I've been back in California for three days now. While I'm still on France's time, while some of my clothes still smell faintly like second-hand-Parisian smoke, and while I still have that lingering (but rapidly fading) feeling that I'm in the City of Love, I need to write. I need to write about what it's like to be back in the States—before my fear becomes reality and these past months become nothing but a page in a scrapbook or a foggy, half-forgotten dream.
First of all, as you can deduce from my last post, it is wonderful to be home. Nay, beyond wonderful. I mean... Yesterday, I baked gingerbread cookies (with an eggnog glaze frosting...mmmm). I drove my car around Tehachapi blasting my music and singing as loud as I could. I went out to dinner with three of my best friends. I randomly ran into at least 5 people that I know—because that's just what happens when you grew up in a tiny town and you go home for the holidays. It's been great!!
There have been a couple of things though... things that have been not necessarily negative—but perhaps a little strange—since being back home.
For one, I realized that I do not know how to interact with people in English anymore. I'm totally comfortable with my family and friends, of course, but I'm a seriously socially awkward individual right now. Allow me to explain.
Yesterday, I met up with my friend David to go around to businesses and hang up flyers/ask for sponsors for a benefit concert he is organizing for Invisible Children (which is an organization that helps rehabilitate former child soldiers of the LRA in Uganda and the DRC). My job was to hit all the businesses in the Albertson's shopping center. Easy right? Easy as... gâteau? Just walk in, be charming, ask if you can hang the flyer, maybe explain a little more what the concert and organization is about, and you're done. Boom.
So I walk into the first store. And I freeze. Isn't this the part where I'm supposed to say "Bonjour Monsieur" ??
"Uh.. hiii..." I say in a stupid sing-song way, almost as if it's a question.
"Hi" The shop owner responds expectingly, in that tone as if he's returning the question.
(Now I'm supposed to say "Je voudrais...."? "J'ai une petit probleme?" "Excusez-moi de vous déranger?..." No Erin. Focus. Geeeze!)
"I was woooondering if I could hang this paper in your window, I mean.. this flyer.. it's for a benefit concert for invisible children and..."
"Well how am I supposed to know they are there?"
"Um, I— I'm sorry.. what?" (What language is this again? Why don't I understand this man?)
"The invisible children, how am I supposed to know if they're there if I can't see them?"
(Oh. It was a joke.And now he is smiling condescendingly as if I am a total idiot.)
He took the poster and taped it to the window for me.
"Okay well," (Merci Beaucoup Monsieur, Au revoir, bonne journee!) "Thanks so much for your help... have a.. great day.. evening. Goodbye.. Sir."
(Goodbye sir? Come on. Normal people don't say that!)
Whoa. That's when I realized that I haven't had an exchange with a stranger in English in months. It felt so... unnatural. I was so conscious of whether or not I should smile, how formal I was acting, and it was SO easy to find the words to express what I needed that I just didn't know what to do with myself! I'm sure that I'll get over it in a day or two...
I was just as weird when I walked into all of the other businesses in that shopping center. Really, there was only one exchange that didn't result in me feeling like an idiot, and that was a rather flirtatious encounter with a young guy that works at the AT&T store. I guess that's because one thing that living in France has taught me about interacting with strangers is how to be flirty and charming—it's just what you have to do there—so that was easy for me!
So yeah, I'm a flirtatious awkward, bumbling bafoon now. Great.
In the end, almost all the shops let me hang up the flyer or at least kept a copy until they could ask a manager. That's really all that matters!
Also: I haven't walked anywhere today.
The first few weeks that I was in Paris, I would come home every night with aching feet. My legs and feet got stronger, but still over the course of four months, the streets of Paris relentlessly destroyed least five pairs of my shoes. Paris is a city for walking. I would walk 15 minutes both ways to school multiple times a day. I would walk to the market, walk to the bank, walk to...well I had no car, so I would walk everywhere actually!. One day I might walk a few blocks to a Metro stop, go underground, walk just as far or more through the white-tiled tunnels under the city, walk a few more blocks to my destination—let's say, a site-visit for my history class—then I would walk on a tour of a building or a museum for two hours with my professor, then I would probably walk back to the metro, perhaps after a stop at a cafe, and do it all in reverse. Later that day, I would probably want to go out, so my feet would hit pavement again. Or, if I was feeling like a quiet evening, I'd probably decide to go for a walk along the Seine for an hour or so. Or maybe I'd walk around the Louvre. Or just take the metro to a random neighborhood and explore. Once a week I walked from my neighborhood in the 12th to the farthest west end of the 7th on the opposite side of the city. Walk walk walk-e-dy walk. Not only that, but at the end of my semester I had even reached the point where I was doing all this walking in HEELS. What? Erin? Heels? Yeah.
