AudreyF's blog

It’s funny to be writing this because I don’t know where to start.  This whole semester has gone by so quickly (as I knew it would).  How do I process that I’ve spent the last four and a half months living in France and travelling around Europe?  I am so lucky to have gotten this opportunity. 

I can’t say that it was or wasn’t what I expected because I didn’t know what to expect when I arrived here.  Funnily, I think it will be easier to see the differences that I have gotten used to here once I go back to the U.S. and those things are different.  Of course there are obvious things like the grocery stores close earlier here and the drinking age is 18 but I’m excited to maybe experience a little bit of “culture shock” as my one friend also returning from studying abroad put it.  Then again France and the U.S. are not as DRASTICALLY different as say the U.S. and Cuba (where my friend was returning from), so my shock will be much less than hers if anything at all.

I’ve been thinking about how to say goodbye to my host mom and I actually have no idea how it’s going to happen.  We aren’t incredibly close but we are close enough that it’s weird to think that I may not ever see her again (or at least not for a very long time).  She’s been lovely to come home to and to have dinner (and desserts!) with.  What do I say to her to let her know how grateful I am for my time with her?
           
In general, leaving France was never something I thought about.  It was always about going to France never returning from it.  How do you say goodbye to a place that has seemed like a dream from the instant you got there?
           
I think I thought I wouldn’t be sad leaving Paris because I wasn’t sad leaving the U.S. but I actually don’t know how I am going to feel.  It’s just getting sunny and springy and now I have to leave?!  New York is wonderful but they speak English and their bread is sub-par to put it nicely (okay that’s an exaggeration but I am officially super pretentious about baguettes).
           
In the beginning of my time in Paris, I thought I wanted to live here forever.  Although that is no longer the case, I know that I want to come back for extended periods of time.  I can’t imagine being here just on vacation for a week or something.  I’ve lived here and I hope to do it again someday for some amount of time, if for nothing else than to be a stone’s throw away from a fresh baguette.

1.     Beware of the Baguettes.
 
I’ve included in many of my blog entries the phenomenon that is French bread.  At the end of my semester, I am here to warn you.  Baguettes are deadly.  They are so easy and cheap to substitute as a meal but MAKE SURE YOU EAT SOME VEGGIES TOO!  I have gone too many days without having a fresh fruit or vegetable anywhere near my mouth (it’s hard to find a wide selection of good looking produce here in France).  While French food is really good as the stereotype insists, I found it very hard to eat in a balanced manner while being in Paris.
 
2.     Don’t be afraid to speak French!
 
So many French people will start to speak English with you as soon as they detect any hint of an American accent.  Don’t give up!  Respond to them in French and generally you can get the conversation to veer to the French side of things. 
 
3.     Don’t let Paris overwhelm you!
 
I unfortunately let this happen to me sometimes and would find myself in bed all day rather than just choosing one thing to do and then doing it!  Paris has so, so much to offer, it’s impossible to do it all even in four months!  Find what is important to you and seek it out!  And of course, try new things as well. 
 
4.     Walk.  (I took the above picture mid-walk!)
 
Everywhere.  All the time!  Paris is incredibly beautiful and, like New York, it’s incredibly walkable!  Also, learn the bus routes! (I never did this because for some reason buses confuse me way more than metro systems but everyone I know who takes the bus, much prefers it to the metro!  You get to see so much more and are generally not stuffed into the bus in the way that you sometimes can be in the metro).  
 
5.     Get out of NYU Paris!
 
The campus here is very small and homey and it’s easy to get caught up in the NYU life and not really go much beyond it (I feel guilty that I didn’t break out of this community so much).  That being said, it is a really nice place to be and I have made some great friends while being here!  (And because they are not French I will be able to see them in New York!)
 
6.     Enjoy yourself as much as possible!
 
Yes there is homework.  No it is not as much as back in New York.  So take advantage of your extra time.  This can be hard to do but push yourself as much as possible.  You won’t regret it.

I traveled for two weeks straight before I came back to Paris.  On the morning I was to leave Berlin to go back to Paris, I had nervous flutters in my stomach.  I was excited to come “home.” 

