Week 4/5

WORD OF THE DAY: grignoter-to snack

First of all, I apologize for not uploading a blog last week; I usually upload over the weekend but I got sick in Barcelona and went to bed early when I got back to Paris on Sunday.

I could talk about many things today. I could talk about how my classes are going, my recent weekend trip to Barcelona, or what’s going on in Paris. Instead, I’d like to talk about the future, that is, when I eventually go home and start my final year at Skidmore.

As much work as I have here in Paris, I still don’t really feel like I’m in school. Junior year has been my working gap-year; a year to finish some requirements for my major and minor, but mainly a year to travel and broaden my horizons. I’ve had so many wonderful experiences in the past six or so months of travel, and many horrible ones as well. However cheesy it may sound, I still wouldn’t have done most of them any other way.

I still dearly miss Skidmore though. It feels weird and uncomfortable to say it, but at this point, I’m starting to struggle to remember a lot of things about my school. I don’t remember what it’s like to trudge through snow banks in well-below freezing temperatures, only to reach your class and need to shed all your layers as quickly as possible because the change in temperature from outside to inside is so drastic it’s making your skin sting. I don’t remember planning your meals around when your friends are free and, if they’re not, searching for one of the high tables by the windows of D-hall because you don’t want anyone to see you eating alone.

I can’t remember what Broadway Street looks like. I can’t remember the last time I went into Saratoga, nor can I remember what I did when I was there. I think I’m even starting to forget some of my friends’ voices.

What do I remember? I remember waking up for work in complete darkness at 6am in the middle of winter, and listening to country music on my phone as I drag myself to the pool for my 7am shift, clutching my cinnamon pop tart and a thermos filled to the brim with Death Wish coffee. I remember the rising sun illuminating the mountains of snow in brilliant shades of pink just for me, the only one awake.

I remember the hair-raising panic of waiting for Saratoga Taxi to decide it feels like taking me to the barn for my riding lesson, and complaining loudly with sympathetic riders who suffered through the same before they had cars on campus. I remember the damp smell of hay and horse-hair, and the gentle clopping sound of hooves and horse snorts. I remember the anxiety of waiting to canter, and the exhilaration that comes with actually cantering. I remember sweet Sophie, the horse, and how excited and impatient she’d get once I showed her the apple I’d brought her after our rides.

I remember singing in VCE with my friends. I remember long nights of rehearsals, and the thrill of singing a beautiful piece of music. I remember sore feet from standing up for three hour-long concerts, and I remember watching ourselves on the livestream once the concert was over. I remember the excitement of learning a new piece, and the satisfaction I’d get when Katie, the choir director, would give us a piece that I knew already. I remember how much I miss singing.

I remember my friends. I may not remember what some of them sound like, but I remember their cats, their knitting, their music, their art, their horses, and their sports. I remember just how much I miss them.

I remember the important things; they’re the reasons I so dearly look forward to returning to Skidmore, a wiser and more well-rounded person, and making some new memories.

À bientôt,

Elizabeth

 

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