So anyway, how many times did that paragraph include some form of the verb "to walk"? You get the picture.
The thing is, my life felt a lot more balanced that way. Here in the States, I feel like I have to work out and go running all the time to get a healthy dose of exercise (because all we do is sit in our cars in between point A, where we were sitting, and point B, where we will be sitting some more...). When you're on your feet walking literally all day though, you don't need that exercise as much. Not only that, it's just good for the soul! You're out there, in the fresh air, in all kinds of weather, with all types of people... it's beautiful! How much are we missing because it's hidden behind our windshields or muffled by our radios?
Anyway. that's my rant. (Sorry). I tried walking in Tehachapi yesterday; it was weird. I mean, as I was walking down the empty streets, the total silence was finally broken by one dog barking and a piece of trash blowing across the road like a tumbleweed in an old Western... and right about then I accepted that I wasn't going to be able to recreate "flâner"-ing (strolling) on the lively rues of Paris.
That's okay though. Just because it's different in Paris doesn't mean it's better. It will definitely just take some readjusting...
Honestly, I could go on for days about all of the cultural differences i've noticed and awkward little adjustments I've had to make.
Today I could, anyway.
Tomorrow though, who knows if I could?
...because the fact is that a few months living in France is just a tiny slice in the pie of two decades of living in the United States. (Note that it's the "pie", not the "tarte")
I can already feel myself slipping back into my normal routines, mannerisms, relationships, everything! It's bittersweet, because I feel so at home and comfortable again, but already my life, ma vie a' Paris, is starting to feel like it belonged to someone else.
That's why I'm so thankful that I've been periodically writing in this blog. Even though I'm a little bit embarrassed of it, i've tried to be as honest and personal as possible. I know that I can look back on the things that I have written over the last few months and just maybe travel back for a moment to the city that inspired all my words. I can remember what it was like, what I was like. That reminder is invaluable, because it truly would be a loss to forget the lessons that I learned in Paris, the people that I met in Paris, the things that I saw in Paris, and the person I became in Paris.
First of all, as you can deduce from my last post, it is wonderful to be home. Nay, beyond wonderful. I mean... Yesterday, I baked gingerbread cookies (with an eggnog glaze frosting...mmmm). I drove my car around Tehachapi blasting my music and singing as loud as I could. I went out to dinner with three of my best friends. I randomly ran into at least 5 people that I know—because that's just what happens when you grew up in a tiny town and you go home for the holidays. It's been great!!
There have been a couple of things though... things that have been not necessarily negative—but perhaps a little strange—since being back home.
For one, I realized that I do not know how to interact with people in English anymore. I'm totally comfortable with my family and friends, of course, but I'm a seriously socially awkward individual right now. Allow me to explain.
Yesterday, I met up with my friend David to go around to businesses and hang up flyers/ask for sponsors for a benefit concert he is organizing for Invisible Children (which is an organization that helps rehabilitate former child soldiers of the LRA in Uganda and the DRC). My job was to hit all the businesses in the Albertson's shopping center. Easy right? Easy as... gâteau? Just walk in, be charming, ask if you can hang the flyer, maybe explain a little more what the concert and organization is about, and you're done. Boom.
So I walk into the first store. And I freeze. Isn't this the part where I'm supposed to say "Bonjour Monsieur" ??
"Uh.. hiii..." I say in a stupid sing-song way, almost as if it's a question.
"Hi" The shop owner responds expectingly, in that tone as if he's returning the question.
(Now I'm supposed to say "Je voudrais...."? "J'ai une petit probleme?" "Excusez-moi de vous déranger?..." No Erin. Focus. Geeeze!)
"I was woooondering if I could hang this paper in your window, I mean.. this flyer.. it's for a benefit concert for invisible children and..."
"Well how am I supposed to know they are there?"
"Um, I— I'm sorry.. what?" (What language is this again? Why don't I understand this man?)
"The invisible children, how am I supposed to know if they're there if I can't see them?"
(Oh. It was a joke.And now he is smiling condescendingly as if I am a total idiot.)
He took the poster and taped it to the window for me.
