Is There a Word for Homesick When the Place You Miss Isn't Home?
Bertrand suggested "Theresick", but after all, the United States were home for five years, whether I liked it or not, so homesick probably applies.
I've been dealing fairly well with the move, I think, and keeping myself busy enough on this side of the ocean that I don't miss California much (even when I'm told about fabulous dancing events or the weather, which, in any case, is unusually cold these days). I haven't cried since I took the plane who brought me back to Europe. I've been having a fantastic time here with friends or family, and a visit of my future lab and city has comforted me in the idea that the decision to come back was a good one and there are many more fantastic times to come.
There has been a weekend, when the three other ladies to graduate from my department the same year as I[1] went back to campus at the same time for a little reunion. It was hard not to feel nostalgic when seeing the pictures; it was hard to know it isn't going to be easy to see all these people again, especially together. That stung, but emails were exchanged and phone calls were given, and this left place to the warm feeling of having some good people in my life, even from six thousand miles away.
And then Thanksgiving came around. Thanksgiving came around and I didn't get to start making dinner plans one or two weeks ahead. Thanksgiving came around and I didn't get to go to the pub after lab on Wednesday. Thanksgiving came around and I didn't get to spend Wednesday evening in the kitchen with one or two other cooks and classic rock music blasting through the speakers. Thanksgiving came around and I didn't get to sleep in on Thursday morning (well, actually, yes, I did, because I can pretty much sleep in 5 days a week these days). Thanksgiving came around and I didn't get to drink eggnog with the roommates at 11am. Thanksgiving came around and I didn't get to gather with friends around 3pm, carrying furniture around and setting up a table of 8, 12, or 16. Thanksgiving came around and I didn't get to sample my world-renowned pomegranate sangria, eat too much delicious food, drink too much good wine with friends. Thanksgiving came around and I didn't get to play cards, sing songs, nor pretend to watch (American) football on TV. Thanksgiving came around and I didn't get to walk home with plastic boxes of left overs.
Instead, Thanksgiving came around and, while my Facebook news feed was getting filled with stories of pies being ready and tables being too small, I got to pack my suitcase again, attend a(n admittedly rather good) talk[2], run to catch a train at the very last second, arrive home at almost 11pm under the snow, and be rather rudely reminded that I'm still single and not getting any younger. Not that I really worry about it, given that I'd rather be stoned to death than wish for un mari, sainte Catherine, un bon, sainte Catherine ; mais plutôt un que pas du tout[3], but, still.
And once I arrived home, my mom had baked some sweet potatoes with ginger and lemon. Which goes to prove that sweet potatoes are a staple of the season, but nevertheless put a huge grin on my face.