Paris has become a home of sorts for me and I always thought it would but it wasn’t until I felt so safe and comfortable coming back to it from travelling that I found that it was even more of a home than I had realized.  Humming the theme to Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris (which I later realized was actually the theme to Up), I boarded the plane back to France.  I had never been so happy to hear French spoken in my life.  (I had actually gotten tired of/ annoyed by the sound of it before I left for my Spring break country-hopping excursion).  Although mostly everyone had spoken English in the countries I visited, it was so lovely to be back where I could speak the native language.  (And just in time for the arrival of my Uncle, his girlfriend, my parents and my sister).

I was lucky enough to get to return to Paris to rediscover it through their fresh eyes.  Although my parents have been here before, they are still amazed by the beauty of Paris.  As their tour guide, I realized that I know a lot more about Paris than I had thought (even just things as mundane as I know how to navigate the metro fairly well – I successfully navigated us to the original Shakespeare and Co where I took this picture of my Mom and her newly bought book).  I’m loving getting to show them around this city that I have come to know in a language that I love to speak.

Yesterday, while walking through le Marais, admiring the beautiful sky and basking in the newly lovely weather (it’s been raining a lot here), my Mom said “you are going to miss this, aren’t you?”  And it was the first time that I realized that I am really going to miss Paris.  Yes, I am ready to go home in many ways but I will miss speaking French and being in the most beautiful city in the world.  I must in enjoy my last ten days of Paris and this gorgeous Spring weather.

Before I moved into my home stay, I was given a description of my Host Mom, Béatrice Raynaud.  I was told that she was an older woman who lived alone but was often visited by her grandchildren and their two dogs, Viking and Pudding.  Although this description is not a LIE persay, it is not exactly true either.  Saying that she is “often” visited by her grandchildren is the understatement of the century. She runs a dare care out of her house and all the children who are at my house every day call her “grandma.” Although I enjoy this most of the time, I think the description needs to be fixed a little bit (the dogs are also named Edgar and Jedi…but potato, patato I suppose).

Nevertheless, she makes me feel extremely comfortable living in her home.  (The above cake is one we made together a few months ago) She is good-humoured and never upset if I am late for dinner.  Last night, I was coming home from a class field trip and the train was running very late.  I rushed home but found myself almost an hour late for dinner.  Not only that but I had a Skype interview that was supposed to take place about 20 minutes after I arrived back at my house!  Not only was Madame Raynaud telling me not to worry but she allowed the three of us (herself, my roommate and I) to have “un diner empêché” (a rushed dinner where I quickly tried paté for the first time).  She told me good luck on my interview and to yell out for when I wanted cake and she would bring it to me!

As I was sitting talking to my potential employer, I hear my door creak open and out of the corner of my eye, I see Madame Raynaud sneak in bent over, trying to hide herself from the camera.  She slid a gorgeous piece of chocolate cake onto my desk and quickly ran out.  Luckily, my interviewer said something like “cake breaks are always good” when I explained why he saw a half of someone’s back duck into and out of the frame.  I held it together fairly well but couldn’t help but giggle at what I’m sure was a once-in-a-lifetime experience interview wise. 

Every once in a while I get up the courage/strength/non-laziness to go out for a jog.  On these rare days, I have the choice to either run to the Eiffel Tower and back or around the park across the street from my house.  Although running to the Eiffel Tower is one the COOLEST THINGS I HAVE EVER DONE, the park is actually more conducive to jogging. 

Parc du Ranelagh had been fairly empty up until the sun came out about two weeks ago and then suddenly there were gaggles of children running and climbing with their somewhat less-than-attentive caretakers in tow.  It seems that the sun has given everyone in the park a newfound happy energy.  On days like the ones of the past few weeks, I trick myself into jogging in the park amongst the babies.  I go home from school, put my things down in my room, and quickly strap on my running shoes before I can even realize that I am doing it.  I grab my keys and my Ipod and head out the door as my host-mom is wishing me “bonne course” (essentially “have a good run!”).

