As I anxiously clutched my luggage to my body and smoothed my bumpy bus hair in preparation to meet my new host family, I had an odd sense of déjà vu. Our formation of two separate groups, the future host parents and the students, bore a startling resemblance to strained middle school dances from my past, as we each shyly peeked at one another from behind our respective dense flocks. Even my thought pattern was startlingly analogous to my seventh-grade self.
“I hope they like me ... Do I look alright? Uh oh, the somber chap over there is giving me the eye ... Oh, but so is that family, and they drive a BMW! I want them!”
The suspense reached a crescendo as our program director began to call students’ names one at a time and introduce them to their host families.
As names were called, I tried to logically explore my irrational concerns. Ironically, I was as nervous about speaking French as the beginning students were, even though I’ve been studying the language for about six years. The more French I learned, the more I realized I didn’t know. No sooner had I mastered the dastardly subjunctive tense than I was dismayed to learn that it came in three more varieties. When I spoke French, I felt like I was doing a stuttering tap dance in my brain as reclining, languid cells heckled my thoughts from the peanut gallery by shouting erroneous suggestions for verb conjugations.
Abruptly, I was pulled from my reverie by my director as he called “Kendra, come meet your new mommy!” Go time. I picked my way across the luggage-strewn sidewalk toward a very motherly looking woman whose own shy smile mirrored my own.
“Bonjour,” I said warmly, leaning in for “la bise,” the obligatory French cheek kissing embrace, while she tried to adopt the more American handshake. The ensuing embrace was part kiss, part shake, a dash of hug and 100-percent awkward.
Fortunately, my host family is fantastic, and I am now a steadfast believer in their magical powers. Their warmth and kindness is already allowing me to solo in French with increased ease. It also doesn’t hurt that they live in a modest little four-story mansion with enough bedrooms to house the entire U.Va. football team. Because all six of their children are grown and gone, they seem to have decided that the best way to stave off empty nest syndrome is by hosting and spoiling me.
Not everyone in my program has been so lucky, however. The host family choice is fraught with tenuous issues, compounded by the language and culture barrier. While most host families choose to house students for altruistic motivations, it cannot be denied that they do receive monetary compensation for their services.
One student said, “My family doesn’t talk to me, they simply ignore me.” Another conservative-minded student is housed with a couple whose occupations as sex therapists result in frequent visitors with a decidedly sexual conversational thread. Some students can walk to college, while others have to wake up early and bike, while still others groan about managing the complex, undependable bus schedule.
Another hiccup in the program is the disproportionate number of girls to guys. A defined study-abroad gender imbalance for French language classes and study abroad programs has always existed; however, mine is particularly lopsided with 40 girls and five boys. One can only imagine the chaos that 40 nervous, excited and sleep-deprived American girls who are pushed out of their comfort zone can create. Guys, please take French and come to France with us. Not only do we need you to stabilize our more neurotic tendencies, but many of the girls in my group can’t bear the weight of their overstuffed bags, weighing up to 100 pounds.
While living with strangers and my now-daily overdoses of estrogen were redoubtable challenges to overcome, there is a yet unconquered horror that continues to chafe away little pieces of my soul: unisex bathrooms.
Many of the bathrooms in my new university are equipped with urinals at the end for the men, and stalls on the side, presumably for the women. Imagine my surprise and dismay upon entering as I was greeted with the sight of several men getting in the position. My flight, if clocked, would have rivaled the speed of light. On second thought, guys, if you come to France, I won’t ask you to carry my bags. But could you, uh, check the bathroom for me?
Kendra’s column runs biweekly Tuesdays. She can be reached at k.kirk@cavalierdaily.com.
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