First comes Denial. In my case, this was not so much "I'm not in Paris!" as it was "This is GREAT everything is going to be GREAT and easy and...GREAT!". I didn't believe, intellectually, that leaving my friends, family, and beloved West Coast to set up camp in a strange, fast-paced, cold and rainy city would be easy. But I think I had such high hopes for my Parisian sojourn that I didn't allow myself to consider the fact that expatriating oneself is often isolating, upsetting, annoying, and always difficult. A city of contradictions, Paris is at once gray and beautiful, somber and sparkling; I hoped I could stay in the glittering dreamworld and splash through the dirty puddles without getting wet. It was Denial, through and through.
Then comes Anger. In my experience, this bit can actually be fun--as long as you have a couple American buds to vent with. First comes the provocation; the French LOVE dissing American culture. Here are just a few of my favorites:
"Americans sound like cats when they talk: meeeeooow raaaaaooooww meeeoooowww"
"American coffee tastes like sock juice"
"Your accent is SO funny/cute/American!!" (this one's especially aggravating after having spent half an hour attempting to pronounce particulièrement in Phonetics class)
"American chocolate is dégueulasse"
"Why are you all obese?"
I usually try to laugh off these injustices, but after hearing one too many of these obnoxious generalizations, I get cranky. And then I realize the elevator in my building is broken. Again. And then I learn that the metro workers have gone on strike. Again. And then I'm told that you have to wait in line to use a computer with internet at my university, but the computers with internet don't print, and the computers that print don't have internet, and if you didn't have the foresight to bring your own printer-paper, you're shit out of luck. And then I storm out of my university, only to find myself choking on a cloud of cigarette smoke. And that is about the moment when I am PISSED. An outpouring of swearwords will ensue, and they will not be in French.
After Anger comes the stage of Bargaining. Apparently, it's not the kind of bargaining I've been doing (i.e. "No, I don't have my passport with me. But here is my driver's license, Sorbonne student card, international student ID card, Scripps College ID, Middlebury ID...can you PLEASE just let me buy the cough drops already?!"). This bargaining is more psychological: trying to find and reclaim, by any means possible, what is lost. I suppose this stage manifested itself in my consumption of uber-American foods, even ones I don't usually eat in America. Following some sisterly advice, a friend and I first tried a restaurant off the Champs-Elysées that had a subtle American theme (the clues: "Nonstop Service" and "French Coffee Shop" written out front (for some unknown reason, the French write "French Coffee Shop" in English to signify an American-style coffee shop/diner), more than five varieties of burgers listed on the menu, ketchup and mustard on every table). We succeeded in feeling pretty American, and pretty greasy, after burgers and fries, but decided that it just wasn't enough. America is, after all, the land of plenty; one burger at a subtly-themed restaurant just wasn't going to cut it. Off to the sixth we went, where we found a diner/restaurant called Coffee Parisien. A hot fudge sundae and chocolate chip pancakes were ordered. We gorged, we giggled, we reveled in the Americanness of it all. I had succeeded, with the help of some greasy burgers and even greasier pancakes, in getting back the culture which I had lost!
Then I woke up. With a tummy ache and what felt like a sugar-hangover. I needed a shower (need I remind you of the extreme-grease-overdose?). So they were right. No matter how many American restaurants I visited, I was not going to be able to get my culture back. I had even missed out on celebrating Obama's election with my fellow citizens! I was thoroughly down, feeling a little lonely and a lot dispirited. What was an American girl in Paris to do? I called my mommy. "This sucks. I quit." She soothed me with some motherly words of wisdom, and I eventually dragged myself out of bed and into the shower. Reality had struck: it wasn't American food or politics I was missing (CNN and sweet potatoes could calm those woes), it was all the Americans I left when I came to Paris. After congratulating myself for recognizing such a deep-ish emotional truth, I came to this conclusion: well it still Sucks. This was the stage of Depression.
But finally, or so they say, one arrives at the stage of Acceptance. For me, Acceptance means not minding the crowds on the Metro, getting mesmerized by the interaction of the autumn light and the stately buildings, admiring those perfectly manicured gardens, hanging out with friends--French, American, and other nationalities, finding the most delightful apples at the farmer's market, becoming a regular at the local (slightly overpriced but friendly) café. I wouldn't say I've passed through all the stages of loss and arrived comfortably at Acceptance. Rather, I have days of Acceptance and days of Depression, moments of Bargaining and moments of Anger. I can say, however, that I have fully disposed of Denial; studying abroad is full of ups and downs. While there is loss, there is also gain.
I think I'm going to take a little afternoon stroll over the Musée d'Orsay and stop at Erik Kayser Boulangerie (it's become a bit touristy, but the bread is still soo good). I would definitely say that's a gain.
Bisous,
Alice
p.s. check out my new photo albums, "Bordeaux," and "An American Night in Paris" on my Picasa web album (http://picasaweb.google.com/AliceinParisFrance)!!
1 comment:
it ain't easy ma cherie. Not al all. but what a life learning experience becaise life ain't easy and by the time you come on home you will be so much more mature we might not know you. but not to worry guggi will always know you and always love you more than I can ever say in any language.
I have an idea. call our friends Jean and Renee. Jean was a classmate of Papa at college and he met Renee when he fought with the ressistance in France. His story is fascinating. Renee is a brilliant ex professor of french literature in the states when they lived there and at the sorbonne. She is a doll and they both know you are in Paris and would love to meet you. We were the only non french speakers at their wedding. It's a long and fascinating story and I will tell all when I see you. they lived in the states for many years and love it. they have four children the ages about of ours and grandchildren also about the same ages.
You can also call Jacques and Jacquelline. Jacquelline is not very well but Jacques is a hoot and you will love him to death. they are not rich like Jean and Renee but Jacques is one of the nicest guys I ever met. they are also Parisien and were able to escapr the nazis, another fascinating tale that Jacques will tell you. Jacquelline was my first ftench teacher and we stayed close all these years. they moved back to Paris when they had enough to collect American and French social security.
Do get together with both they are all four so anxious to meet you so as they say at Nike
JUST DO IT!!!!
Let me know how it goes
Love you, love you love you
ta gugs
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