COS

Where to begin, where to begin? Currently, I find myself in the sun room of a country house in southwest France. A fire crackles nearby, a broken grandfather clock looms silently over my shoulder, and light streams in through the skylights during breaks in the rain. Two Herculean dogs patrol the yard, over which a blanket of maple leaves has fallen. The forest beyond is all shades of autumn. Everything is very.... still. A voice floats in from a far room in a lilting tone, sing-song-y and pleasant. What am I doing here? How did I get here?

Less than two weeks ago I was at Peace Corps HQ in Rabat, sitting in the verdant lawn, as the Ambassador, a U.S. Congressman and our Country Director gave short speeches. After several chaotic days of paperwork and frenzied last-minute activity, all was done, save for one final signature. The mood was cheerful all around as we gathered to write our names and "stamp out" in the Peace Corps COS book, the rite signifying twenty-seven months under the belt. Some headed out right away, off to places all over the world; some stayed the night in the city. I went with to dinner with a small group, said goodbyes at the hotel, turned in early and set the alarm.

The hotel desk guy assured me that a cab to the airport would be available at 4 AM. The "taxi" driver, as I might have predicted, was some friend of the hotel guy's who had brought his car over and planned to charge me two hundred dirhams for the ride. He was ready and waiting as I lugged my bags downstairs at ten till four, smiling politely as though nothing was amiss. I suppose in Morocco terms, nothing was. Just wanting to get there, I put up no fight and we headed off in the non-taxi. I arrived at the airport to find it dark and locked... a bit early, perhaps. The single security guard paid me little notice as I waited, sitting on my bags outside the front doors. It seemed as though no one else had planned to fly that day. After some time, however, car lights made their way down the road, and people lined up behind me. Airport employees sleepily marched in, and the lights flickered on.

The plane waiting on the tarmac in the purple light of dawn was picturesque (didn't take a picture :/), and I had butterflies realizing I'd be leaving Morocco for real this time-- that I was finally done. It was a quick trip to Paris; I sped right through customs and baggage, finding S waiting at Arrivals. After nearly two years, our time apart had finally come to an end.

Paris was a whirlwind. Every day was filled to the brim with activity. It was a surreal place-- the endless rows of Art Nouveau apartment buildings, and everything so old... like, really old. We walked and walked and walked, seeing all of the sights-- Louvre, Notre Dame, Eiffel Tower and so forth. I ate amounts of food that rivaled the most intense of homestay meals. My God. Such a beautiful city though, and accented well by the overcast skies and chilly weather during our stay.

Six days in Paris passed like a blink, and suddenly we were on a fast train headed south to the town of Dax. We were met at the station by S's host brother (she first lived in France with a family eleven years ago, and has remained close since) who drove us out to their house in the countryside. The family are wonderfully sweet people, very welcoming and generous with their home. It's quite the opposite of being in Paris; here there is no plan-- nothing to urgently do or see but enjoy the tranquility. And sauna. And jacuzzi. And food. I am spoiled already. Ahem, anyway...

That about brings us up to speed. We still have several days here before taking a night train back to Paris and flying out to Copenhagen. Alright, off to more epicurean delights!