One of my French professors — whose name is Pierre, naturally — routinely enters the classroom after our 15-minute repose carrying a wave of cigarette smoke with him. He is witty and pokes fun at students who he knows will not even understand his insults. Though many are confused by his dry humor, Pierre and I seem to share a mutual understanding — about what, I’m not sure, but he always looks in my direction after making one of his jokes and raises one eyebrow so that it curves upward like a perfect accent circonflexe.
Pierre is confused why his students travel so often during the weekends. Like many other born and bred Parisians, he believes his city to be the center of the world. London is simply a shadow of Paris, and New York is an untamed beast in dire need of a slower pace and some more grass.
We counter this argument, but to no avail. “But it’s so easy to travel around Europe,” we explain. And though since my arrival I’ve spent nearly every weekend outside of Paris, immensely enjoying all the other countries I’ve dipped my toes into, I’ve found it’s taking away from my full immersion into French culture and my understanding of this ever-challenging language. I admit Pierre might have a point. How memorable is a toe in the water?
After taking classes in French for 15 hours each week since I’ve arrived in Paris, you would expect me to be fluent. Unfortunately, this is certainly not the case. The best advice I never followed was to become friends with the local students.
In theory, it sounds romantic and wondrous — just say “Bonjour!” However, it is nearly impossible. Breaking into pre-established social circles is difficult enough when you speak the same language. Though it may be briefly entertaining for French youths to engage in conversation, giggling at the way you pronounce certain words like a horse chewing on hay, these conversations are not long-term friendships in the making. Ditch the idea of pen-pals. It’s not going to happen.
Having no host family and only my American roommates to talk with makes complete cultural immersion quite the challenge. I begin my day with class, churning out sentences in French. By the end of the day, I am mentally exhausted and have no choice but to return to the mother tongue.
This is the general routine from Monday until Thursday — but each Friday morning, all of that changes. Luggage in hand and headed to the airport, I must press pause on the outdated CD-player that is my brain and temporarily adapt to a new language for the weekend. With weekend travel comes the demise of anything that resembled progress. I crawl out of the water just after getting used to the temperature, only to jump right back in on Monday.
Last weekend, when Sunday finally came and I was heading back to Paris from Marrakech, I could not help but realize this pattern. I was mesmerized by Morocco. The peculiar integration of French and Arabic cultures — most obviously in language, but also in the city’s architecture and its cuisine — was something completely new to me, setting itself apart from other European cities in every way. The city seemed fantastical from my perspective, as if it were illustrated from a fictitious story I read at bedtime as a child. It was so drastically different I had to ask myself if it was real.
The souks were a weaving system of markets. Every market stall had essentially the same products, and yet, we wandered around these narrow corridors for hours, losing ourselves completely. Once in the central square, the call-to-prayer echoed across loud speakers, and all at once men gathered on their mats performing Muslim rituals I had only learned about in school — to the soundtrack of horses clip-clapping as they pulled caucasian couples down the street. I awoke each morning to this. It all seemed bizarre.
The morning my friends and I signed up to ride dromedaries — had to get that classic Instagram shot — we were in for an unexpected culture shock. While driving out from the hotel, we stopped 20 minutes away in a Berber desert village, where we were dressed in turbans and allegedly traditional Moroccan robes. Donned in these ridiculous bright-blue costumes, we mounted the animals and prepared for the photo-ops. We did not know we would be riding through the village, alongside the homes of locals.
In going past children playing with a soccer ball in a field covered in trash, I felt like a complete idiot. How ridiculous these villagers must think we are, showing up to their homes as if to examine them like animals in a zoo. Stupid tourists — and still, the children and parents smiled and waved.
Stopping halfway, we awkwardly dismounted and, again to our surprise, were led inside to the modest home of a family who presented us with steaming mint tea. The mother of the house was so thrilled and exuberant to see us that once inside we immediately removed the horrifying costumes, embarrassed we had agreed to wear them in the first place. She taught us to make msemmen, demonstrating how to roll the dough with our oiled hands. These Moroccan crepes, though in no way gluten-free, were heavenly to taste. It was the highlight of the weekend and left a smile on all our faces. It was the only glimmer of Morocco that seemed genuine and not completely redesigned for tourists.
When Sunday came and it was time to fly home, I found myself homesick for Paris. I missed the smog of cigarettes and the late afternoon showers. I missed the hum of the metro and the obnoxious accordion players who disrupt the silence of your morning commute. I missed my miniature apartment in the 17th arrondissement and watching the “yuppy” crowds sip their espresso as if their form had been rehearsed.
It was a strange, new feeling. Often on these Sunday nights of travel, I yearn to turn into my driveway in Maryland, but never had I consciously desired Paris until this moment. I wanted to dive back into my routine of lazily reading in the Luxembourg Gardens and indulging in my daily Pierre Hermé macaron. My toes belonged to Paris and I felt unfaithful traveling each weekend. Sitting in the backseat of my taxi, I closed my eyes while the driver turned up his classical music. I realized I would be back stateside in five weeks and I saw the end was near. I decided to finally forgive Paris all its oddities and annoyances.
Allison’s column runs biweekly Thursdays. She can be reached at a.lank@cavalierdaily.com.
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