Paris Is My Hometown. America Is My Home.

My very first evening in the US at 23 years old made me ponder that I was sitting upside down, quite literally, from everything I had known until then.

From post-communist Romania to the foot of the Appalachian mountains

“I would like to ask you to excuse me if my English is too poor sometimes.”

The words came out of my mouth in what seemed like perfect, accent-less English. I got confused looks followed shortly by reassuring hand gestures.

“But your English is perfect!” said my host, the-happiest-person-I-had-ever-seen until then, in a strong American accent, which my ear wasn’t accustomed to.

I was living a dream that I hadn’t even dared to dream until then.

I was sat down at the dinner table in the living room of a burgundy red home, in a small town in eastern Tennessee. I don’t remember what was served because I was concentrating on keeping my eyes open.

It was the year 2005, and I had been traveling for over 24 hours halfway around the globe to arrive at the smallest and quietest airport ever imagined.

For a moment, I felt like a queen. There were so few people, it was so serene and calm that I could have sworn it was a mock-up airport, created just for my arrival. I didn’t have the red carpet. But I had smiling white-teethed faces left and right, people welcoming me to the Tri-Cities area. I wondered why everyone was smiling for no reason.

My royal treatment continued with the kindest couple waiting for me to take me to my new life. They welcomed me to America. We went to pick up my luggage from the— yet again — quiet Baggage Claim. Like two orphan kids holding hands, there they were: my two pieces of allowed luggage, the only ones on the rolling belt, I kid you not.

We had to take the highway for a few miles on our way back into town. The act — today insignificant — of taking the highway was like embarking on a roller coaster for this 23-year-old Romanian. America, planes, airports, highways — all that baffled me. Too much and too intense, all at once.

So, I just sat there, on the back beige-leathered couch of the car looking out the spotless window. Every object around seemed flawless, a photoshopped image. There were no weeds coming out of the strangely green grass on the sides. I could see some cows, but no manure. The highway was surrounded only by perfectly shaped trees. All the roads — I mean, the highway lanes — were clearly marked, the paint fresh on the pavement. Not even a cloud in the sky, that’s how perfect the scenery was. No shade of familiar grey, only vibrant, polished colors.

The short trip ended with a series of left and right turns through what seemed like a Hollywood-set neighborhood. First of all, wherever I looked I saw only houses. Where were the apartment buildings? Everyone lived in their own house here?

The beige-leathered-couch car pulled in front of a burgundy red house. A real house, I mean, with a porch and a swing and one of those mosquito screens shielding the front door.

That’s when it hit me.

Seeing the entrance of that burgundy red house, so familiar to me from Beverly Hills and Gilmore Girls and Melrose Place, it hit me. I truly had arrived in America.

Before I could take it all in and say a word, the-happiest-person-I-had-ever-seen opened the mosquito screen and — with a loud, exceedingly happy voice — welcomed me to their home. Again, before I could say a word, her family appeared at the door, her mother and other friends, all welcoming me and apparently genuinely happy to meet me. I was being kissed and pushed inside and asked questions and smiled at and… offered lots of presents. The rollercoaster of my emotions flipped its switch open.

I mean, presents?! Wow. I should take a trip halfway around the world more often.

Where I come from, people had never been so overtly cheerful and so excited to have me in their home. I knew deep in their hearts they had probably felt that many times. They probably wanted to give me all those presents, and more, but they couldn’t afford them. And those strangely welcoming Americans treated me like I was the best news they were given the whole week.

After finishing the dinner — still in a blur about what had been served, due to fatigue mixed with overwhelm — my host gave me a tour of their house. The kitchen smelled of wine and oven-roasted-something and unfamiliar spices, and had a huge wall decoration that said “Paris is my hometown. America is my home”. The piece of art was a reminder of my host’s French-American legacy.

Upstairs, already walking on clouds with joy from all the newness and Hollywood-like ambiance, I was introduced to what would be my room for a week or so. My room. I had never had my own bedroom before.

Where I come from, I always shared “my room” with my parents: our one-bedroom apartment.

So, my first (temporarily, borrowed) bedroom surpassed all fantasies. Behind a dark brown, wooden door lay a fairytale girly room. White-painted bed and chest, small windows with white window panes. A low make-up desk, just as minutely carved as the chest doors. Decorations, books and framed pictures, all made me wonder if I had maybe landed in Rory Gilmore’s room…! And the best part — sheets with a pink flower pattern, the softest I had ever slept in.

For one evening, I was the little girl in the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Only, the American “bears” knew I was in their fairytale home and they eagerly welcomed me into their cheerful lives.

I fell asleep trying to visualize that I was upside down — quite literally — from every place and person I had ever known until then, in my whole life.