I see other runners as I enter the park and I often wonder if they are like me in that they are only running today because it is beautiful or if they have made more of a habit out of it.  I always assume that it is a habit but I’m not sure why that is.  Going further into the park, there is a playground with sand and play equipment which is where I see most of the excited children laughing, running and screaming.  (I’ve been almost run over by kids chasing after a stray soccer ball).  There are people walking their dogs, sitting on benches reading or talking with a friend, mothers, fathers and grandparents pushing strollers.  Sometimes I gain little running buddies as I go (dogs off their leashes seem to be very excited to run right next to me).

Apparently it’s not very French to be running for leisure/exercise/whatever but I do see other runners around the same loop of the park where I go.  Sometimes we acknowledge each other, admiring each other’s adorable running outfits (mine is a bright green tee-shirt that says “LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA” and black leggings).  I wonder if these people are American as well or if they have picked up on this American thing.  If we do actually speak it will be to say “bonjour” – it’s easier to assume that the other is French, perhaps we are both mistaken.  In any case, it’s nice to feel somewhat a part of a French community right across the street from my house.  It is certainly a “great, good” place.
 

My parisian food experience can be summed up thusly: The first bite into the end of a fresh baguette that has the perfect amount of crunch mixed with the perfect amount of softness in the interior just below the perfect crust.  The best way to eat it is just plain but sometimes a bit of chocolate, jam or cheese inside doesn’t hurt.  It can be a snack or a (super cheap) whole meal.  There are laws that dictate the price of French bread (une baguette de tradition can basically never be above one euro and thirty centimes).  And there is a difference between a baguette de tradition and just a baguette.  A baguette is much longer and thinner and less chewy than a baguette de tradition.  Less chewy may seem like a good thing but I actually prefer the consistency of the tradition to the somewhat softer interior of the plain old baguette.

Not only do the French have special laws regarding baguettes, they also give out a prize every year to the boulangerie with the best baguette!  (There are giant stickers (depicted above) on the windows of the winners so you know where to find the best baguette from each year – I have no idea who gets to choose the prize-winning baguette from year to year but I would kill for that job). 

There are even special baguette bags which are made of paper bags and covers about half of either type of baguette, leaving the other half out in the open to tempt you on your walk to your picnic where you will supposedly be sharing this baguette. On these bags there is a picture of either one or two baguettes (depending on how many baguettes will fit).  Sometimes, you are not given a bag at all but are simply handed the baguette with a small piece of pastry paper wrapped around the center.  (This way makes it even more difficult to not eat the entire thing on the spot).
 
We had been told before coming to Paris that no one eats on the street while walking somewhere or while they are on the metro.  This is one part of Parisian culture to which I cannot become accustomed (and which I also find not to be entirely true).  I have seen many people (perhaps other Americans) munching on the delicious ends of baguettes as soon as they walk out of a boulangerie.  (I am absolutely guilty of this).  It’s very difficult to resist the freshness especially since you are completely enveloped by the smell of fresh bread as soon you step anywhere near most boulangeries.

As I ate a sandwich on the metro last night on my way home, I wondered how it was possible that I was living in a country where people might find my in-transit-sandwich-eating weird but were somehow okay with violently making out with each other in public parks.  The French, perhaps, are very much accustomed to the tantalizing smell of baguettes that permeates so much of their beloved city…or maybe it’s a major aphrodisiac.  I’m gonna go with the latter.  

I enjoyed reading famous American chef, Julia Child’s account of her time in France, My Life in France… just not enough to read the entire book.  I must admit that I got very caught up in reading Harry Potter et L’École de Sorciers (amongst other things).  Luckily, I was able to glean a few excellent tidbits from Ms. Child’s ode to French food, culture and people.

My favorite thing was when I would be reading about a place where she had dined or met friends and find that I either knew the place or had just passed its metro stop.  Julia’s French experience, although similar in locations to mine, differs from it in that she came to France pretty much knowing only her husband, Paul.  However, she and Pail were adventurous; “hungry,” if you will, for all things French and quickly made their way into the culture here.  I find that I am more shy than they.  I also have had the luck (and misfortune in some ways) to have come to France amongst MANY other Americans (they are lovely but I allow myself to speak English to them which only hinders the progress of my French).  Julia and Paul met many, many new people in the pages that I read and tried many, many restaurants and French dishes.  (So many that it would be very difficult to read the book if one was hungry - in the same way that it is now difficult for me to look at the above picture of macrons that I took a few months back).  I want to try to add some of their adventurous spirit into my time here (which seems to be running out so quickly!)

