Countdown to Repatriotizing

I have a little calendar written in pencil on my wall here. It originally encompassed the majority of April and May. But the numbers aren't like the ones on your average calendar. Instead of identifying the date, they identify how many days left in Paris. Number 1 is at the bottom- Saturday, May 28th. The day I fly out. Not until I'm home, mind you- that will be a few days later, after Iceland.

I started this calendar at just under 60 days. I just erased Day 10.

Nine days. Starting tomorrow and ending with me on a plane, leaving the country. Nine days.

I'm staying pretty zen about it- I have moments of panic about what I won't be able to do again, worries about what I will and won't be able to fit into these last days, and moments where I sort of wish it would just hurry up already. Not that I want to leave, just that I'm almost in limbo right now. But for the most part, I'm just very satisfied. My French, while not perfect, comes easily now. I know how everything lays out in Paris, so on the now-rare occasion that I get lost, it's an easy fix. I've started getting almost nostalgic remembering how I was when I first arrived. The difference is almost ridiculous.

Some reflections, then. I think this will probably be the first of a three or four-part series of reflections on my time abroad, though don't hold me to that! But I imagine I will have different (and hopefully interesting) observations and things to say when I'm finally gone (maybe also on my last night? If I'm not frantically packing or out until 3a), whether that be in Iceland or once I'm in my own room, and once I am re-acclimated (the online dictionary is insisting that this is not a word. I'm going to use it anyway).

On Returning to the US:

There are some parts I'm really excited about. Seeing family? Check!! Switching from a not-even-twin, rather hard bed to an incredibly cushy queen, complete with purring kitty? Check!! Several times over the past few days, I've joined other American students in making lists of what I will be doing when I get back. First restaurant (I'm thinking Thai, but still undecided), first meal at home (a recipe for peanut tofu that I've had my eye on for months), what I'm going to do for the first week (remain motionless on aforementioned amazing bed with purring kitty, save a few fabulous pre-planned excursions and receiving any visitors who care to stop by), etc.

I am, however, a little nervous. They say that the reverse culture shock is equal to, if not greater, than the initial culture shock. Some part of me is worried about showing any difficulty. I don't want to be one of those people who is all dramatic about how it is so hard to make the shift back to English, back to the American way of life, when it's all really just a way of showing off what an amazing experience they just had or what have you. So when it took me several minutes to come up with the word "save" in the preceding paragraph instead of the French equivalent, instead of feeling victorious, I felt almost embarrassed. Seriously? I use English every day here. It's not like I've completely isolated myself. The other day, I tried to offer to take a picture for some tourists who were snapping pictures of each other, and I literally couldn't complete a full sentence. I kept trying to offer in French, when they clearly weren't French, and when I tried to offer in English, it kept bumping up against the French that was working it's way out of my mouth. What even is that? I've never tried to offer to take the photo of a French person. There is no reason for that phrase to even be in my head. Really hoping that goes away before I touch down at SeaTac.

I've also gotten incredibly adept at the Parisian form of walking down the street- have a death stare and blow off anyone who speaks to you. It is extremely effective at keeping weirdos and charlatans at bay, but it turns out I don't switch it off when in non-Parisian places. I think I offended a lot of innocent directions-seeking tourists in Edinburgh, and some nice little old ladies in Greece. At home, people smile at you on the street, say hi, make polite conversations in elevators, the whole shebang. The Parisian death stare isn't gonna fly...

On What Has Changed:

I feel much more confident in so many ways. Obviously, there is the language jump. The first few weeks that I was here, I could literally feel the "deer in headlights" look come over my face whenever someone spoke to me in French. Whenever someone asked me to speak, I would get incredibly embarrassed and couldn't say a word. My program director kept telling us that we needed to accept that we are essentially three-year olds in this language, and just learn to laugh at it and move on. That was a very hard thing to do, but I think I finally reached that point at about three months. Three months was a real turning point for lots of different comfort levels.

I have more confidence in other areas as well. I no longer fear getting lost. I've learned how to let things go (e.g. clearly, making someone move their purse so that you can sit next to them on a wide open bus isn't a problem in France. Breath, move the purse, and move on). I've even learned a few new ways to navigate social situations (you'll learn more about this in my Greece posts, starting tomorrow).


