Just to be clear...

...I'm not anywhere close to being French, nor do I really want to be. Even as a somewhat closeted francophile, I will not take on the impossible task of trying to be someone I'm not. As the blog, states, I'm not quite there. Now, days after it's begun, "not quite there" brings to mind a turtle slothing it's way to a non-existent finish line. The name comes solely from my lack of originality and my tendency to twist around the names of books I've recently read to title my blogs.

The book in question is Sarah Turnbull's "Almost French," of which I highly recommend to anyone. Upon picking it up at the library and glimpsing the cover, I thought that the pages would contain a fictional romance on the streets of Paris, couples lounging in candlelit cafes, then later slothing down magnificent cobblestone alleys like the aforementioned turtle. While thinking the book would be much better if the couple happened to step in a grotesque pile of dog shit, I happened upon the summary. Critics had written exactly my thoughts. I took it home and there wasn't an ounce of sap in the entire book. A non-fiction piece, it gives the reader a glimpse of Paris from a foreigner's eyes. The humiliating moments everyone stuggles with in another country, and the minor successes that become huge. It's humorous, well written, and informative.

Maybe this blog is my way of being a wannabe after all. Other than the fact that I like to write, my two other blogs, Hungarian Lessons, and Spanish from Scratch, functioned well in a few ways.

* HL was a great way to complain about the horrid students I taught in Budapest and have random Hungarians write comments like, "why don't you try smiling at them? You sound very angry."

* Writing on SFS helped me block out all the excess noise in the teacher's room, not to mention the incessant drama that incessantly occured there.

* Both blogs kept my parents aware that I was still alive as I can't seem to get over this telephone "allergy" of mine. Saying that I HATE talking on the phone is an understatement. I think I'm actually scared that it will bite me.

Adventure Looms

I spent the past weekend with two of my closest friends, one of whom drove more than 4 hours north to Chicago from St. Louis. These are the kind of friends that will always be there *sigh.* We ate Japanese food, ice cream, and gummi bears. We trolled the aisles of Super Target giggling, some of us snorting. We sprayed perfume in each other's faces...by accident. We went out and danced. We stayed up until 4 in the morning chatting, munching on Triscuits and cream cheese. We took pictures...hundreds of them. We only stopped laughing to eat.

The high from this kind of weekend left me wanting to stick around longer. Make the summer drag out a bit more. Stretch the days, even though they are getting consistently shorter each day. Instead of traversing the continent of Europe, I increasingly find myself wanting to stop wandering and be around those with whom I'm closest.

Going to France is hugely important to me. I've studied French, it's culture, and history for 9 years and as much as I've wanted to give up and slam my phonebook size dictionary shut, it's always haunted me. And I've always stuck with it. I love the sound of French, the people and culture intrigue me. I intend to get the most out of my time there. And I'm secretly hoping the Gallic air will clear my head and I'll be able to figure out what I'm going to do with myself next.

Although I'm excited to get to France, it's always sad to say goodbye to family and friends. While some wonder why I continue to bounce from one place to the next, others think it's great and want to visit. No matter what anyone thinks, everyone's still supported me. Sometimes, I think of my time teaching abroad as a second college experience. This means I'm coming up on senior year and ready to graduate soon.

International Adaptation

It's been almost two months that I've been in the U.S., back from Spain desperately trying to jog off all the tortilla, chorizo, and zapatillo cookies I ate while there. It might be working, but man could I go for a combination of all three right about now.

During my first week back in Chicagoland, I felt like a fish out of water. The doorknobs seemed lower on doors, the toilets seemed like alien spaceships, too many people wore shorts, the Coke bottles appeared bloated: they just didn't have that European hourglass shape. Everyone sounded overly nasal when they spoke (hello Midwest). There were too many cars, not enough pedestrians, bikers, walkers. Not to mention the cars were too big. Too many plazas and definitely not the Spanish sort. Parking lots framed with Walgreen's, Al's Beef, Payless Shoes, T.G.I.Friday's, PetCo. The dollar was too long, thin, and drab unlike my wad of short, wide, and colorful bursts of Euro.

I may have gotten lost in the local Meijer, somewhere between the boulevard of waxy, shining apples in colors that never seemed entirely natural and a brigade of pop bottles, an army of caffeinated soldiers lining mile long shelves. I asked my Dad if he had weighed all the produce he'd "carelessly" thrown into the cart, then realized that the cashiers do it at checkout after catching a bewildered fatherly stare.

Those first days were an adventure. I felt like a foreigner in my own country. Treading carefully, looking at everything as if I were seeing it for the first time. This is how I lived? I kept thinking.

And now, I feel entirely at home. It only took several weeks and I'm driving like a pro, tearing through Walgreens for all my drug store needs, and distinguishing quarters from nickels no problem.

I've just realized that I'll be leaving fairly soon and it hit me how quickly I've re-acclimated to my own country. It also makes me think how I'll have to go through the same but different sort of experience again in France.

The first day in a different country always throws me off my feet, even if it's just a slight stumble. Even so, I usually adapt within no time. How? Because I realize that no one's going to feed me and I'm just going to have to rustle up dinner on my own. Clutching an old bag of airport trail mix, purchased in departure city that seems seasons ago, this is the moment it hits. I can't eat peanut shells or lick the bag. Not because I wouldn't, but because that will not get me through the night. Not surprisingly, when hunger hits, your powers are limitless. Call it primal instinct, call it jet lag delerium, time zone lagerium, whatever. Something gets you into that foreign grocery store coming out with a bag full of a mixture of whatever looked good at the time. Then, you're officially in. Everything after that is just a little bit easier. Getting those first jitters over with is essential. And to think you can do it with a triangle sandwich in a plastic box containing whatever meat the country is famous for.

Even with all of the inevitable "uncomfortable" moments that are synonymous with traveling abroad, the good ones make up for them in a heartbeat.

And there's absolutely nothing like coming home after a long time away.

August Checklist

I'm leaving for France in almost a month.

I have:

* fresh passport pages,
* a one-way ticket to Lyon,
* cocooning caterpillars that will soon grow to frantic butterflies in my stomach.

I don't have:

* a visa,
* a place to live,
* any idea what to do when I get there.