I miss france like i miss a lover

I miss France like I miss a lover. Her lingering smell on my clothes. The longing for her kiss and her embrace. 

I drive by cafes in my town and catch glimpses of her. Oh- that place gives me the vague feeling of Europe. The chairs. They had those kind of outside cafe chairs in Paris. It looks more European than American. It touches the longing in me. 

I forget all about the things that I didn’t like and were ready to leave behind before I left, like the constant cigarette smoke, like you do with a lover in her absence. Only enough space in your romantic remembering for the things that brought you delight, instead of the full picture, because everyone is human, and you won’t like everything about someone. 

Someone was smoking cigarettes at a party I was at recently, and I was instantly comforted. I told him, I am so happy you are smoking right now because it is reminding me of France. And he laughed. He said that was probably the best response anyone has ever had to him smoking a cigarette. 

I asked him for one. I don’t smoke cigarettes. But I just wanted to pretend. Feel Parisian again for a moment, even if fleeting. 

I went to this French restaurant in my town, alone for lunch, like I would often do when I was traveling solo. As I walked in, the hostess asked me if I wanted the wine list; I said yes, even though I knew I wasn’t going to get any. Because it was so European for her to give me a wine list with lunch, and I could not say no to that. 

I sat down and perused the menu. Observed the hum and click of the restaurant and how rushed it was. Not like how it would be in France. My waitress forgot about my table for some time, and when she remembered, she rushed over and offered her apologies. I told her to not worry about it because she gave me more of an authentic French experience - one where I have a lot of time before the waiter decides to come over to you. 

Things are just different here. So different, and I am not at peace with this difference. I don’t want to be yet. I am enjoying my longing. 

I do my French lessons, and I feel my tongue move in ways she never has before. I feel the French me, emerging, how you always kind of find a different flavor to your voice whichever language you speak. 

I’m hungry for the intimacy of somewhere else. I let myself drift into the dream of exploring coasts far away from me now. I wander into memories and daydreams, and I write them all down.

I let myself play with parallel dimensions. Who is the French me, and what is she doing now? 

I consider dimension hopping. 

I miss France like I miss a lover. Calling her up through each moment of remembrance as if it say: Ma chérie, I can’t forget you. I can’t forget the lingering taste of you last on my lips.