Perhaps My Immune System Just Needed a Baguette

French pharmacies are the best. You walk in, you tell them your symptoms, they recommend remedies. Everything should be like that. Just imagine if you could walk into an American doctor's office, and without having to sign your life away, step on a scale in the busy hallway, wait 40 minutes for the nurse to take your stats and another 45 for the doctor to actually show up, listen to a bunch of confusing terms, and finally get prescribed Vitamin C to pick up the next day at the pharmacy--imagine if you could just walk in, tell them you have a stuffy and runny nose, a headache and a fever, fatigue and pain, and they just hand you the thing that will cure it all.

Okay, the French are not that good. They haven't quite found the cure to the common cold, but they sure have come a lot closer than Americans, as they cut the time in half of the getting-the-medicine part. One problem, you have to realize, is understanding all the French packaging. First of all, you can get the Vitamin C "a croquer" (crunchable) or some other option, and if you didn't look up the definition, you might just swallow it, which could result in an acidic stomachache (you never know). Then they give you a nasal spray, which is really just this saline stuff, but if you saw it out of context, you might think it's hairspray or spray paint. Thanks be to context.

I bought my first baguette today. I know, it's been four weeks and I haven't bought a full-length baguette yet. But I must admit, I felt pretty damn cool toting it around under my arm, despite the infestation of germs that the Metro was probably imposing upon it.

My friend Annie and I went to a RestoU for the first time yesterday. It's a student cafeteria for French college students, but we invaded it like the proud Americans that we are, because c'mon--it's 2.80 euro for a whole meal, AND you get to meet French people who want to practice their English :) A pizza and a new friend named Sam for less than the price of a crepe? Not bad.

I rode a ferris wheel today. Among everything else--the 100s of years old buildings, the one-way suicidal streets, the crispy croissants, the world-famous Berthillon ice-cream, the forever pungeant smell of urine in the Metro, the taxis which are impossible to hail, the city silence heard only at 6 in the morning, the cigarette pollution, the few precious English bookstores, the ability to meet foreigners from Sweden and Romania and Brazil and yet noone from France itself, the 3 a.m. crepe vendors, the lost Irishmen, the few French starting to ask YOU for directions, the ability to tell a good cheese and a bad wine, the thousands upon thousands of steps everywhere, the bullet-holes left in buildings from the German occupation during WWII, the night buses, the clothing stores that only sell skinny jeans, the churches stuck between an apartment building and a riskay shop of sorts, the American music played in every store, the random Bretagne festivals that don't sell anything but information on the region and still attract huge crowds, the possibility of getting lost on every corner and finding something unique on the next, vespas and pointy shoes and stolen glances on the Metro--among all of this, Paris has a ferris wheel.

Metro-Boulot-Dodo

The other day, I was in the Metro, waiting for a train with about 10 other people. It was pretty quiet, so everyone’s attention was attracted when suddenly, a McDonald’s bag skittered across the quai and dropped on the tracks, due to a momentary gust of wind. It was like a metaphor for our two cultures: American culture, with its fatty fast food, Converse sneakers, and music, traverses French culture daily. Occasionally, the French indulge in it. That McDonald’s bag was almost like a warning sign: Beware, this harmless bag of leftovers just might change the way you live, French people. :)

On another note, yesterday I had an interesting experience. It had just rained the first rain since we had been here, the first rain of the season. Everything was crisp and cool, and I was walking home in the twilight after a calm night out with a couple of new friends. Gazing up at the typically quaint Parisian architecture surrounding me, it hit me: I live in Paris. For the next three and a half months, I get to be a European, as much as I can be, and live a completely new life doing completely different things. A smile snuck up on me so genuine that I didn’t recognize it until I realized it was the first whole, genuine smile I had smiled in all the three weeks I had been here. What a relief.