I was particularly struck by Julia’s short description of her time at Smith College, she says she was “a pure romantic, and only operating with half [of her] burners turned on; [she] spent most of her time growing up” (69).  I feel that this describes much of what I am going through now, being a young college student who has gone abroad to discover myself in quite a romantic way.  I don’t even know how many burners I have let alone whether or not I am using them all!  And don’t even get me started on growing up!  I am overwhelmed in the best way possible by everything that I am learning here as I continue to grow up in this new place. 

Julia’s time in France completely changed her path in life; she would never have gone to Le Cordon Bleu to learn the art of French cooking had she stayed in Pasadena, California.  I know that I too have been irrevocably influenced by France and my French experiences.   I may not be about to go out and write a cook book about it, but I know that nothing but good can come from having lived in this country.

Having had a near melt down this past weekend spurred by my constant fear that I am “not doing enough,” I rushed off to the Musée D’Orsay to see the new “Degas and the Nude” exhibit at my first “dull” moment.  It was so gorgeous out that I could barely justify choosing to be inside for a few hours.  But it was what I had set out to do.  I. Needed. To. See. Art.

My roommate and I waited in line (as I found out later it was the first day of the new exhibit) in the sunshine discussing things and stuff.  We headed straight for the Degas as soon as we got in and at first, I was a little underwhelmed.  There were many small sketches hung up on the walls of his different “studies” of what would later become paintings.  My roommate walked up to me and said “this is making me miss my drawing class” and I think I mumbled something like “mmhmm” because it really wasn’t making me feel anything at all.

It all turned around for me in the room of his sketches from various brothels.  They were not beautiful exactly but they depicted life in a way that was more moving than any of his other sketches I had seen in the exhibit up until then.  In retrospect, perhaps it seemed fitting that these women were all naked as that defined a large part of their lives whereas in the other sketches there was not a reason as clearly defined as to why the women were naked.  Perhaps it was just that the brothel ladies had better surroundings.

As the exhibit went on, I began to understand why it was set up the way that it was.  In the ending rooms there were sketches matched with the paintings with which they corresponded and then the next version of the painting and then the next and the next and so on until we got to see a “finished” version of what Degas had set out to do.  This man either sketched, sculpted or sketched and sculpted his figures completely naked before he painted them fully clothed (although many times they remained naked).  Fascinating. 

I found it to be an interesting parallel to the alchemical process of “solve et coagulatio.”  This essentially means that one must break down all that there is of a substance in order to see it for it’s full value and truth before putting it back together in a more meaningful way (as you now have the knowledge to do so having seen your material at its most basic).  Degas was able to create such beautiful paintings because he knew where they came from and what they truly were underneath everything.  This exhibit allowed me to see that break down from some sort of start to finish.  Particularly in the painting above (“Petit déjeuner après le bain” 1893-8)
 
Towards the end of the exhibit there was a display of a Degas quote:  “One must do the same subject over again ten times, a hundred times.” (Okay maybe not a hundred times.  The guy was drinking absinthe.  He probably brushed his teeth a hundred times a day.  Or never…one of the two.) Nonetheless, the guy was disciplined and unknowingly (or perhaps knowingly) broke himself down through repetition until all that was left was the good stuff that he would then re-form into the really good stuff.  I hope to someday find something in which I can be disciplined enough to do one hundred times in order to make it really good.  Or maybe I’ll just drink some absinthe and see what happens.

Sources:
http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/e/edgar_degas.html

The desire to be in the “back regions” of a place as opposed to just looking at it from the front goes far beyond the idea of tourist nature and into the realms of human nature in general.  We constantly want to know how thinks work: Who IS that man behind the curtain and should we really be paying him no attention?

The question of authenticity in tourist experiences is one by which I am constantly plagued.  On a recent trip to Florence I got into an argument of sorts where I found myself defending the side of people who visit a place and simply follow the guidebook.  If the guidebook says to go see Michelangelo’s “The David” and then you go do it, is there something wrong with that?  Perhaps you don’t know the significance of the statue, perhaps your only feeling that surrounds your experience there is that it was “cool” to see it…but you have to start somewhere right?  Dean MacCannell notes in his article “Staged Authenticity: Arrangements of Social Space in Tourist Settings,” “the insight gained by touristic experience has been criticized as less than profound…but the tourist setting per se is just beginning to prompt intellectual commentary” (598).  Tourist settings are just that; a starting point, a place from which you will either be inspired to continue your quest for knowledge about a particular subject or not. 

