Shea Ohmsford is the ultimate man. In Terry Brooks’ 1977 magnum opus, “The Sword of Shannara,” he wanders through dark castles and fantastical lands in search of a blade that can save the world.
Now, if it isn’t already obvious I’m quite a big Shea Ohmsford fan — but this isn’t the point.
The point is, on Friday, I thought I was going to die. Not actually. In reality, I was perfectly safe. At the same time though, I was trying to find my way out of a literal castle at three in the morning. Unfortunately, there was no magical world-saving blade involved.
Earlier that day, I traveled to Carcassonne to stay in its medieval city, which was incredible, until I went to pick up my girlfriend, who was arriving by bus in the wee hours of the morning.
So here I am. Everything is pitch black. There is no door. I find myself sprinting across the grass, trapped between the inner and outer walls. That can’t be right. Below me is a 50 foot drop. I’m late for the Uber I pre-reserved to the train station — if it leaves, there is no way I’m finding another one in this tiny town. It was quite the fiasco. My mom said she was tracking me running around the ramparts of the castle on her phone.
Against all odds, I succeeded. I found my way out of the castle’s labyrinth walls. And for a brief, fleeting moment, I was Shea Ohmsford.
This wasn’t me finding THE study abroad moment. I now simply just know how to run around a castle at night. Looking for doors usually helps.
I realized that however thrilling my Shea Ohmsford escapade was, a part of me was happy to go home. Or, to go back to Reims. I’m not sure if we’re at the home stage yet. This is the first weekend I’ve felt that way. I know that’s not saying a lot. This is all to say that my journey through the castle taught me to appreciate the mundane pleasures of my life outside.
So now I’m on the Train de Grande Vitesse, or the fast as fuck train, going back to Reims. As I’m writing this, I’m thinking, last week was a great week. Mundane? Yes. But I’m starting to understand that there isn’t necessarily anything wrong with that.
It feels like the week boiled down to some chili with cheese and rice. Parker Devore PZ ’27 –– my old TSL buddy –– and I decided to make some for my host mother, Anne.
The day started well enough. I was supposed to meet my host mother’s boyfriend. I knew his finger had been amputated, so I prepared something normal to say about it. I said it, and then I instantly attempted to shake his hand.
After recovering from that lovely experience, Parker and I began to prepare the chili, unbeknownst to the chaos –– or glee –– we were about to step into. All was well until our host mother taught us a new bit of French slang. Massive mistake.
I think she thought me 1) being an adult and 2) more or less fluent in French, might have some selectivity –– or perhaps even control –– over when I said the word. She was wrong. Never underestimate my childishness, despite that I will soon in fact turn 21.
Anne told us the chili was fire. For a second, it felt like eating a family dinner at home, one where I was free to laugh and reach over the table for the napkins and bowl of rice without having to ask. I really liked that. It didn’t feel like an exchange program. It was just normal.
And it made me realize I was lucky, because my homestay feels like a home.
Each day, I come home and get greeted at the door by Anne, who asks me how my day was. The Wi-Fi doesn’t work, sure, but that doesn’t bother me too much because there is someone who cares about me in a foreign place.
These days are slower and quieter than anything I’ve experienced or what I anticipated. I’m not used to it, but, weirdly enough, I find myself looking forward to this routine. Coming from New York, I’ll always wish I went to school in a big city, and that probably won’t change. But I can’t discount the good days.
There isn’t a Sword of Shannara in Reims. There’s just chili. And I think I’m okay with that.
Otto Fritton PZ ’27 is figuring it out.
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