So things have started to feel a little more familiar, which I love. But I know that the safe feeling of routine will never completely surround me here, as I will always be the outsider, always the one with things to learn and places to see. I will never be entirely a part of the routine that the French indifferently refer to as "Metro--Boulot--Dodo." But, I’m starting to be okay with that. I’m very slowly, one step at a time, grasping this strange culture, half-hiding behind my newly purchased Parisian-flea-market sunglasses to subdue its glare of differences.

September 14, 2007

(photo: Luxemburg Gardens by my apartment, where people just sit and enjoy the atmosphere on any given day)

People read on the metro. They bring those little chapter books, fold back the covers so they can hold it in one hand and hold onto the bar with the other, and they read all sorts of interesting-looking books. I tried reading on the Metro. I would have been successful, if I had brought any old nonfiction chapter book. But I brought Jerry Seinfeld’s SeinLanguage, a compilation of some of his greatest jokes. It’s not becoming to laugh to oneself on the Metro, apparently.

I think being a foreigner here and trying to fit in all the time actually makes me resist the culture a bit. I go home, I sit on the Internet, trying to catch up on what’s going on in the states, listening to American music. I can’t help it. I need these pieces of home to keep me from going crazy (or going French, one of the two). But it’s hard, because not completely giving into the culture keeps me from being a part of it. I guess I’m asking myself at this point, what is it that I want to do?

Today I probably made the biggest mistake of my life, or at least a French person would think so if they knew what I did. I tried to buy a baguette at the grocery store. I’m looking around, thinking, where do all these French people get the long loaves of bread tucked under their arm? Then it hit me. Duh, this is France. You can’t just get bread at the market. You have to go to the Boulangerie.

Stereotypes & Similarities

September 11, 2007

(photo: "Magzilla/Mini Underground City," compliments of the Musee d'Orsay)

Today, a man on the street yelled at me (in French) to be careful! I might get fat if I continue to eat the quiche I got “to go” (en porter) and was eating in transit.

It’s amazing, the stereotypes we set up for each other’s cultures. I know I am not fat. Just because I am American doesn’t mean you have reason to yell at me in France for eating. Since I’ve arrived, in fact, the French meals I have eaten have been bigger and unhealthier than what I am used to. The funny thing is, the man who yelled it was pretty well-fed himself. So much for stereotypes.

So I was just reading my homework for Intercultural Communications, which tells about the cultural differences between Americans and the French, and I got a little depressed. The article told stories about how it’s hard for the French to accept an American student, even one who is staying with them for the semester, as part of their family. It told about the necessity of doors (how to close them), and how it’s normal to be excluded from the family.

Then I sat down to dinner with my host family. I guess I was surprised at how—according to the article—American they were. They spoke with each other, but they also included me in the conversation, slowing down so I would understand what they were saying and allowing me to answer. After dinner, Monsieur Palayret helped me fix the Internet on my computer. When I apologized yet again for the trouble (this was after he spent like an hour setting it up on Saturday), his jovial laugh and simple gesture of touching my elbow while saying it was not a problem—it really made me feel welcome.

Today is September 11th. It’s been six years since the first 9/11, and I haven’t really felt the pain as much in the past four years as I did today. Strange, how being in a foreign country really makes you think about your foreignness, about your ties to you own country, and about being an American. I read in a French newspaper a few quotes from French students—teenagers, in fact—about the sorrow and shock they felt on that first 9/11. These quotes exactly mirrored my own experience, which I found both interesting and perplexing. It made me realize that I may be American and different and obviously foreign (no matter how I dress or try to act), but there are some things—more important things—that actually do register across cultures. These are the things that keep me going here.

Times, They Are a Changin'

What has it been, three days? Three days since I moved into my homestay. And already I'm better at French. Not only that, but I really love this family. I met the older kids today (and a few others), and for a few minutes we just drank champagne, savored le saucisson, and laughed and joked. I feel so welcome; whether it was because of "les bises" (cheek kisses), or the champagne or my miraculous ability to speak decently, I don't know.