This is not to say that taking a picture of you and the David and then leaving to get gelato across the street is really taking advantage of your starting point. (You’re probably “authentic” Italian gelato is also probably way overpriced).  According to D.J. Boorstin (author of “The Image: A Guide to Pseudo-Events in America”), the tourist “’expects everything to be done to him and for him’” (600).  This is where the danger lies: in allowing yourself to pay too much for gelato (or a crêpe in my case).

Let me tell you, the crêpes by the Eiffel Tower are by far the most expensive and the WORST crêpes in Paris.  But if I were only in Paris to see the Eiffel Tower and leave, I would probably have my crêpe there and would be misleadingly satisfied.  I would not have known that crêpes are supposed to be made from batter right before your eyes and not just simply re-heated from a pre-made stack (or at least the best ones are).  Or that instead of getting a fancy one topped with Nutella and almonds, you can go simple to be satisfied and just get the cheapest one that is always at the top of the list: butter and sugar.  I learned these things though having now been to many, many crêpe stands all over Paris. I don’t know if that’s me having traversed through all the tourist aspects of getting crêpes in Paris or if I’m simply a super tourist who has been here long enough to have extensive crêpe knowledge and experience.  (The above picture is from one of the times I had a crêpe in an actual crêperie as opposed to just a stand).  However, I have a feeling that the best crêpes are the ones that my Host-Mom makes with her crêpe machine.  I have yet to try those.  I did however make my own crêpes with my friend Maya one night and they were très delicieuses!  Perhaps I am getting closer to figuring out the authentic Parisian experience.  Or perhaps I am just eating a lot of crêpes.
 

I was so excited when I saw that we got to choose two books to read for this class because there are SO MANY books that I have always wanted to read but have never gotten around to it.   This book, A Year in the Merde by Stephen Clarke, is one that I have passed so many times in my bookstore wanderings and have always wondered about but never exactly had an occasion to buy it.  It’s got a lovely yellow cover with a little cartoon version of a map of France with a face, wearing a beret.  It looks a little stupid and it really doesn’t give you much insight into what the book could be about.  Nevertheless, I decided to dive into the stupid cover to find out how the main character’s (Paul) year in the merde compared to my four months in it.

The book is written from the perspective of a British man coming to live and work in Paris for a year.  He knows very little French and encounters many issues with being unable to understand the French people’s English accents (that leads to some funny orthographical moments such as “Yam bare narr, yam responsa bull ov communika syon” which is supposed to say “I am Bernard.  I am responsible of communication” but this is completely lost on poor Paul who can in no way understand the French speaking English) (13).  That has been one of my favorite things about being here though.  This inability to understand accents goes both ways here.  I have to make sure that I French-itize my name as I am introducing myself because if I just say Je m’appelle “Audrey” as all the Americans pronounce, I will often get a blank stare from my new French acquaintance.  However, when I then hesitantly pronounce my name “Oh-Dray” it is met with an “Ooooh! Oh-Dray!” and the rest of the handshake which had awkwardly lingered as the name confusion occurred. 
  
The book was mainly a bunch of French stereotypes played out in funny situations.  I imagine I might have been offended by it if I were actually French (which, alas, I am not).  It was fun to read it while I was in transit on the Paris métro and to sometimes discover some of the things he talked about in the book.   For example, he talks about how the French put paper fish on each other’s backs for April Fool’s Day (this is apparently their only trick though – Paul found it to be stupid and couldn’t believe how much the French enjoyed it!).  The same day that I read that, I saw a poster (it was actually in Brussels not France but they speak French there so this counts!) that had a picture of a little boy with a paper fish on his back!  It was an exciting moment to know that I understood a sort of random cultural reference.  (Well I had never heard of it).  Now I can’t wait to see this tradition actually occur next month! 

