There’s truly no place like home.  The long anticipated dream of studying abroad in a wonderland of Renaissance art and idyllic chateaux far away from a crime-ridden metropolis full of snobby future I-bankers and management consultants has at long last been beaten into a bloody, unrecognizable pulp by the unrelenting club of reality.  Despite what I thought when I signed up for this academic *cough* adventure into another culture *cough*, I am counting the days until I return to the land of food carts and violent gun crime.  The reasons are numerous and complicated, but generally split between and exasperation and nostalgia.  I do miss you, Penn, and here’s why.

Despite the often ridiculous ostentation of the American upper crust, rich European kids have centuries’ more experience being assholes behind them than any mere four generation Penn legacy.  Whereas in Philly the cracked out nouveaux-riches roam from one Steven Starr restaurant to another in search of a martini of a new and interesting color, the continental Bourgeois give whole new meaning to arrogance without flaunting it so crassly.  A case in point is the following absurd statement: “As much as I’d like to be around this weekend to work on the project, I have to be with my family at the chateau.” When all is said and done, even Ivanka Trump doesn’t have a castle, or a lineage that can be traced back to Charlemagne.  If only all rich students could be as unassuming as the Top Ramen fortune kid.

On the other hand, in France one can find the other extreme just as easily.  The summer of ’68 shall live forever here, and the most obvious proof is the rag-tag band of Marxist social science students at the satellite campus in the restive, car-burning suburb of Bron.  Uniting against fascist imperialism under the power of dreadlocks and unwashed, secondhand gypsy costumes, these brave bohemian souls formed the backbone of the recent grassroots campaign against the CPE, the employment contract which made news all over the world over the last few weeks. This merry jaunt back into the annals of popular revolution à la Mao crippled the university system for well over a month and caused millions of dollars worth of damage and losses during the associated demonstrations.  Just this week, the government yielded to the student protests and withdrew the contract.  Congratulations— now get a fucking job and quit wasting my time.

As much as the hippies and ubiquitous labor unions disrupt daily life to an absurd degree for no reason at all, the government responds with equally inexplicable and equally excessive state sponsored violence.  The University of Pennsylvania Police may be guilty of racial profiling, but the CRS (Compagnies Répuplicaines de sécurité,  specialized French riot police units) indiscriminately knocks the shit out of people of all creeds and colors, even if the lazy flower children had it coming.  Are you young? Are you in the street? Are you chanting naughty things about the government? Are you sensitive to high velocity rubber projectiles and tear gas? Then your ass is grass!

Speaking of gratuitous violence, the redeeming qualities of Philadelphia and America in general, often overlooked in the context of the folkloric preparation to study abroad, have become increasingly obvious.  Eight months of separation have erased any remaining negative feelings with regards to Penn and amplified home’s positive aspects to near epic proportions.  In particular, there have been three facets of la vie américaine that have been lacking in recent weeks.

First, the concept of a 2 A.M. taco run does not exist outside of North America, it seems.  Being the crafty people they are, the French have secured themselves a 35 hour work week.  As a result, most businesses are closed from Friday afternoon through Monday and never open otherwise outside the hours of 9 A.M. and 8 P.M., leaving anybody unlucky enough to be on the street during peak alcohol consumption hours with few options for food.  Am I the only one who gets hungry after a long, hard night of drinking?  Apparently so.  Along with apple pie, NASCAR and obesity, drunken midnight strolls to Taco Bell for 50 cent tacos are a true American tradition, not to be imitated correctly anywhere else. 

Along the same lines, European life does not permit the same style of unchecked consumerism and orgiastic self-gratification which truly makes life in America la dolce vita.  Recycling and conserving natural resources is certainly a laudable goal, but there are limits to everything.  For example, saving the two lemon slices leftover from the fish dinner or communally hang-drying underwear in the living room.  Furthermore, the French seem to have conveniently forgotten that buildings are designed with heating systems for a reason: living human bodies need to be a kept above a certain temperature, or else they will cease living.  Despite any empirical evidence to the contrary, I’m now ready to insist along with Pat Robertson that God smote the dinosaurs down into petroleum reserves precisely so that we would not have to wear sweaters indoors

Finally, apart from any other possible faults France may have, there is one grave and unforgivable sin that stands alone as a shameful black mark against the hexagon: peanut butter. Sweet Sweet Peanut Butter.  Sadly, the French don’t have much taste for this quotidian delicacy, which they consider “too fattening.”  Ahem.  Fattening, unlike, say, the pounds of non-peanut butter that finds its way into every single meal to prevent food from being too “dry.”  Then again, the French would know about eating habits, since their women have been scientifically proven to be impervious to fat.  French women are somewhat less impervious, however, to a couple cartons of unfiltered Lucky Strikes and a bottle or two of red.  With a bit of effort, however, I’m sure we could win them back from the dark side of the Peanut Butter Divide.  What this country needs is a giant fleet of Jiff trucks that distribute free bagels laden with your choice of creamy or chunky every morning before anybody has a chance to even think about the calories that they didn’t bother to floss out of their teeth the previous evening.  That and a few million tons of butter flavored nicotine gum. 

Despite all that is wrong with France, it’s important not to let bitterness and disappointment overtake the equally numerous enjoyable experiences that exist abroad. Take, for example, the Irish guy in the Amsterdam hostel who smoked half a gram of hashish, ate a pack of shrooms and then proceeded to spend the entire night in the shower making conversation with the faucet.  Certainly that alone was worth the trip.  In the meantime, though I miss you all terribly, I will survive.  After all, butter is an acquired taste and the occasional Marlboro never killed anybody.  Don’t cry for me, Pennsylvania.  I’ll be back soon.