I’ve been in France for eighteen days now— eighteen, and I can hardly believe it. In a lot of ways, it feels as if I got off the plane at Charles de Gaulle yesterday, sleep-starved from a nine hour flight, complete, of course, with the requisite crying baby and snoring neighbor. Running on adrenaline and the lukewarm coffee the flight attendant served fifteen minutes before landing, I somehow managed to navigate the swarms of travelers, find my suitcase after a brief wait at the wrong baggage terminal, and, most importantly, find my host father, who, to make spotting him easier, wore a bright yellow tie—one he later informed me was very much out of style. Out of style or not, the tie was a godsend, and, as he drove me from the airport to their apartment, I stuttered out my immense gratitude for his fashion daring on my behalf.
At the same time, though, and especially at certain times of the day, it feels as if I’ve been here much longer. Certain aspects of my day are now comfortably familiar and reassuringly predictable. The preparation of my morning bowl of coffee—and yes, “bowl of coffee” at first surprised me as much as it may surprise some of you—and my metro rides to and from rue Vavin, where my study abroad orientation is held, have become routine to the point that I can now perform both without thinking twice. I’ve even been asked for directions, either to the metro or a nearby street, three times by French strangers—not, of course, that I’m counting—and each time I’m asked, despite having to inform each that I’m not from here and so am not the best source for directions, I’ve had a nice sense of affirmation that, yes, I do— at least until I open my mouth— seem to belong here. Other moments, too—particularly during some of the incredible museum visits I’ve had so far and a long, freezing but still wonderful walk along the Seine the other day—have had a similar effect. People say that Paris is one of the most beautiful cities on earth for a reason, and during times like those, I can’t even believe how lucky I am to be here.
As I was warned throughout Georgetown’s pre-study abroad departure process, though, the pendulum does indeed swing the other way. I have gotten lost in the metro and as a result showed up twenty minutes late to an orientation meeting. I have felt homesick for my friends, family, and my life at Georgetown. I’ve even been kicked in the shin and called a not-so-nice name by an irate French woman. (You would think that taking a picture for two friends in front of the Place de Saint Sulpice fountain is a fairly innocuous activity—we weren’t speaking English, and I wasn’t blocking the woman’s path across the square—but apparently, whatever I was doing an affront that required a rather forceful coup de pied as a correction.) For all those less-than-positive experiences, though, I’ve had many good ones that more than make up for it. Dinners with my host family, Nutella and banana crêpes, a wonderful trip to Tours and to several stunning—but again, freezing— châteaux in Touraine along with some of the other experiences I mentioned earlier have made the inevitable mishaps more than bearable, and, as an orientation friend mentioned when I told her about the “St. Sulpice kick,” such stumbling blocks have given me, as trite as it sounds, a chance to grow. At the very least, they’ve given me a chance to brush up on my own French comebacks; believe me, the next time I get an insult and a kick like that, I’ll be ready.