Alright, well I’m going to get a head start on cutting out my arsenal of “poisson d’avril.”  À Bientot!

There have been many times here when I have started off my day with a bowl of “Special K Noir.”  That is to say that, in France, the eating of REALLY GOOD dark chocolate flakes first thing in the morning is acceptable, nay, encouraged!  I remember when I first laid eyes on a box of this precious stuff that my Host Mom had left out for me.  It was late in the afternoon and though I normally eat cereal at all hours of the day, I made myself wait until the morning to have this particular cereal.  I wanted my experience to be just as French Kellogg's had intended. It was very easy getting up the next day due to my intense anticipation of the chocolaty goodness.  I poured the “demi-écremé” milk over the cereal into a hand-painted ceramic bowl, grapped a big metal spoon and walked back to my room.  I don’t think I even sat down before I took my first bite.  It was heaven.  In a bowl.  With Milk. 
 
Luckily my roommate hadn’t arrived in France yet so I got that whole first box to myself.  Unfortunately for her, I’m not good at sharing my cereal so she tends to not get that much now anyway.  When we walk to school together in the morning (which is not every morning because I tend to be running late) we now like to grab apples from the kitchen and eat them on the way (I no longer reserve mornings as the only time I can eat Special K Noir - I actually tend to not have it in the morning unless I am awake early).  During our walk we talk about our conversations that we had had with our parents or friends the night before.  We talk about people from home who will probably never be more than abstract concepts to the other person. We talk about the weather.  We often talk about the baby who lives upstairs and who cries ALL THE TIME.  By this time, we’re at school (a mere 12 minute walk).  We split off and I go to work in the library while she goes to class.
 
On the days when I have to be at work at nine (thankfully only Wednesdays and some Fridays), I am late.  Luckily, most of the time, France is late too.  That is to say that many things do not actually start on time here so my getting to the library at 9:10 instead of 9:00 is usually met with a “c’est pas grave!” and a “oui!” when I ask if I can go get coffee before starting to work.  

At NYU Paris there are two coffee machines that vend a sugary liquid with what tastes (and feels) like very little caffeine.  Thus my daily routine is to start out with two coffees at once (one sugary “cappuccino” and a shot of espresso).  I take the cappuccino first and drink it a ways down before pouring in the espresso shot and going back to the library to start actually working (around 9:20).
 
So far, French mornings agree with me.  A bit of chocolate followed by a quick walk and coffee?  I think I could get used to this.

Coming to France, I had already studied the language for five years.  That being said, I still stumbled (and continue to stumble) all over myself when I trying to communicate in French.  And for my moments of linguistic discomfort, I have created a mantra that sounds something like “Je suis presque bilangue” (which – hopefully – means “I am almost bilingual”).  I love the way the word “presque” sounds and how it feels to pronounce it.  It’s going to be so sad when I can no longer use that word to describe my linguistic skills (a small price to pay for the ability to communicate fully in my favorite language in the world).
 
I sometimes feel conflicted about having come to a country where I do have a good basic knowledge of the language.  I know that being abroad without knowing the local language can, for some people, be an incredibly challenging and rewarding experience.  I sometimes feel like I am missing out. 
 
Botton discusses the “exoticism” in “the neighborliness of the u and i in Uitgang” when exiting the airport in Amsterdam, which is very similar to what I discovered in Bruges on a trip to Belgium last weekend (67).  Flemish has a similar exotic look to Dutch.  It was weirdly wonderful to be in a place where the street signs were practically unreadable (and definitely unpronounceable) simply due to the large number of similar letters strung together in unfamiliar combinations.  It made me want to learn more languages!  It also absolutely terrified me that anything could look so foreign!  I realized that I couldn’t remember a time when the French language looked as foreign to me as Flemish did.  It’s possibly that it never did because the way that French words are formed (letter-order wise) is not as far from English as are the words of Flemish.  (Yet there are still times when I look at or hear a French sentence and it seems to be some garbledy-gook as foreign as the word Uitgang seemed to Botton). 
 
