"I'm here!" is the phrase I keep hearing over and over. Mostly because one of my friends won't stop repeating it, but occasionally I say it to myself, too. I really can't believe I'm in France. And for a whole semester, at that. That's a long time, especially when looking at it from the beginning of the journey. At first, I kept thinking I was in Canada, but then I'd look out the window and realize it isn't the same view as from my apartment in Montréal. Gradually, though, I've become acclimated to the reality of living in France.
For one thing, people aren't as bilingual here as in Montréal. Believe you me, they're still way better at English than we are at French, but there's no English section at the bookstore. Consequently, I'm actually starting to learn some French. At dinner the other night, I could actually make some sense of my host family's discussion about Turkey's proposed entrance into the European Union. We discussed these matters over foie gras, Lyon's speciality that consists of a large meatball made of duck and chicken livers and is the texture of ricotta cheese. It is covered in marinara sauce and mushrooms and served in a dish. Jessica, another study-abroad comrade from the University, liked how it tasted and asked what it was. Once informed, she abruptly put her fork down and stopped eating it.
A day or so later, I again realized Lyon is not as bilingual as I sometimes would like. I was having some banking issues and thus was directed to call a 1-800 number. I hadn't yet called anyone in the United States, and so I was unaware of the whole country-code thing. So I picked up the phone and directly dialed the 1-800 number. A French recording came on, something about the number being invalid, but then it seemed to go through. It took me about four tries to realize I was calling the firefighters, who, in France, you can reach by dialing 18. After two more tries, they tired of me calling and asking for the bank; I finally realized it was I, and not the French phone system, that was doing something wrong.
Mostly these things are laughable, but sometimes they are lamentable, and occasionally I just wonder what the heck I'm doing here. This is a very charged question for me, and I couldn't even remember the answer myself until I was wandering about Lyon one day, reflecting upon what compelled me to come to France. Surprisingly, I discovered it was revenge. Well, sort of.
Allow me to tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a boy who figured rather prominently in my romantic life. And in the early stages, French was one of those things we so excitingly had in common, as in "Wow, it is just so absolutely astonishing and wonderful that this person likes French, too!" But in the later, fallen-apart stages of the relationship, it became just another point in which I could claim superiority.
Let me explain. My sense of revenge revolves around proving myself in spite of that other person; it's about going to a party and giving off that untouchable, "too cool for this" vibe. It's about soothing the ego and being able to tell myself that obviously it didn't work out because that person couldn't handle the white-hot heat that is me.
So, back to French. I had one semester left to complete my language requirement, and I could have gone ahead and been done with the whole thing. But no, It was absolutely imperative that I be better at French than this boy. If before I had been toying with the possibility of completing my 202-equivalency in Montréal, now I was determined. But in Canada everyone was bilingual, and my plan failed. My French was still inferior, so the next logical step led to my enrollment in FREN 331. And then 332. Somewhere along the way, I realized two things: First, I would never truly learn French on the North American continent. Second, it wasn't about the boy anymore.
By revenge, this whole other part of myself had been unlocked. And so, with this new passion for language, my trip to France was born. Now, I'm not endorsing revenge as a tool for self-discovery, as I'm sure it has propelled men into stranger and worse things. This time, learning French better work out -- that's all I'm saying. To the untrained eye, this may seem just a simple trip to France. But dig deeper, and you will discover how the paths we choose in life lead to strange and unforeseen places.
Andrenne's column runs biweekly on Wednesdays.
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