(In case you didn't know, the title of this post is a wink towards my France blog.)
I say over and over that all I want in my life is to explore as many places in this world as I can, unfazed by distances, language barriers, and culture shock. I also say that I'm not one to get homesick, and I've made the argument that I feel most at home in places I've never been to, new places for me to explore.
While this is true, I can't help but feel a deep connection to two countries outside the USA. If you know even the most surface facts about me, you ought to know that these countries are the Philippines and France. While I will have the same love for any country I set foot in, fueled by my unendingly adventurous spirit, these two places will always hold special meaning to me.
But why? Is it supposed to mean anything that I spent most of my life in the Philippines? Is it supposed to mean anything that my dream of living in France became true two years ago over the span of ten months? I've only lived for nineteen years; who knows where I may find myself in the future. There may be another place on this planet I don't yet know that will mean more to me than any of the aforementioned places.
As much as I'd like to think I'm capable of being a veritable citizen of the world, I think it's only human to want to belong to something particular, and share that sense of belonging with other people. It somehow helps us come to terms with our own existence, being aware of what we have experienced and knowing that we aren't alone, no matter how far away we wander.
I knew I wanted to write an entry about this thanks to two recent events that have occurred, where I was reminded of both the Philippines and France.
One: My birth country
One rather chilly evening when the sun hadn't completely set, I was heading back to my dorm room with the intention of watching the newest South Park episode and working on a paper. On the way, I was suddenly stopped by some tourists, which was nothing new. But then one of the three asked, "Do you know where we can find a sign of Harvard University?" with a very strong Filipino accent.
Among my friends I'm known not to answer questions directly. So I replied with a question.
"Are you Filipino?"
The man who had asked replied yes.
I told them, "Me too!" in Tagalog. They were very surprised to have run into me, and I offered to take them to the John Harvard statue (where there is always a crowd of tourists gathered, and where I always avoid passing thanks to said tourists blocking my way to class). I chatted with them in my not-so-perfect Tagalog, because their English was rather limited. They were very entertained, though, and quite excited to have a Filipino tour guide.
After pictures at the statue, they asked if I had things to do, or if I'd like to accompany them. I did have things to do, but I decided that my homework would always be there, and a chance to prolong this encounter with people from a faraway land would be gone within moments. It wasn't just any faraway land, either.
I ended up spending more time with them than anticipated, and they were all in awe of how I left the country we all know well in order to move across the Pacific and eventually find myself in the world's most well-known university. It turns out that they were part of the crew of a cargo ship that left the Philippines nine months ago and had been sailing around various ports since; two weeks prior to arriving in Boston, they had left Chile. I suppose they never would have expected such kind treatment from somebody like a Harvard student, but my only remark for them was that that was the only way I would treat my countrymen.
They appreciated my company so much, they bought me a scarf and an iced tea. They really didn't have to. Out of some coincidence, each of them came from the three regions of the Philippines, which I found delightful. I bade them farewell, after them telling me that they truly appreciated how nice I was and that I had a big heart.
It was honestly a nice reminder of the first country I ever came to know, the one in which I discovered the act of traveling. Though I no longer live in the Philippines as somebody who's only called the Philippines home, the beautiful island country will always be an inalienable part of my being. I will always be proud to say that it's where I grew up, and I will always be happy to return there.
I miss France.
I miss the life I led there, I miss the cultural customs, I miss the people. I miss my neon yellow and orange little bike that I took to school, I miss hearing French being spoken all around me.
In comparison to the Philippines and how I indisputably know that it's where I spent most of my life, at times I have a hard time believing that the year I spent in France wasn't a dream. It's been two years since I lived it; sometimes it feels like only yesterday, sometimes it feels like it never happened at all. Often, snippets of memories replay in my head, memories that are sometimes too good to believe that I once lived them. Too good to believe that there was a time in my life that truly happened in order for these fantastic memories to be created. Whenever I speak French here, it doesn't feel the same. I love it just as much, though not being in a place where it's the language spoken by everyone certainly makes a difference. Whenever I pass by tourists here and hear them speaking French, my (supposedly big) heart feels a sharp sensation of longing. I daydream endlessly of what it would be like to return to France and what kind of unnameable sensations I would feel from doing so.
Ever since I moved to Cambridge I was hoping to meet some French international students. No such luck.
Well, no such luck until Tuesday night.
The freshman dining hall has these weekly "language tables," in which everybody sitting in each table has to speak a particular language. A friend of mine invited me to accompany her to the French language table, so I gladly obliged. Disregarding the fact that my German teacher the next table over was glaring at me as if I had betrayed him, I was glad to take a seat.
Across this very beautiful boy.
We greeted each other in French, and I asked if he was French.
Yes, he was.
I felt my heart beat just a bit more strongly. It had been way too long since I spoke with a French boy. Did they even actually exist anymore?