What I do know is that the French know how to have family. They have lots of kids, which in turn turns into lots of good food, lots of laughs, and just good humor all around. Je l'aime bien.

Yesterday I was able to escape from the overwhelming all-French atmosphere and meet my friend Annie for a day of tourism. We perused the Musee d'Orsay--almost the whole thing, I was so proud of myself--Van Gogh is my favorite part--then we strolled down the chic Saint Germain Boulevard, got sandwiches at a local shop, explored the most beautiful gardens in paris--Les Jardins de Luxembourg--wandered around the French quarter and got some to-die-for Biscotti & Chocolate/Hazelnut gelatto, went to a very traditional mass at the grand old church St. Germain de Pres, explored my quartier a little more, and had a delectable dinner at a local pizzeria, La Mamma, where we made all the fabulous French turn over in their graves when we asked to take our leftovers home.

It's not perfect. Paris and Parisiens still have their faults like the rest of the world. I can't smile and say hi to people on the street like I do in California or they do in Morocco. It's just the French way. But in exchange for the chance to gaze at the Eiffel Tower while I wash my hair, go to a jazz club with friends in any given night, and find something new to explore around every corner...it's a small price to pay.

Week 3: The Homestay

September 8, 2007

(photo: View from the kitchen window)

I live in Paris. I live in Paris. C’est incroyable! (It is unbelievable)!

Today, I moved into my homestay. I live with the Palayarets, a family of five (7 actually, but 2 kids are moved out). 12-year-old Basile (God bless him, he thinks I understand his rapid speech), 15-year-old Madeline, 18-year-old Mathieu, and their parents. They are all very nice, and the mother is very thorough in telling me everything (though this is the first time they’ve housed a foreign student), but I must say I feel bad because I think they think that I understand a lot more of what their saying than I actually do. Unfortunately, I have this habit of simply nodding my head and saying “oui” when I have no idea what they’re saying, and that seems to make them think that I know exactly what they’re saying.

It probably doesn’t help that when they had their Italian neighbors over for coffee and conversation, I told them, “Je comprends bien,” when the reality is that the only reason I truly understood anything was because the Italians were still working on their French, as well. Speak slowly…and I will understand.

Anyway, I live in this amazing old apartment building from I don’t know what century she told me with quaint décor and a view of the Eiffel Tower from my bathroom window. How perfect. I can brush my teeth while gazing at the symbol of the most romantic city on the planet.

This particular quartier of the 15th arrondissement in which I live is so “animé!” (lively). We’re neighbors with the Franprix (supermarket), close to 3 different Metro stations, down the street from a mall, movie theatres, shops, and some famous restaurants, and a 15-min. walk from the Luxemburg Gardens. Not bad, eh? I still can’t believe it myself. There’s even a post office on the backside of the block.

I have a sizable room and I am sharing the bathroom with the kids downstairs, which is a good setup, I would say. It's très mignon: in addition to a few pictures of Mount Saint Michel on the wall (a place I really want to go in the North of France), the family put up a few pictures of the United States to help me feel more at home (the photos show some Grand Canyon-type places in Utah). Actually, Madame Palayret said that they took a family vacation a few years back around California and Arizona, so they have a pretty good idea of where I’m from.
(photo: my cozy new bedroom)
***

For the first time in my life, I understand the difficulty of being different. I mean, really different. Foreign. Being an American in Paris is truly a test of self confidence. It’s so obvious—everyone knows you’re American. I asked a girl in the Metro last night how she knew we were American, if not for the language. Immediately she answered, because of your blonde hair and white teeth. Great. The two things that I can’t really change to fit in with the crowd. Unless I want to obliterate years and dollars and pains of dentist appointments.

Americans always seem to find each other in foreign countries. We’re like those giant red magnets, just zooming along on metros and snap! We’ve found each other and can’t get away without a serious effort. Last night on the Metro we just happened to be sitting directly across from a guy who lives in San Francisco. Not only that, but I told him that I go to school at Santa Clara U, and he was like, oh, I go to their 10 p.m. student masses on Sundays sometimes. I was like, no freaking way, dude, that’s not possible because I’m there every weekend.* But of course it’s possible, even though it always seems like an unbelievable coincidence. We can’t help it. We’re magnets. C’est bizarre.

