48 Weeks, the French (and wishing I was one), and Library Lions

48 weeks we've been abroad. It sounds like an overdue pregnancy.  Next week, when we return to the states, it will be 49.

I have spent a good chunk of my life wishing I was the child of diplomats, so I could have one of those cool accents that's unplaceable as a result of living everywhere as well as a childhood full of passport stamps. When I wasn't lamenting my parents' career choices, I was wishing I was born to parents in France. I admit, I still wish this from time to time, like last week, when hiking Mt. Rinjani and we came upon several French families as well as a group of French women. All of them were beautiful; they had impeccable skin despite smoking and being out in the sun. Despite their even tans, they didn't have a wrinkle anywhere around their eyes or mouth. I am continually baffled about how they do this.   
          Kent offered that we could live in France to find out their secret, though he suspected it had something to do with how they bankrupt their country every twenty to forty years. I said, they go bankrupt because of their stellar health care and education, and personally, I'd prefer to live in a country that bankrupted itself for the sake of my quality of life. (Versus my country which bankrupts itself with its love of all things military.)
        Since Kent and I got married, we continued the fantasies about our parallel lives with wishes for years spent abroad as ex-patriots, and we have loved being ex-patriots.
        And yet, we are ready to go home. To the states I mean. The closest thing to home we have is a white Suburu Outback waiting for us in San Diego and a bunch of family members who are making up the beds in their guest bedrooms for our stay.

Our friends in Bali have fallen into two camps on our departure: the first thinks we're insane and predicts that before long we'll be back. The second asks if we're over it, and completely understands where we're coming from when we say yes, we're over it.

Probably both camps are right. Kent and I have admitted to each other that while we don't want to live in Bali, we do feel connected to it in a way, and far more connected to it than Singapore or Los Angeles - two places we spent far more time in than Bali. As we shop the wholesale markets for gifts, we again and again come back to the idea of starting an export business, design studio and store full of things we liked or that caught our eye. Now when people ask when we'll be back, Kent says we'll be back on buying trips. I say we'll be back when I've gotten my fill of Winter and Fall and wearing sweaters and trousers and boots and hats.
       
We've taken a break from figuring out where our home will be. Even as we both love San Francisco, we both admit to each other that we haven't locked in on it. It's almost as if we're waiting for something better or more "us" to show up. Part of me actually suspects that I will be packing my boxes for San Francisco and Kent will get an unbelievable offer for a gig in Shanghai out of left field. Or Amsterdam. I've also had moments of doubts, of waking up with a physical magnetic craving for the New York Public Library - not just for the inside of the library and the smell of the shelves and shelves of books, but seeing the lions out front. I have moments where I want nothing more than to take Fyo's picture with the library lions and have him roar when he sees one, the way he now mimics a rooster when he sees one walking down the road.

Anyway, we're packing, and ready for home, for half & half, for National Public Radio, for reliable internet, for thrift stores, for family and friends.