Slowly they’re all trickling back, those friends of mine that lived over seas. Yesterday I skyped one who ended up being home. Here’s how it went with the little sneak…
“Z! Can’t believe I’m finally speaking to you, what are you doing? How are you?” What is happening in your Parisian life while I live out my Melbourne one, 16,550km from you.
“I’m good. Just eating breakfast after I raided all the cupboards. Chia seeds and avocado.”
And I thought that was a little strange. Breakfast when it’s meant to be night time in Paris? Maybe she’s cleaning out her cupboards already, ready for her return in December. But anything goes when you’re living away from everyone else, when you’re wanting to come home and are ready to come home.
Later I asked, “So what time is it there?”
But that’s the same time as here? It must be PM. Since when was Paris 12 hours behind? I feel really out of the whole time-country-conversion thing. Now I live with one time; it’s here and now and it seems I must have converted, already.
“WHAT? Where are you? You’re in Paris right?”
“No I’m here. I’ve been here for a few hours already. I got home last night”.
My reaction won’t be put into words, but it spilled out of any adjective you can use to describe my surprise. So I’m here, and some of them are still there. They hold my secrets and I hold theirs, and I’ve felt a little restrained knowing they still hold onto them. It’s all changing one arrival at a time though.