So, being the insecure, inexperienced American that I am, I go to the local Franprix, trying to mask the recent style I’ve been sporting called <<à la mode de deer-in-the-headlights>>. It’s classy. I blunder through aisles, amazed by the lunchmeat packs of—at most—4 slices each, nearly knocking over a stand of vegetable seed packets, standing for 10 minutes in a line where nobody but me is using a bulky shopping cart that you have to pay 1 euro to use (no wonder people aren’t using them).

I finally get out of the place (after forgetting to bring a shopping bag of my own and thus having to juggle my cereal box, laundry detergent, and grand bag of potato chips with the other groceries) and I make it to the porch of my appartement unscathed.

That is, until I realize that I do not remember the code to get in, and I have left the paper with the Palayrets’ number in my room. Parfait. I walk around the block. No other entrance. I try using the internet on my phone to access my e-mail to get their telephone number. Doesn’t work. I try getting one of the program director’s numbers from another student. She doesn’t answer.

Finally, at the point at which I just start dialing random numbers to find out the code, Monsieur Palayret calls from the top window, “Maggie? Quel est la problem?” It is inevitable. Like the stupid foreigner that I am, I tell him that I have forgotten the code to his appartement, I don’t have any of their contact information with me, and I cannot get in.

Picking up at 20 years old and moving to a new country? Yeah, it’s all fun and games.

*You can’t actually talk like this anywhere in Paris without getting thrown in the dungeons.

Week 1: Can I Survive?

Tuesday, September 4, 2007
7 days

My first week in the City of Lights has finally come to an end, and what a wild week it has been.

Last Monday morning, August 27th, I woke up at 3 a.m. to get to LAX for a 6:05 a.m. flight. My one hour flight to Phoenix on Southwest was a piece of gateau*, but then the ridiculousness began. I switched planes in Phoenix to take a four/five hour flight to Philadelphia, where I got my bags and had to switch airlines. After nearly an hour of lugging my 4-months of bags in 100 degree heat and humidity throughout most of the airport, I finally stumbled upon the international terminal and just barely made my 7 hour flight to Paris. This overnighter would’ve been fine, if I could have slept through the flirty conversation of the 18-year-old Mid-Westerner and 22-year-old Frenchman sitting directly across the aisle from me…

So I finally get to Paris. But it is 8 a.m., and despite being up 20 hours, I am nowhere near a bed. After finally finding the CIEE (program) people and getting shuttled off to the gloriously hostel-like FIAP (student residence center), we are lugged off into the city, where we do what seems like hours of walking to reach a restaurant in the middle of the 2nd arrondissement (neighborhood). I don’t remember much of that dinner, being so tired. I believed I tried duck for the first time; how it tasted, only the gods know. I remember sitting uncomfortably among all the program directors and not even attempting to make conversation in my hazy state.

Thirty-five hours after I had first woken up, I finally got to sleep in my FIAP room, a prison-like-white-walls-flannel-laid hole in the wall that at the time felt like the palace at Versailles for all of my fatigue.

***

The next day began with our Orientation at the CIEE school, which like many other places in Paris, is minute. The entire school is held on one floor of a business/apartment building, with three classrooms, four offices, and a “library,” which has three computers (two of which have internet) with baffling French keyboards, and one long table. The school is tiny, but so is the number of students in the program. We’re all American, so at least we have that in common. There are about 55 people in my program (52 girls, 3 boys…it reminds me of high school), and another 40 or so in the more advanced, all-French level.

After a brief orientation, they whisk us off to a delectable lunch in the midst of the bustling city, probably to take our minds off the language placement test that we must take immediately after. After making new friends at lunch, Kirsten (a petite girl with a grand IQ) and I end up being the last ones to leave, at which point we inevitably get lost in the hundred yards between the restaurant and the school, and make it to the exam just in the nick of time.