Except he wasn't really a "boy," he was 23 and already had two diplomas and a masters from the Ecole Normale Supérieure of Paris. He's here for the school year teaching a French class.
Anyway, he was indeed from Paris, and when I asked where, he replied "Montparnasse."
Wow, Montparnasse. Of all the places in Paris he could have been from, he was from the arrondissement that happens to house the Paris train station I frequented most often when I made trips there with the TGV from Poitiers. I told him excitedly, "I got to know that train station really well!" and he chuckled, "Well, me too."
The more I talked to him, the more typical French boy I found him to be, and it almost felt as though I had returned to France, speaking about it in such a way as we did. In a strange way, it served as proof that the France I knew continues to exist. It's just there, eagerly waiting for me to return to all the things and people there that I loved.
In essence, speaking with the French boy revived a part of my heart I had forgotten existed, a part that started beating again briefly that night. A part I hope to feel beating more strongly when I return to the country I love so much, more strongly than it was beating when I first lived in France.
What even is the point of all this, though? What's the point of feeling such strong attachment? I suppose it all equates to finding happiness in the smallest of incidents, but more importantly, finding happiness in other people and reciprocating that happiness, no matter how briefly I may know them. I like to believe that everybody we come into contact with has a purpose in our lives, whether it be as trivial as a smile to make the day a little less gloomy, or for something as major as changing the course of our lives entirely. And there's no better way to meet the vast array of people humanity has to offer than to travel all throughout the globe.
Here's to more travels, and to more people, and to more surprises along the way.
It was honestly a nice reminder of the first country I ever came to know, the one in which I discovered the act of traveling. Though I no longer live in the Philippines as somebody who's only called the Philippines home, the beautiful island country will always be an inalienable part of my being. I will always be proud to say that it's where I grew up, and I will always be happy to return there.
Two: The country of which I used to dream
I miss France.
I miss the life I led there, I miss the cultural customs, I miss the people. I miss my neon yellow and orange little bike that I took to school, I miss hearing French being spoken all around me.
In comparison to the Philippines and how I indisputably know that it's where I spent most of my life, at times I have a hard time believing that the year I spent in France wasn't a dream. It's been two years since I lived it; sometimes it feels like only yesterday, sometimes it feels like it never happened at all. Often, snippets of memories replay in my head, memories that are sometimes too good to believe that I once lived them. Too good to believe that there was a time in my life that truly happened in order for these fantastic memories to be created. Whenever I speak French here, it doesn't feel the same. I love it just as much, though not being in a place where it's the language spoken by everyone certainly makes a difference. Whenever I pass by tourists here and hear them speaking French, my (supposedly big) heart feels a sharp sensation of longing. I daydream endlessly of what it would be like to return to France and what kind of unnameable sensations I would feel from doing so.
Ever since I moved to Cambridge I was hoping to meet some French international students. No such luck.
Well, no such luck until Tuesday night.
The freshman dining hall has these weekly "language tables," in which everybody sitting in each table has to speak a particular language. A friend of mine invited me to accompany her to the French language table, so I gladly obliged. Disregarding the fact that my German teacher the next table over was glaring at me as if I had betrayed him, I was glad to take a seat.
Across this very beautiful boy.
We greeted each other in French, and I asked if he was French.
Yes, he was.
I felt my heart beat just a bit more strongly. It had been way too long since I spoke with a French boy. Did they even actually exist anymore?
Except he wasn't really a "boy," he was 23 and already had two diplomas and a masters from the Ecole Normale Supérieure of Paris. He's here for the school year teaching a French class.
Anyway, he was indeed from Paris, and when I asked where, he replied "Montparnasse."
Wow, Montparnasse. Of all the places in Paris he could have been from, he was from the arrondissement that happens to house the Paris train station I frequented most often when I made trips there with the TGV from Poitiers. I told him excitedly, "I got to know that train station really well!" and he chuckled, "Well, me too."
The more I talked to him, the more typical French boy I found him to be, and it almost felt as though I had returned to France, speaking about it in such a way as we did. In a strange way, it served as proof that the France I knew continues to exist. It's just there, eagerly waiting for me to return to all the things and people there that I loved.
In essence, speaking with the French boy revived a part of my heart I had forgotten existed, a part that started beating again briefly that night. A part I hope to feel beating more strongly when I return to the country I love so much, more strongly than it was beating when I first lived in France.
What even is the point of all this, though? What's the point of feeling such strong attachment? I suppose it all equates to finding happiness in the smallest of incidents, but more importantly, finding happiness in other people and reciprocating that happiness, no matter how briefly I may know them. I like to believe that everybody we come into contact with has a purpose in our lives, whether it be as trivial as a smile to make the day a little less gloomy, or for something as major as changing the course of our lives entirely. And there's no better way to meet the vast array of people humanity has to offer than to travel all throughout the globe.
Here's to more travels, and to more people, and to more surprises along the way.
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