Once a year, on Thanksgiving, I really start missing living in the States. It’s weird to be homesick for a country that you only lived in for four years. It’s like you don’t really have the right to. When I arrived there, in 2007, I had no idea what a big deal this holiday is for Americans until everyone around me got really worried that I’ll have to spend it alone. Telling them it didn’t mean anything to me didn’t make them less worried: Even my French professor invited me to her home. Luckily, I had an invitation from an old friend to go to Philadelphia with her. From then on, the best part about Thanksgiving for me was to be able to spend a couple of days each year in the homes and lives of very different people. Spending a big holiday with someone is like taking a crash-course in their culture, but also in their very specific family rituals. In these four years, I spent Thanksgiving in the suburbs of Philadelphia with an old, Jewish couple and their family; I went to Los Angeles, where there were two turkeys and a dinner party of 40 people and you could sit by the pool in the faded sunlight; I spent it in snowy Brooklyn with my boyfriend at the time, where all the kids (us included) would lay in front of the fireplace after having eaten too much. In case you’re wondering, I was in London one year, where nobody cares and I experienced this late-November-sentimentality for the first time. Since then, I’ve tried making Thanksgiving dinner at my house, but even though the turkey turned out fine, it wasn’t really the same. Maybe I’ll go to the States next year in early November, wander around and tell everyone that I don’t know where I’m spending Thanksgiving yet.
Oh, and in the spirit of what this is all about: Thanks to all those people who let me be part of their family for a couple of days.