All in all, studying abroad is one of the best choices I have made in my life. Truly. Both semesters of it, but especially this second one, for how much I feel I have grown up. The first three months, I felt none of this. But when the switch flipped, everything that I had wanted to get out of this semester, I suddenly was getting. If anyone ever comes across this blog who is considering studying abroad, do it. Whatever it takes, do it (Miss Abigail, I'm talking to you in particular).

I have my final benevolat tomorrow, and apparently saying a formal, official goodbye is a big deal. I'm thinking of taking my laptop so I can show the kids a few pictures of where it is I am going home to.

And thus continues the final countdown. Last benevolat, last weekend.... Nine more days!

As Long as the Train Itself...

…this post is. As long as the train itself, this post is. Very Yoda. Or perhaps Shakespeare on a particularly saucy day. Well, here it is:

Writing to you from the train! Well, sort of. I’m writing this on the train, I will post it once I am safely ensconced in the hostel I am staying in tonight, before I transfer to the hotel with Katie and Clarissa tomorrow night. I was so incredibly nervous last night and this morning, even though I knew I had taken care of all I could take care of. The snags, I guess, were as follows:

a)    I am so used to printing my own tickets that I automatically clicked the option to print my Eurostar tickets at home, forgetting that I have no printer. I need to learn the cyber-cafes around here. Now, most US travel places have no problem with letting you click this then actually print at the station, but this time it was a bit of an issue. I don’t know if it is a French thing, a European thing, or just a Eurostar thing, but if once I clicked that fateful little box, if I couldn’t print it on my own, I had to get to the station early and have an actual person print it for me, for a small fee. So I did that, but it was still a huge cause of anxiety.

b)   No printer also means I couldn’t print itineraries and confirmations and the like, but I countered this by copying everything, including directions to my hostel from my Underground stop, into a notebook.

c)    I don’t know how to call my bank and tell them that I am going to be in the UK for a few days, so I’m just going to withdraw a chunk of change as soon as I get there, and sort out unblocking my card, if indeed they do block it, when I get back to France and can have my program director help me. I had hoped to withdraw the money in Euros while in Paris and then exchange it at the train station in London, but the lady who printed my tickets apparently had to go through quite a process, because it took her ages, and then security was slow, so I had to tear down the platform to get to my train.

d)   And of course, I cleverly booked a train that left at 6:43 am. On the other side of Paris from me. Caught what I believe was the first Metro of the morning, at 5:37am. Now, I’ve been getting up earlier these days, but the bump I made to 6:50am earlier this week was still feeling a bit too early. But then I ended up waking up 30 minutes before my alarm anyway.

e)    And finally, I always go into panic mode when I do international travel (puh, always- this is only my second time flying internationally without my mom right there, helping me get everything together). Domestic travel is significantly less, unless I am moving. Then it is terror like none other.

Everything is going pretty swimmingly so far. I’m hoping to find a UK adaptor and a padlock somewhere near the train station in London, as I can’t locate my UK adaptor (leaving me to suspect it actually resides in the greater Seattle area), and my hostel highly recommends (in bold, capital letters) to bring my own padlock. I looked in three likely stores yesterday, no padlocks to be found in Paris. But I can actually comfortably ask about things like this once I get to London, because they speak English!!! So excited. Also planning on hitting up a drugstore to see if they stock Nyquil. Just in case another cold hits me in Paris. Granted the drugs the pharmacist gave me worked pretty well, but sometimes a girl just wants to knock herself out with Nyquil and go to sleep.

Still quite dark outside, so my window seat is not doing much for me- OOO! Windmill!! I could see the outline of a windmill. That was cool. A modern, pointy one, but still. I can also faintly see some buildings, and of course I can see the lights of the French strip malls, which really kind of amuses me.

….

