From Mexico to Paris: Notes on Belonging

Exactly a month ago, I arrived in Paris with two heavy suitcases, a large backpack, and the kind of naive optimism that comes from stepping into a long-held dream. I live here, I thought to myself as the plane descended into the Charles de Gaulle Airport. Before leaving the terminal, I brushed my teeth, reapplied deodorant, and changed my shoes. I knew it would be a long day, and I wanted to look as presentable as one can after a sleepless overnight flight.

I took an Uber to a convenience store near Républic where I had booked storage for the day. After dropping off my bags, I headed across Canal Saint-Martin. I wanted to walk down my street, to see in person what I had been looking at on Google maps for weeks in anticipation.

Rue Arthur Groussier is a quiet little street in a residential part of the city. I looked up at the windows of my apartment building, wondering which were mine and hoping that my decision to secure an apartment before arriving would turn out to be the right one. If nothing else, the location–near the canal and Belleville–was right.

I made my way up the street to my friend’s coffee shop. Though we’d had two long chats over Zoom and many follow-ups for an article I wrote about her, we had never met in person. We greeted each other with hugs, and she prepared traditional Ethiopian coffee using a jebena and an open flame burner. The aroma of the freshly roasted beans and the communal sharing of the three rounds of coffee gave my day a much-needed pause. In Ethiopia, coffee ceremonies can last hours, a reminder to slow down and be fully engaged in the moment.

I carried that reminder with me as I ventured to the northern part of the city to pick up my Wi-Fi modem, received my keys, and completed a two-hour inventory of my apartment. I never imagined that an inventory of a small studio apartment could take so long, but perhaps this was my first real glimpse into life in France. Every detail of the apartment was meticulously documented, and we double-checked each other’s forms before signing off.

The next morning, the technician couldn’t connect the Wi-Fi. This felt like a crushing defeat, especially since my work depends on a reliable internet connection. Twice a week, I teach literature classes at 2 a.m., so I was deep into trying to come up with solutions when I learned that French cell phone plans include an inordinate amount of hotspot data. A month later, I still don’t have Wi-Fi, but it hasn’t been as disruptive as I feared.

Those first days now feel like a prelude for the month that followed. There have been many shared cups of coffee with friends, lots of exploring, and a growing appreciation for the small, quiet moments–mornings in my apartment, reading sessions in the park, glasses of wine on sunny terraces, and even writing this from the beautiful salle Ovale in the Bibliothèque nationale de France. The minor hiccups pale in comparison.

Even though Paris is familiar and I have friends here, the transition has been more difficult than I expected. I keep comparing it to Mexico City, and every time I try to speak French, Spanish slips out instead. To be fair, I don’t know much French yet, but when my brain shifts into “other language” mode, Spanish is still the default. There’s been a lot of “si, I mean oui” and “gracias, I mean merci.”

I miss Mexico–the people, the weather, the language, the food, the familiarity. But that’s to be expected. It will take time to establish that sense of belonging here. I’ve started setting up routines and am discovering favorite places in my neighborhood. Last week, a plaque with my last name was added to my mailbox. And just yesterday, a large box arrived from the U.S., and I once again have books on my shelf.

But a feeling of home has to be more than books on a shelf.

When I was a professor, I was always interested in the ideas of home and belonging. My research and the organizations I advised meant that I worked with a lot of international students, many of whom identified as third-culture kids, having spent most of their lives outside the culture of their parents. Their stories fascinated me. I loved learning how they made sense of their lives and how they defined home.

These are now concepts I struggle defining for myself. The Midwest is home, but every time I return, I feel more removed. Mexico feels like home, and while part of me longs to fully belong, I know I never quite will. Even Guatemala, where I only lived for about six months, feels like home in many ways. The more places I’ve called home, the harder it is to say I truly belong to any one of them. That’s the beauty and difficulty of a transient life. And unless you’ve experienced it, it’s hard to understand what it truly feels like.

Paris doesn’t yet feel like home. It actually feels like a large, impenetrable city. But there have been moments–when I bump into a friend on the street or when I am greeted by name in a coffee shop–when it feels doable.

From experience, I know that settling takes time and belonging takes even longer. Paris is my current home, and maybe, with time, it will begin to feel like one too.