Enolie Levengood '11 spent the 2009-10 school year in France with the School Year Abroad program. Below is an essay she wrote for The Record, Hill's student literary journal.
Enjolie with her host family in FranceThe Last Vacation
Walking through the gravel parking lot, my host sisters, host mother, her friend, and I cross the small street and start our way down the dirt path towards “le chêne des Hindrés.” I stare at my feet on the ground. Below me, the brown dirt moves along to the side of the path until it becomes the lighter brown hue of the surrounding dead leaves, with the occasional sapling green buds and grass popping up from the forest floor. The dead leaves and grass turn into bark and moss as a tree trunk protrudes up from the ground and shoots into the sky. Above us is a canopy of bright green leaves where the yellow sunlight peeks through, creating speckled sunspots along the trees and bushes. I take a few pictures to capture the moments of nature, and continue to keep up with the pace of my two host sisters. My host mother and friend are lost in conversation behind us, while Colette, Kristell, and I talk about n’importe quoi: the weather, how slow the adults are walking, how fast Kristell is walking, how pretty the forest is, my latest school vacation, and, most importantly, Merlin and the Druids. This place—La Forêt de Brocéliande—is where so many of the Arthurian legends originate from.
Looking back, we see that the adults are small black specks on the path, so we decide to head deeper into the forest, along the path, and head closer to the oak. Around us the trees are slightly denser, but they are all the same: brown, green, semi-skinny, tall, and straight. Then, right in front of us is a gigantic tree with gnarly branches and yellow green leaves on the end reaching out in every angle, allowing golden streaks of sunlight to illuminate the tree, making it glow. Three normal tree trunks could be put together to form the width of this magical tree. No matter where I stand, or how I look at this tree, it seems to say: “I don’t belong here,” or “something’s not right.” As the three of us look upon the tree in awe, we continue to talk: discussing Triskells (a Breton/Celtic/Druid symbol) and magic and nature. The adults finally catch up as we turn around and head back towards the car.
The five of use take a few group pictures and hurry through the forest. I pull up the camera menu as I walk with my sisters, and I inspect the snapshots. Four of us (Me, Madame Anglais, Colette, and Yseult) are standing in the middle of the path with sincere smiles beaming on our faces. I’ve gotten to know these people so well; they are my family. “J’ai deux semaines,” I say. I have two weeks.
My host sisters come up to me, and continue to talk about the past year. Both of them are in agreement: “Je ne peux pas imaginer la maison sans toi.” I cannot imagine home without you. I blink furiously, keeping all liquids sealed inside my eyes. We talk once again, this time focusing on the past year, and what’s to come. Truthfully, we don’t have much time at all left, but we continue to speed along, speaking rapidly in French, talking about the contacts we will keep, the bonds we have shared, and the specific memories that highlight our year together. As the end of the dirt path comes into view, my sisters ask to race. I draw a line in the dirt, and we start full speed. With all of our might, we race each other back to the entrance: feet thumping, hearts pounding, lungs gasping. That would be the last time we ever raced towards a finish.