I think dawn is approaching. Just in time for us to shoot under a tunnel and do really painful things to my ears! Yowch. Well, we’re back up, which is good. I didn’t think we’d been in here long enough to already be in the Chunnel… I can now see outlines of trees a little ways off. Not the cool uber-French cypress trees, for the most part, but I’ll see those in a few weeks when my program takes us to Marseilles. Which, I found out yesterday in my history class, is in the South of France! Yay geography. I was just stressing over needing to get into the South of France (probably doesn’t need to be capitalized, but there you go), and for whatever reason I though Marseilles was sort of… middle to upper eastern area. Not so, as it turns out. It’s the oldest city in France, settled by the Greeks as a point of commerce pre-Roman invasion.

Hahaha, I can see semi-trucks on the highway next to us. It never ceases to amuse me when I see things that seem so very big and American over here. Like the truck commercial I saw the other day. Did you know that Volkswagen makes trucks? It was like one of those Chevy commercials, with dirt and Real Men. And of course, they have dirt here, and I’m sure they have Real Men who do Real Manly Jobs, but it totally doesn’t jive with the image of the cute provincial French worker, or the assumed disdain for American machismo.

Oooo, string of cypress trees in the distance. It’s that weird dusty blue light on everything now, so I can see detailed silhouettes of things a ways away now, but not much color. Yaaaay countryside! I’m glad I have a view of some before the inevitable descent into darkness. Sort of the point in taking the train! I can only assume that the train that left 30 minutes later was much more expensive… what else would I have been thinking??

When I flew to Dublin a few years ago (close to two years- just a few weeks from now, I think), I went by way of France. What I’m seeing now connects up very nicely with what I saw on the plane- which is to say, very little. Outside of the big cities, France is pretty open. Lots of wide plains and farmland and the like, dotted with adorable little cities, all with their adorable little church. Of course, I’m also seeing a more industrialized area, as train tracks tend to run through such warehouse and train yard type areas.

Farmland is so cute. Aha! Successfully avoided ear pain at another small tunnel- I was yawning as we entered. Note to self. (In case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t so much a structured blog post as it is a stream-of-conscious as the train rolls down the track.)

Hmmm. That may be it for scenery for a while- nope, I lied. Back up top.

I’m a happy girl now. Plenty of light, and lots of little farmhouses right off the tracks. A tad foggy, but still an excellent view. My only issue right now is food. I actually packed food- part of the baguette I picked up last night, spread with peanut butter and Nutella. But a) I have no water, so it’s pretty sticky and dry to eat, and b) I’ve reached that point of hunger when I’m actually almost nauseas and unable to eat. Which just seems plain silly, from an evolutionary standpoint. But it usually subsides in a bit, and I’ll go for it then, water or no water.

Little teeny windmill! Spinning away madly. Looks like it just powers the little teeny town it ws in the middle of.

It’s very peaceful out here. I’m pretty much a city gal, or at least a moderately-sized town on the proximity of a city gal, but out here I can really see the appeal of moving out into the country, getting a cute little house with a little vegetable garden. And a few geese, I feel like there are geese involved. Daily walks or bike rides (faire une promeade ou faire une promenade a velo) to the little patisserie/boulangerie (need to find out what, if any, difference there is between those two) in town.

Hmm. We are slowing down some, but I know we aren’t making any stops. I wonder if this means we are approaching the chunnel. The fog has gotten heavier, so is seems reasonable to assume that we are near the water now.

Passing through a train station (but not stopping), and I can see some soldiers. This is something interesting I have noticed in France- there doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to where they show up, but every couple of days I spot a group of three soldiers. They are in army combat gear, and they carry machine guns. Like, big, epic, war movie machine guns. While wearing berets, and strolling the streets of Paris or hopping on the Metro. It’s interesting. The seem to take the place of a standard police presence. Though I did see a little squadron of riot police a few weeks back, though I couldn’t for the life of me find the riot. (Alright, I didn’t go searching for it, but there was no noticeable disturbance that I could see, and I did look around.)

This might finally be The Chunnel. Which means I can finally turn to my West Wing DVD and not feel guilty! View or West Wing- it’s a win-win.

…

And we’re up! This must mean I’m in England!! Where it is veeeery foggy.  Back to The West Wing. You know, I remember the Chunnel part of the train ride taking a lot longer when we traveled from London to Paris in 2005.

And as it turns out, the train ride from the Chunnel into London is also short, so I must dash! When this posts, I should be safely ensconced in my hostel.