Back in Burgundy

I have always loved Burgundy, France. It is hard not to love a place that smells of pure life, is beyond picturesque, and produces some of the world's best wines. But to me Burgund means even more. I spent an entire year of my life here, and while it may not have been cupcakes and rainbows, it was a wonderful year. That being said, as my train from Montbeliard to Dijon slowly came to a halt in the station, I was overjoyed.

That morning Miles and I had taken the same train from Strasbourg to Montbeliard and finally to Dijon. Miles had just finished a semester abroad in Russia, where he met some students that live in Dijon. He was on his way to meet them, which was perfect because I really hate traveling on the French trains by myself. Miles and I spent several hours alternating between stories of France and Japan and stories of Russia. The normally long train ride passed quickly and I really had to give him credit for listening to me go on and on about how excited I was to see the R's.

But as that train slowed down on approach to Burgundy, I started tearing up a little bit. I think everyone can understand what it feels like to head back home. Whether it be after a long semester at college or a weekend trip down the coast. Although I never really felt like France and I were two peas in a pod, and that my lifestyle tended to clash with the lifestyle of France, I now realize that I have overcome that. I left a little piece of my heart behind in France, and being back in Burgundy helped me to find it again.

Of course that is not to say that life in France is any easier. I learned within 2 minutes of arrival in Burgundy. I got out of the train and headed to the old bus stop where I would take the same bus line back to Burgundy. When I noticed that Dijon was under massive construction, due in part to a new tram being built, I became nervous that the bus lines had perhaps changed. I walked up to the nearest French women with my bus schedule in hand and asked her in my very best French if the bus still stopped at this station. She told me probably not and then said that if I was planning on making th ebus, I would have to sprint to the next stop about a kilometer down the road. So that's what I did.

Long story short, I missed to bus to Fixin. It turned out to be one of those surreal moments everyone dreads, when your sprinting lightening speed down the street wheeling along a bag with a dead weight of a Sumo wrestler screaming in Franglish, "Attendez-vous! Je besoin ce bus!" The bus pulls away when you are finally at the bus stop. As I waited an additional hour for the next bus, I started a conversation with a women next to me, who informed me that the bus did in fact leave from the previous station that I had waited at. Instead of feeling like France was out to get me, like I did in the old days, I just stared out and smiled.

I was home and nothing had changed.