Tuesday, 09 September 2008
I've already said that I feel like I'm standing in for someone much more qualified--that living in Paris doesn't seem real. Even mundane things seem to bloom with life and excitement. Eating cereal alone at the breakfast table while it's raining outside is, in Paris, a delightful experience. Though I take pleasure in things like carrying groceries through the métro (carrying a baguette under one arm is so far the most delightful--like a food accessory), the thrill will be something I struggle with.
Certainly Americans romanticize Europe. We idealize the study abroad experience, but that's precisely what makes describing life in Paris somewhat difficult. On the one hand, we can all agree: Glynnis living in Paris is probably the most exciting thing that's ever happened to anyone on the face of the planet. Nevermind winning the lottery or skydiving. Pssh. Small potatoes, those. And the fact that it's Paris, one of the most mythologized, romanticized cities in all the world, merely compounds the problem. When I say I have been on picnics beneath the Eiffel Tower, there is a resounding chorus of "I bet that was awesome! I'm so jealous!" When I waltz through the Louvre for free with my art history student ID, the masses sigh and say, "We wish we were there!" When I'm stuffed full of crêpes and wine, everyone's keen to congratulate me. Though I enjoy these interactions, each for different reasons, their occurrence often means things remain unsaid. In living up to its reputation, Parisian life--and perhaps any study abroad experience--allows plenty of room for people to fill in the blanks, and little room for me to explain my own experience. Yet, if given the opportunity, so many of my explanations would fall flat as stereotypes.
I feel kind of like I'm arguing in agreement. "You always assume things! But your assumptions are correct! STOP IT!"
I suppose the trouble is that with clichés, stereotypes, or even unique explanations of my experience, it will be hard to communicate the authenticity of my general excitement or the satisfaction I feel when a shop keeper understands a few sentences of my garbled French. You may comprehend some semblance of what I mean, but it will be much harder to evoke those same emotions in you using words; everything seems more grandiose, more genuine, and more weighty than any language has the ability to convey.
Perhaps this can help. A friend of mine has returned to the University of Alabama for summer and fall classes after a semester abroad this past spring. In a letter I recently received, he wrote: Even though I was here [Tuscaloosa, AL] during the summer when I knew close to no one on campus, returning for the fall still seems a bit hollow. Perhaps it's the fact that slowly friends are moving across town and schedules are becoming decreasingly intertwined; perhaps there's some nostalgia residual from Wales, of being a moment's spontaneous decision from endlessly interesting, exotic places and of doing literally everything with a coterie of my countrymen in a foreign place. It seems attractive--if a little self-centered--to think of the detachment between myself and friends as a result of being gone for so long or that someone has changed, dramatically or otherwise. And when I say detachment, I don't mean anything overt, but there exists a subtle sense of removal, a sense that I have to try harder to keep up with friends than before. Now, it may not have anything to do with any underlying sentiment or grand reason; probably it has much more to do with the mundane tangibles: [several friends have] moved to a place off-campus; [one] spends more time out of reach with [his girlfriend]; [one] is working in Birmingham this semester; [one] switched majors away from Mechanical Engineering; Nick Saban [UA's football coach] won't return my phone calls; and you're well out of reach in Paris. (PARIS!!! Am I jealous? Maybe a little more than a little.)
When he and I crossed paths briefly this summer, he tried hard to convey how hollow things felt upon returning home to the States. Though I already anticipate a little of that for myself, I can say that the opposite is true now: things seem much more full here. Life in Paris is sharing a rich cup of coffee with friends, whereas life in Tuscaloosa was a weak cup of luke-warm tea in an apartment, alone.
Tonight after finishing our first phonetics class, my fellow students at the Sorbonne began to scatter just outside the building. I lingered for a moment and caught a few of them--just a handful--and asked if they had any plans at present. Each replied "no" quite eagerly, and we walked together to a café on the corner. So began an evening of excited conversation between two Americans, a Colombian, and an Argentinian--three languages twisting like threads of braided bread. Over coffee we made plans to go out Thursday night, discussed destinations for possible weekend trips together--Istanbul, Prague, Amsterdam. Coffee became shopping at les petits marchés, then a picnic under the Eiffel Tower.
Already I feel I share more with these students than with some of my acquaintances back home. And why shouldn't I? We all chose to live in the same city for the same reasons, to learn the same new language at the same school. The eagerness and excitement with which we converse is something I haven't experienced in a long time. It mimics the excitement felt when getting to know someone with whom you hope to be romantic--a crush you've had for weeks that you finally find yourself sitting with at a dinner table. You both lean in as the conversation gets deeper, and you feel you must have absolutely everything in common. Yet somehow, I don't feel this excitement living life abroad will expire the same way crushes can by the time the second date rolls around.
So. The cast is developing. Meet Julian, a Colombian-American, Rob from L.A., and Ayelen (pronounced ash-uh-LENN), from Buenes Aires.
We had a grand time this evening. Next time we will remember a bottle opener.
