of London had dissipated, but perhaps it has merely shown its true form as something more real, more tangible.

Or perhaps it's merely the enlightenment that comes with finally naming a chronic condition. It is true, I am indeed an Anglophile!