California Bound

I knew this day would come.

I knew this day would come the moment that I started packing in my living room in Murrieta. When I unpacked in Bristol it was inevitable that the reverse process would take place sooner rather than later. And here I am, 142 days later (a bit shorter than I had initially anticipated), surrounded by a semester's worth of memories, ticket stubs and clothes.

If I am being completely frank, packing is something that I am not too keen about. Packing signifies change. And change can be painful. I've been journaling every day this past week - trying to make sense of my semester abroad. When I re-read those entries I find that they take the form of a free - write: my thoughts bouncing back and forth sometimes without rhyme or reason. I dwell on the calf - building treck I had into town, and that sparks a thought of all the walking I did in Italy, which jogs my memory of all the delicious foods I ate, notably Parisian crepes and Italian pasta.

I have grown in more ways than one. I would like to think that it's the same 'ol Nicolette coming back to California but going abroad changes a person. I don't know quite how to articulate this all. For starters I have made a home (and life) for myself in England. But I recognize that I also have a home (and life) in California. How do I reconcile with this dual sense of belonging?

While I am certainly anxious to see my family, hug my friends from school and eat Wheat Thins by the fistful, there is going to be a hole in my life once I leave England. I hope that I don't come across as being ungrateful for what I have in the states because that is certainly not the case. I wish that you could be here with me in England to see this all first hand because then maybe you'd be able to understand.

I know that I have taken pictures galore and journaled to the best of my ability each and every experience that I encountered, but I am still concerned that with time I will somehow forget the details of this adventure. The taste of my morning tea or the laugh of my British friends... these are the little things that I am concerned that I have not captured well enough. Maybe it is just a part of life that our memory prevents us from locking away for eternity each and every laugh and taste and smell. It was this anticipated fear that encouraged me to embrace every day in the UK to the best of my ability. I can write with confidence that I have made the most of each day.

As I sit on my floor with my suit case open, hungry for my belongings, I wish that my mom was here to help me pack. I called tonight for a cab to pick me up and take me to the bus station tomorrow. There was no way in hell that I was going to lug my giant suitcases to the station... From the bus station I'll be just 2 hours away from Heathrow airport and 12 hours from LAX.

The inevitable goodbye is bittersweet. England was good to me and good for me. I will most certainly be back.

But maybe home is where the heart is.