Knowledge of the language is not the only thing it takes to get to know a country as Botton points out when discussing Flaubert’s trip to Egypt.  Flaubert had dreamt of the Middle East all of his life and upon reaching the country, “he simply replaced an absurdly idealized image with a more realistic but nevertheless still profoundly admiring one” (95).  He immersed himself in the culture (as well as the language) and even earned himself a new name given to him by the locals.  In a similar way, my love of Paris and of French continues to grow seemingly in spite of (and because of) all of the idealized images that we, as citizens of the world, have of France and Parisians.  One thing that has been incredibly important for me to realize is that real life goes on here.  Paris is not just a place for me to drop in on to admire from afar.  I’m learning the pace of the city.  I’m learning how to be French.  Of course this is very much colored by the fact that I am not French: I can’t hear the differences between all the French sounds, I eat food while running down the street to class, and I find it unlivable to be without an air conditioner in the summer.  But these are things that I am sure I could get used to should my linguistic desires continue to veer towards the francophone side of things.
 
Perhaps I don’t have a completely different name in France as I do in America, but the French twist on the pronunciation of  “Audrey” is so “exotic” that my name becomes somewhat wonderfully unrecognizable.  It seems that I’m beginning to “fe[el] an intense longing to spend the rest of my life [here]” (75).

I’d like to say up front that I have absolutely no sense of direction.  I’d also like it to be known that Paris is shaped like an “escargot” meaning that the twenty "arrondisements" are situated in such a way that they spiral out from the center.  In other words: Me+Paris = lost all the time.  Or so one would think…
 
On one of my first days in Paris, I was given a detailed map booklet that I immediately knew was going to be too complicated for me to handle.  Oh contraire!  I was able to figure out where I needed to go using the easy-to-read map of “le métro” in the back of the booklet.  Unfortunately, I quickly lost this treasured map.  And I lost the one I received after that.  And the one after that too!  (Lost map count: 3).  It seemed that it wasn’t so much that Iwas lost but that my maps, themselves, kept getting finding their way out of my purse.  Something in the world didn’t want my map skills to improve so quickly.  Rather, Paris knew that I needed time to wander aimlessly before I was allowed to have a long-term map.
 
And wander I did.  The great thing about Paris is that it was there to catch me when I wandered into unknown territories (which are everywhere).  There are actually maps of the city posted all over the place and they are high-tech at that! They are illuminated at night, they list the locations of every street in the vicinity, and they even scroll up and down if you need to more closely examine another area of the map.  All of the street signs tell you in which arrondisement you are currently wandering, which is helpful both when you do have a map and when you don’t. (Although it is sometimes difficult to locate the street signs, themselves, as they are attached to the sides of buildings).
 
One of my favorite walks was from the American Express Exchange Bureau to the Georges Pompidou Museum where I was supposed to meet my friends.  This was during a time when I lacked a map but had the city’s super curvy streets that constantly change names to…guide me?  Well, of course I had the maps along the street that I could stop and look at if need be, but it turned out that once I figured out my route, I could pretty much stay on one road and I would get to where I wanted to be.  On the way, I found a flea market piled with clothes, books, DVDs, weird lamps, old postcards, and, of course, French people!  It was wonderful to hear the buzzing of a busy market in the tones of my favorite foreign language. (The photo is from the market!)  I eventually found the Pompidou and my friends but not before I stood in the completely wrong line to get into the museum.  (I only found this out after being asked – in English – if I knew where the front of the museum was).
 
Weeks later, I’m happy to report, my fourth little booklet and I are going strong.  I used it today to get to the University of Paris (even though I’ve been there before)!  I pulled it out yesterday to find a métro stop that turned out to be right in front of me!  But at least now I have begun folding down corners of areas that I frequent and circling métro stops that I need to remember.  My map will be quite personalized once I leave France.  My knowledge of the city increases all the time, and today, someone asked me for directions!  Unfortunately I had to respond with a “Je ne sais pas, désolée.” However, this cartographical conversation took place completely in French (just like real parisiennes)!  I couldn’t have been happier not knowing how to point her in the right direction. 
 

My first week in Paris was incredible.  Everything was new and different.  The tastes were chocolate, coffee, baguette and orange juice.  There was poetry in everything I saw and in every step I took… I was jet lagged.  Once this marvelous haze lifted, I slowly returned to the regular me: it turns out that "I had inadvertently brought myself with me to the island" (well, to Paris anyway) (19).  I started worrying about all the things I normally worry about.  I started returning to old habits that I had thought I’d lock up tight in my “do NOT bring to France” box back in California.  Apparently I need a better lock.

