'cause it's gonna be hot in my big silver pot!

Then again, maybe Nice wasn’t the existential vortex of self-doubt that I initially thought. Maybe it just reminded me of something familiar – something that felt, in a distant way, like home.

The wonderful thing about foreign travel is that it – through sudden immersion – forces you to reflect upon your own culture and comforts, and the things that keep you afloat – the things that keep you dry and smiling, though you be at times in a dark and drifting sea. But it also makes you painfully aware of how distant these things now are.

It has been almost a month-and-a-half since I’ve seen a movie. I shake at night – or after a long, exhausting day. I am, at times, nonsensical. And it doesn’t help that I’ve gone from Italy now to France - the land of Francois Truffaut and Jean-Luc Godard; of Renoir, Besson and Tati. Some of my favorite films of all time – My Life to Live, Breathless, Day For Night – are French, as are some of my favorite characters in film – the French chef, anyone? I miss throwing on a movie whenever, or going over and sharing my comfort with friends.

But I also miss the reliability of food, and my own language. I miss showers with curtains, and not doing laundry in a sink, and having something other than CNN to watch. I miss driving, and sitting at my coffee shop writing and staring at nothing. I miss not having to use a power adapter. I miss not carrying a backpack.

So maybe it was that Nice reminded me of California, which reminded me of the states and what I’ve grown familiar with these past four years in Houston. Or maybe my previous assessment still holds, and I’m just trying to justify it all. I don’t know.

One thing is certain: when I get back, I’m having a burger and watching a movie. And speaking English – a lot of English.