Fremerican

34 degrees all day long. I wore shorts and tights. I am becoming a European nut.

Not that Europeans are nuts. In fact, I'm starting to become quite accustomed to the typically French fashion of impatience and persistance that is so a la mode. Not only that, but I've noticed myself acquiring a bit of the French way of doing things, as well. When Brian (my brother) came to visit this past weekend, I realized that he could hardly keep up with how fast I walked. When I go to the grocery store, I am pickier about what I buy, checking where the product is from and purchasing things like saumon fume and Munster cheese. A single day is not complete without at least two servings of yogurt.

Yesterday on my bus ride home, a little old French lady sitting in front of me asked me to tell her when her stop was, because she couldn't read the sign from where she was sitting. I hardly did anything at all, but she was so grateful, repeating "merci, mademoiselle" over and over again in her affluent gratitude. I grinned from inside.

I now practically beg to use my host mom's bike to go back and forth to school. Feeling that crisp air on my face as I cross the Pont au Change and Pont Notre Dame is ineffable. Now, when I see the sun setting on Notre Dame and the ancienne brick buildings across the street from my Metro stop in the cotton candy pink dawn of the morning, je suis content. I feel nostalgic for something I haven't even left yet: the Paris where I feel like I belong. It is good to have finally found my place, however insignificant, in this foreign city I now call home.

What is this place--this role? you may ask. Well, I'll tell you about the role of the American who belongs in Paris. She is the tall blonde you see in the Metro, the one who towers above the crowd of brunettes but keeps her head held high. She is the mademoiselle in black who often gets asked for directions by French people, except for when she's smiling her big American smile. She's the one who knows the city's secrets of good local eateries, but never tires of the sight of the Eiffel Tower--morning, noon, and night. She may be the only one at the wine tasting who doesn't know a thing about French wine, but she's ever eager to learn. She's the one with the hint of bright color peeking out from the collar of her coat noir, a notion of the pride of her foreign status.

I leave in three and a half weeks. No matter how long I stay here, however, I know I will still be the foreigner, the one who doesn't quite fit in. But sometimes it's fun to be different.