I am thankful for the world of opportunity that I’ve been given. I am thankful for the people I’ve met and the history I’ve seen. I am thankful for home, too.
France, obviously, does not do Thanksgiving. The fact that the IAU tried was lovely – we ate strange turkey (we think?) and stuffing and green beans and mashed potatoes and drank pumpkin soup out of a straw from a cup – but the day was still a little off. We couldn’t wake up to the Thanksgiving parade. My favorite Ringing-In-The-Christmas-Season tradition, seeing Christmas commercials (we live in a consumerist society, people), didn’t flip on my internal switch for Christmas music. I haven’t listened to a single carol. Thanksgiving in the underground student lounge of an old French nunnery isn’t the first thing that pops into mind when you think of the holidays, but that’s where I was when all of America was carving new notches into their belts.
But Thanksgiving turned into something even more special. My friend’s host family agreed to do Thanksgiving, so my housemate and I were invited over for a semi-traditional meal. It still wasn’t quite the same – the turkey was chicken, there were appetizers and baguettes and cheese, and the only talk of politics was about France’s upcoming election rather than the post-election-fiasco I can look forward to witnessing in a few weeks’ time – but I was surrounded by friends who cared about me, eating a massive, somewhat familiar meal, feeling more at home in a stranger’s gated community than I have felt in a true, long while. It was a magical, unique experience and a Thanksgiving I’ll never forget.