Perhaps it was memories of rich creamy cups of chocolat chaud and the smell of fresh baguettes at the boulangerie, or images of a midnight cruise we once took down the Seine where we passed under the Notre Dame, majestic and hulking in the night’s shadows. Perhaps it was the allure of drinking wine before noon.

Or perhaps I had just consumed too much wine when I made the decision to study abroad in Paris.

I have been relocating once every couple of years for as long as I can remember. Although not part of a military family, I suspect I was part of one that was very fond of renting U-Hauls.

Change, it seems, has been the only consistent thing in my life and I now find something strangely calming about moving around. Living in one place for too long, say amid the cornfields of central Illinois, makes me restless. And while familiarity bred a certain uneasiness, nothing was – is – more exciting for me than going to a new place, knowing no one, with the opportunity to meet anyone.

The question had been where to go.I had taken a French course my freshman year, although upon discovering that foreign language classes met four times a week-and attendance was mandatory-I quickly resolved to switch colleges and avoid the LAS language requirement. I quit French after that semester.

I became open to any place, although my country of choice changed with the major du jour. When I majored in History, I opted for Greece to drink wine, eat olives and study the Classics. When I decided to go Journalism, I wanted to stay in Champaign for exchanges, C.O.’s and 8 a.m. class. When I became an International Studies major, I dreamt of studying at obscure ends of the earth, hoping perhaps, to fertilize indigenous Mexican farms with freshly collected cow manure. Incidentally, the Study Abroad Office had no such program.

But, in the end, I had watched entirely too many episodes of Sex and the City. As I watched Carrie date gorgeous Frenchmen and shop on the Champs Elysees at boutiques where single skirts could clear out a bank account, I developed a schoolgirl crush on a city I hardly knew.

There is something both girlishly romantic and undeniably sexy about the City of Lights. In my mind, Paris represented the epitome of idyllic passion and my illusions seemed only more real after a friend returned from a beautiful summer there with tales of a Parisian boy and their wine-filled escapades in the French countryside.

The preparation process for my departure has not been altogether tedious, although I’ve only heard truly awful things about French bureaucracies being among the slowest in the world. My long-stay Visa, the only document I needed from the French Consulate, required umpteen pages of paperwork and more pictures of my face than I’d ever like to see again. I am altogether too thrilled for this relationship to bloom and grow. It’s possible I’ve spent more time phoning the Consulate than I have ex-boyfriends during entire past relationships.

But, with fewer than 14 days left before my departure, I am focusing on my adieus. Days are filled with hard goodbyes to friends and nights are spent bidding farewell to the bars I’ve come to call home.

I’ve been somewhat nervous about leaving for the year. When people twice my age advise me that the time I spend on college campus will be the “best four years of my life,” it’s difficult walking away from 25 percent of that experience. I would be lying if I denied my fear of being forgotten. My dentist still thinks I’m 15, and although I will be 21, there’s the chance that people I once knew will haze me like a freshman upon my return.

Yet in the end, I cannot wait to embark on my new adventure. I am leaving with great notions of coming back more cultured, better educated, well-traveled and more mature. But, like my goal of becoming an engineer… we’ll see how that goes.

So, bon soir, Illini. My next column will come from abroad. And if no one remembers me when I return, I’ll find comfort knowing I won’t be the only one – I conned my roommate into studying in Barcelona for the year.