As a self-appointed Road Trip Queen, I think there is considerable value in exploring the expanse of what actually comprises the US. I remember seeing an advertisement for a trucking company in the final stretches of one of my trips. “How far have you gone today? Want to go farther?” I was just crossing the Missouri state line and I had not slept since I left Los Angeles. It would not be legally possible for me to have gone as far as I did in that day, were I employed as a trucker. (Never mind the thousand other reasons I’d never want to be a trucker.)

While the concept of the Great American Road Trip is something that I think we have a right to be proud of and embrace as unique to the experience of living in such a geographically expansive country, it has its pitfalls. One of the things we miss out on is the ease with which people in other countries can access…other countries.

Obviously, I would be doing myself a serious disservice as an American living in Paris if I didn’t make it a point to venture around Europe. A last minute spot opened up on a trip to London with another class in my program and I knew I had to take the opportunity, even if it means that I am not going to be able to afford to eat anything more dignified than cereal between now and the end of the semester (not that subsisting on cereal actually sounds like a problem to me…or like I have any dignity to worry about…)

I had to be up at 6am on Thursday and I learned that 6am is miserable even in Paris, proving the universal horror of things like “morning” which really ought to be abolished. I got to demonstrate my piss poor packing skills, yet again, by failing to bring an additional pair of shoes, and wearing the half-size-too-small shoes. Needless to say, my feet are very happy to be back in Paris, and the collection of shoes I did bring miraculously seems a lot more adequate than before.

I had a series of oddly nostalgic sensations in both Gare Du Nord (which I had not returned to since I moved here) and St. Pancras. I slept in both of these stations while I was backpacking in 2008. Realizing that my last visit to either of these places had been in the company of my little brother issued a solid helping of homesickness. The fact that everything was in English had the same effect, I might add. Rather than finding it reassuring, it pulled the fact that I am far from home into sharp focus. A sort of, “HEY, IT’S WEIRD THAT THIS IS WEIRD TO YOU,” feeling.

I can’t get too gloomy and mopey about my tragic life where I live in Paris and spontaneously head to London for the weekend. The trip was a lot of fun, and well-worth my broke diet (which won’t be all cereal; delicious, fresh French bread is ridiculously cheap when you live among the French — go figure).

We spent Thursday and Friday in non-stop visits to advertising and PR firms. Given the highly academic and theoretical nature of ¾ classes I am taking this semester, it was a strange reminder that in a few short semesters, this program ends and we have to go get jobs. OH RIGHT. JOBS.

I was able to see fellow snark squad member, Nugs who also happened to be in town and that was a delightful breath of the familiar. We ate awesome pancakes, went to a bar with Christmas lights (that’s all the explanation this gets), and generally played hooky on life for a little bit.

A number of awesome things happened on Sunday, but that day was really about the formation of what I unilaterally decided to call Team Nerd. Team Nerd being the group of us who got to the train station early specifically so that we could go to Platform 9 3/4s and take our Hogwarts departure pictures. Our nerdy escapade was validated by the presence of signs directing people to the relocated platform (or, as I understand it, re-relocated). Pro tip: it’s now just outside King’s Cross. The station is under massive construction in the run-up to 2012, and with the influx of tourists, I imagine moving it outside was probably a wise move for keeping the station functioning.

As I trudged home Sunday night, I suddenly had the strong sense that I was returning home. My apartment was the whirlwind disaster that I had left it as I rushed out the door on Thursday, but it is my disaster. Travel is funny with its disorienting and reorienting tricks. While visits to certain distantly familiar places may have served as a solid slap of homesickness, coming back to my apartment has made me feel genuinely at home here. A fair trade in the end.

You are lovely, London. But that bed in the hostel? Not cutting it.