A few weeks ago some friends and I began compiling a list of all the reasons that France is actually Narnia. One of the stronger arguments we came up with was that time work differently here, and the more I think about it the more I realize just how true that statement is.
Things are, in one way, moving far too quickly. I am a quarter of the way through my semester, and that means that I am already starting to drag my heels into the ground. I am panicked that I don't have enough time in this place, with these people. I swear it was just yesterday that I was in the gare meeting everyone, and now I have stories about them: I know the one person wants to open a bookstore in Quebec, that another person used to adore Shania Twain, and that yet another gardens most of their own food. They, in turn, know bits and pieces of my life. We have all eased into a comfortable companionability, and I cannot fathom how that happened when I met them what feels like a few hours ago. But at the same time, time is so slow. Thinking back to the beginning of the weekend is difficult, and oftentimes I start stories with "the other day" when I really should be saying, "three weeks ago..." Each day stretches on and on, and I have no idea how I ever reach my bed at night.
Speaking of bed, I am desperately in need of sleep.
Sleep tight!
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