The next couple of days consisted of a few brief orientations, leaving the rest of the day for us to explore, sleep, or otherwise occupy our stressed and homesick minds. I called home in desperation of a familiar voice or two, of course simultaneously worrying about the 7.50 euros (about $10) it would cost me to buy another phone card…We explored a bit, took a boat tour on the Seine River, which runs through Paris, and made it through a couple hours at the overly-crowded Louvre museum (on free-entrance day), but mainly we’ve been doing a lot of good eating. I don’t know how I’m going to adapt to American food when I get back. Even the cafeteria food at this hostel is good in comparison. And the portions? Too much even for me. Whoever said that the French are skinny because they don’t eat as big of portions was off their rocker. They’re all skinny because they walk everywhere! Sure, the Metro has an entrance about every two blocks, but all the walking…you better have comfortable shoes. Everyone’s dealing with blisters, but at least mine aren’t as bad as the girl whose blisters got infected and her leg swelled up…

*(French cake)

September 5, 2007
8 days

So I’m reading this memoir by Sarah Turnbull called Almost French. She provides incredible insight on the ways of the French, and how to fit in as an outsider (she’s an Australian who moves to France). Of course, she has the assistance of Frederic, her love interest who does everything possible to make her comfortable. That helps.

Me, on the other hand, I just kind of dove into this situation head first with no more than a couple of suitcases and a stubborn will. I will get through this, I told myself the first week. It’s amazing how, knowing that I will be here four months, the initial culture shock and absence of close friends really sparks a depression. I don’t know if “sparks” is the right word. But I definitely had incendiary tear ducts that first week, ready to burst out salty drops at one more thought of those I had left behind and what was to come.

Of course, that initial ridiculously awful feeling of being alone for so long for the first time—it does eventually pass. Not to say I’m completely over it at this point, but I’m definitely settling in a bit. Today I find out who my assigned host family is, and where I will be living. At 11 a.m. It’s 9:46 right now. Excited? Yes. Nervous? Duh.

***

You know that stereotype that French people really smell? I’ve discovered its origin. No matter where you are—the Metro, the FIAP cafeteria—there’s bound to be at least one man whose stench exposes the reality of what happens when a deodorant-less man walks around crowded city streets for the past week without a shower: it’s worse than bad eggs and wet dog and sewers put together. This “parfume au naturel” of the unbathed Frenchman is so repulsive that it is absolutely essential to switch Metro cars or sides of the room if you wish to retain your sense of smell—and your sanity.

The Metro. The hidden transportation of Paris that whisks you from one part of the city to another, requiring several transfers to make it to your destination. It is smelly, dirty, and always about 20 degrees stickier than it is outside. The metro is like an underground 80s version of the Monorail (it’s ugly). No wonder this city of style keeps it underground. It’s out of sight, but hardly out of mind. Everyone rides the Metro: businessmen, college students, the homeless. There are always interesting people on the Metro. I have to consciously force myself not to look around at people or smile. Here, the former is rude; the latter is suggestive. I don’t want to appear either. So I resort to studying their pointed, patent leather, tailored shoes. The French wear really interesting shoes.

The French really know how to dress. I’ve heard it before, but never have I experienced so many stylish people in one place. Stepping out of your appartement means that you are on display for everyone else to judge, though nobody stares at anyone else…

People say that the French are rude to Americans. To be honest, I think it’s the other way around. The French are conservative. In comparison (by casual French standards), Americans are loud, badly dressed, and rude. We wear flip flops and shorts, talk in “listen to me” English voices on the quiet Metro, and meet people’s gazes in public places. To blend in, you must abandon these three habits. Last night on the Metro (Tuesday night, around 12:30 a.m.), it was the loudest I had heard yet. Then three groups of Americans got off. Appalled silence ensued.

***