"Okay well," (Merci Beaucoup Monsieur, Au revoir, bonne journee!) "Thanks so much for your help... have a.. great day.. evening. Goodbye.. Sir."
(Goodbye sir? Come on. Normal people don't say that!)
Whoa. That's when I realized that I haven't had an exchange with a stranger in English in months. It felt so... unnatural. I was so conscious of whether or not I should smile, how formal I was acting, and it was SO easy to find the words to express what I needed that I just didn't know what to do with myself! I'm sure that I'll get over it in a day or two...
I was just as weird when I walked into all of the other businesses in that shopping center. Really, there was only one exchange that didn't result in me feeling like an idiot, and that was a rather flirtatious encounter with a young guy that works at the AT&T store. I guess that's because one thing that living in France has taught me about interacting with strangers is how to be flirty and charming—it's just what you have to do there—so that was easy for me!
So yeah, I'm a flirtatious awkward, bumbling bafoon now. Great.
In the end, almost all the shops let me hang up the flyer or at least kept a copy until they could ask a manager. That's really all that matters!
Also: I haven't walked anywhere today.
The first few weeks that I was in Paris, I would come home every night with aching feet. My legs and feet got stronger, but still over the course of four months, the streets of Paris relentlessly destroyed least five pairs of my shoes. Paris is a city for walking. I would walk 15 minutes both ways to school multiple times a day. I would walk to the market, walk to the bank, walk to...well I had no car, so I would walk everywhere actually!. One day I might walk a few blocks to a Metro stop, go underground, walk just as far or more through the white-tiled tunnels under the city, walk a few more blocks to my destination—let's say, a site-visit for my history class—then I would walk on a tour of a building or a museum for two hours with my professor, then I would probably walk back to the metro, perhaps after a stop at a cafe, and do it all in reverse. Later that day, I would probably want to go out, so my feet would hit pavement again. Or, if I was feeling like a quiet evening, I'd probably decide to go for a walk along the Seine for an hour or so. Or maybe I'd walk around the Louvre. Or just take the metro to a random neighborhood and explore. Once a week I walked from my neighborhood in the 12th to the farthest west end of the 7th on the opposite side of the city. Walk walk walk-e-dy walk. Not only that, but at the end of my semester I had even reached the point where I was doing all this walking in HEELS. What? Erin? Heels? Yeah.
So anyway, how many times did that paragraph include some form of the verb "to walk"? You get the picture.
The thing is, my life felt a lot more balanced that way. Here in the States, I feel like I have to work out and go running all the time to get a healthy dose of exercise (because all we do is sit in our cars in between point A, where we were sitting, and point B, where we will be sitting some more...). When you're on your feet walking literally all day though, you don't need that exercise as much. Not only that, it's just good for the soul! You're out there, in the fresh air, in all kinds of weather, with all types of people... it's beautiful! How much are we missing because it's hidden behind our windshields or muffled by our radios?
Anyway. that's my rant. (Sorry). I tried walking in Tehachapi yesterday; it was weird. I mean, as I was walking down the empty streets, the total silence was finally broken by one dog barking and a piece of trash blowing across the road like a tumbleweed in an old Western... and right about then I accepted that I wasn't going to be able to recreate "flâner"-ing (strolling) on the lively rues of Paris.
That's okay though. Just because it's different in Paris doesn't mean it's better. It will definitely just take some readjusting...
Honestly, I could go on for days about all of the cultural differences i've noticed and awkward little adjustments I've had to make.
Today I could, anyway.
Tomorrow though, who knows if I could?
...because the fact is that a few months living in France is just a tiny slice in the pie of two decades of living in the United States. (Note that it's the "pie", not the "tarte")
I can already feel myself slipping back into my normal routines, mannerisms, relationships, everything! It's bittersweet, because I feel so at home and comfortable again, but already my life, ma vie a' Paris, is starting to feel like it belonged to someone else.
That's why I'm so thankful that I've been periodically writing in this blog. Even though I'm a little bit embarrassed of it, i've tried to be as honest and personal as possible. I know that I can look back on the things that I have written over the last few months and just maybe travel back for a moment to the city that inspired all my words. I can remember what it was like, what I was like. That reminder is invaluable, because it truly would be a loss to forget the lessons that I learned in Paris, the people that I met in Paris, the things that I saw in Paris, and the person I became in Paris.
This is beautifully written, you're quite a writer. I love the way you describe your interactions with people and your thoughts about Paris. I can't wait to read the rest of your posts!
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