I was immediately anxious that I was letting myself slip off the wagon when I wasn’t able to email my best friend every day, read books for pleasure, run, eat well, make new friends, improve my French, do my job at the library, STOP BITING MY NAILS, and so on.  And then I realized two things: the first is that I was putting a lot of pressure on myself to start/break many, many habits when I had just moved to a new country, and the second is that it was still ME in France, not Super (French) Woman. A third thought is that January just ended and there is ALWAYS the added pressure of the New Year and all its resolutions during the first month of the New Year – we have both the fortune and misfortune of going abroad during this extra pressured month.  It is both a distraction from our new goals and additional pressure to create an entirely different set of resolutions. Ouf!  (Interestingly, I took the above picture because, when translated, it means “To the New Year I will give my oldest dreams” which somehow relaxed me a little about this January pressure…)

Botton discusses this idea that "we may best be able to inhabit a place when we are not faced with the additional challenge of having to be there" (23).  This comment, while witty, points out something that many people push out of their minds while planning voyages.  When you look at a picture of a place from the comfort of your own living room, it is practically impossible to remember that, while you are actually visiting this place, you will still have to work on your rationale when you get back (or even while you are still there!).  And when your rationale is looming over your head throughout your trip, it may in some ways hinder your experience (or at least dampen it at times). While it is preferable that you are able to relax and let BOTH your body and mind inhabit your new digs, this can be challenging.  However, I feel that relaxation and “in-the-momentness” are acquired skills which we are all in the process of learning simply by having made the choice to be in another country for an extended period of time.  We are learning tolive as foreigners in a new place while also soaking up as much as we can before our abroad lives are over (for now).  And that, is a goal well-worth the challenge.

Bonjour tout le monde! Je m’appelle Audrey  et j’étudie à Paris ce semestre!

Whew, so glad that after five years of French classes I can at least tell you that my name is Audrey and that I’m studying in Paris this semester.  I’ve been in Paris for about three weeks now and I’m happy to report that my French has already improved!  Sort of.  The primary reason that I chose Paris as my study abroad site is that I constantly have opportunities to practice my French.  That being said, I’m here with a bunch of Americans and it’s so easy to speak solely in English with them that there are days when I can go almost all day without using any French.  This is the blessing and the curse of going to an American University in France.

Living in a French household has been helpful though.  My host mom, Madame Raynaud, speaks mostly in French except for when I make my confused “I actually have no idea what you are saying” face.  (Unfortunately, that face is a reflex at this point…I have very little control over whether it appears or not).  Ultimately, I hope to speak as much French as I can to become as close to fluent as possible in the months that I have here in Paris.
 
When it comes to food, however, my French is impeccable.  I am perfectly able to order a baguette from a “boulangerie” or a crêpe with nutella from one of the many stands that grace the streets of Paris.  And although I am normally vegetarian while at home in the U.S. , here in Europe I have decided to be more adventurous and eat meat.  (I tend to not ask what type of meat it is when I am eating it and just enjoy the taste…)  Madame Raynaud makes wonderful meals for my roommate, Emily, and I twice a week and thus I have tried many different kinds of meat (some mysterious and others not).  At these dinners, Madame Raynaud speaks lots of French to both Emily and I. At the end of dinner, we always make sure to tell her how good it was and ask if she needs any help with the dishes (she never does).  She tell us not to worry and that she will do it.
 
Madame Raynaud is one of the sweetest people I have ever met.  It has been and interesting adjustment to life in her house as opposed to my apartment in New York where I am completely independent.  She does my laundry for god’s sake!  When I thanked her for vacuuming my room the other day, she seemed surprised and said “C’est normal!”  It’s amazing but guilt-making at the same time.  
 
I can’t believe it’s already been three weeks, so much has happened (the above picture is from a trip to Montmarte which is a beautiful city on a hill).  Yet there is so much left to learn and discover (and lots of baguettes in between)!  I hope everyone is settling in nicely and enjoying being abroad as much as I am.  À toute à l’heure!