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.

***