It's hard to know where to begin.  That has kept me from writing--from trying to write--for some time.  There are the facts: September 1st, 2008, nine days in London, a flight from Heathrow, enrollment at the Sorbonne, an apartment in the 13eme.  I've been collecting these facts for almost a year, anticipating the first week of September by wading through bureaucracy and paperwork: an ID photo here, a bank statement there, a visa, transfer credit forms, a new phone number, a new address.

I thought for the longest time I wouldn't feel ready--that I'd board the plane in a minor state of panic, wondering how I could think I am capable of a year in Paris when my French is rusty and I've never lived in a major city.  But I'm here, waiting at gate A20 in Heathrow, and it doesn't seem so big.  As school started at my home university, I didn't feel I should be there, even as all my friends were examining class schedules and buying textbooks.  Though I might not say I'm ready, this does feel right.  And I suppose that's the most one can hope for.

I arrive in Paris this evening and go straight to a restaurant to meet other students in my program (not even to my apartment to drop off bags!).  There's a week full of orientation activities ahead, which may prove to be very busy, but until I arrive I've no real idea what's in store.

'Til then.