A lot has happened since I arrived in France on Saturday. It's probably best to start from the beginning, so let's get chronological. Shall we?
Saturday was a disaster. I left for Paris on Friday at 4, which means that I left my house at around 12:30. Saying goodbye was hard and talking to Katherine on the phone afterwards was even harder. I'm going to miss that bottom-head (term of endearment used by my mom and her family). While her talk is tough, her insides are like custard. My plane ride was interesting. I didn't sleep like I wanted, thanks to my bladder (which is the size of a pea) and the man sitting next to the aisle (who never woke up). I must have poked his shoulder and said "Excusez-moi, Monsieur" a thousand times. The other two people, a Frenchman and a Mexican woman, sitting next to me had a much better time. They developed an interesting dynamic: he talked in Spanish while she responded in French. How romantic! By the end of our flight, they were holding hands. Before that they cuddled and even made out under the protection of a blanket, which they ever so subtly placed over their heads during the night. First they swapped languages, and then they swapped spit. Classy.
Upon my arrival to Paris, I was sick, tired, and confused, so much so that I started to sweat uncontrollably, perhaps from nerves. When I went to use the restroom to splash water on my face, I learned my first real-live lesson in French culture: sometimes you have to pay to use public restrooms. Of course I couldn't find my wallet when I approached the desk to pay, and I didn't have the vocabulary to say wallet (un portefeuille), so I tried to walk off without being noticed. The man guarding the toilets stopped me before I was able to get away and said "Do you not have any money?" "Uuuum, I have money, but I don't know where it is. I am sorry," I responded in really broken French. Apparently smiling pays off, because he ended up telling me, "You don't need to pay. You can use the bathroom, because you are very nice."
Taking the train from Paris to Lyon and then Lyon to Clermont-Ferrand wasn't bad, but by the time I arrived I was an absolute mess. Fortunately, my host family wasn't there to see me in that state or even greet me. Pourquoi? Because someone at the Center for International Programs told my Resident Director Joëlle that I would be arriving on Sunday, instead of Saturday. When I went to call Joëlle, I found that her number was listed incorrectly under the EMERGENCY section of the Clermont-Ferrand Study Abroad packet. Sure, things could have gone more smoothly, but eventually everything worked out. Joëlle rushed to pick me up soon after my mother left an angry, angry voicemail for the CIP. When she arrived, she first apologized and then explained "C'est pas grave" (It's not serious), which may be my moto for this trip. So far, it works for just about everything.
My host family is wonderful. I live with Barbara, Patrice, Eluna (that's probably not how it's spelled, but that's how it's pronounced), and Louane. Oh! And Boon, the dog. Barbara and Patrice are a funky couple. Because they are not married, they are called "des concubins." To be un concubin is the same thing as being in a common law marriage, or at least that is my understanding. Patrice has sleeves and loves Harley Davidsons. Barbara is obsessed with Native Americans and cactuses. Naturally. Imagine a room filled with Native American heads made out of clay*. You're picturing my new living room. Eluna and Louane are my saucy host sisters. Louane, 13, thinks that she is Eluna's mother, so much so that I hear Barbara tell her "She (Eluna) has a mother!" everyday. Eluna is a little childish. Fancy that, she's eleven. She whines and argues with her parents (playfully) about everything. There's lots of stomping. It's kind of endearing. Classic Eluna: when Patrice asked me if the Reporters on TV were speaking too quickly, she responded, "Doesn't matter because that's how everyone talks." No pitty points from her I guess. Then there is Boon. Boon is an idiot, but he probably understands me the best. Such is life.
As it turns out, France, or at least Clermont-Ferrand, is not that different from the US. Sure, people fold their lettuce instead of cut it and eat lunch and dinner for hours on end, but for the most part I feel pretty at ease here. I am not worried about making so many cultural faux pas, at least not with my host family or professors, especially because I think it's clear that I am trying. The biggest difference about Clermont-Ferrand, and this is an obvious one, is that everyone speaks French. It seems dumb for me to even mention, but being surrounded by a language that I don't know is totally bizarre. That constant cacophony of too-fast French, which is now the background for my everyday life, is something that I am going to have to get used to. By the end of every day I am completely exhausted. I finish eating with my family around 12 and go to bed immediately afterwards. Of course, I have to wake up at 6:45, but encore une fois (once again), c'est la vie. Already, I can tell that my work this year won't be in my classes, but in living life as an American in France. This whole language-learning thing is rough.
This post has become a lot longer than I anticipted, so I will stop babbling, I promise. Before I go, I must mention Chantal, my French teacher and new heroine. When someone asked if it was possible to phrase something a certain way, Chantal said, "That is absolutely impossible!!" "Why?""Because it is prettier this way," and then she went on to explain some arbitrary grammer rule. Later she said, "French is like music," which is true, "Unlike German." You tell 'em, Chantal!!
*That's an exaggeration.
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