Nestled in the middle of a field lies a house; my house. Despite it being over three thousand miles away across the Atlantic Ocean, I feel at home there. A mixture of warmth and euphoria fills my chest as the taxi rolls down the driveway, its tires crunching on the rocks, as our front door enters my ray of vision. After twelve hours of travel, nothing feels better than walking down the sloping lawn to our front door. Around my house, luscious green pastures roll into the horizon with cows grazing in the rich Normandy grass. It’s very quiet there; only the sound of the wind rolling through the tall grass and the subtle movement of cows can be heard. Tall hedges surround the dirt and gravel driveway which leads into our slightly sloped front yard. Annuals line the front of my house, contrasting the dark green landscape with their rich violet and bright pink colors. Bees buzz lazily as they collect their sweet nectar. A white bench stands next to the door for people to sit outside and bathe in the warm French sun as they look out at the fields. My house is an agglomeration of three farm houses, dating back to the 18th century, home to three French peasants’ families who spent their days working the fields. It’s been renovated into a …show more content…
From that first moment when I wandered into my Maternelle classroom clutching my mom’s hand, I have been immersed in French culture. By the end of fifth grade, after my family spent an entire year in France, I was bilingual and bicultural. Upon returning to Providence, we brought back our love of Pain au Chocolats and Cotes de Porc Normand and a commitment to unhurried family dinners. To this day, despite the chaos of our hectic lives, we still make a point to sit down to dinner together and engage in meaningful conversation as we genuinely listen to one another and share the events of our