An American Cliche in Paris - Part Quatre

While walking down the Seine today, bag and camera in hand, one of my new found friends inquired into the status of my journal. She had started one for herself and had already recorded the fun, exhausted, trauma oriented and down right ridiculous outings we had stumbled upon. So in light of her wisdom, I thought a catch up for the record might be useful in the coming months as an indicator of has done's and has not done's.

I would like to go chronologically, but my brain doesn't work that way. Unfortunately, when referring to the past tense, I reserve on the ability to relate activities to overall thematic experiences. Hence: 

Days 1-4, Titled: "Bad shoes, bad taste and bad bed's."

I arrived in Paris with a good three hours of waiting in the airport for signs of American life. Not bad since I have done many a layover in my jet-lagged log. After a considerable amount of time, the others began to trickle in and eventually we made our way to the hotel. After lugging my luggage (that I proudly announced I only had one bag, not including the fact that it was 85 lbs) we arrived at our hotel which I promptly found out was a room the size of my kitchen in DC. If only I had known this was an omen. 

After two days of "activities" including touring our area, touring the area of our school, two orientations, the Eiffel Tour and adventures in finding out what "hashe" in french means, my feet hurt, I rudely found out what little french I knew, was dumb struck by the Eiffel Tour at night, was wind-whipped by it during the day and found the one gay area in Paris. It was insane to say the least. 

Finally upon arriving at my home-stay, I found a room twice the size (in living and in ceiling height), with a balcony, keys and family that promised I was "free to come and go" as I pleased. After being invited to her castle in the south of France, and given the option of staying here for the entire month of August since she would be gone, I immediately fell in love and in hope. 

The next day found another down and up on the roller coaster of culture shock... a trip to Versailles. There is no way to wrap this day up more than to say, after four hours of walking around a palace that is known as one of the biggest in the world, our "tour guide" kept asking "why are you American's always hungry?" Our group had mistakenly assumed that lunch would fall somewhere in between 11am and 6pm. Silly us. But not to be deterred, Larry and Mo (our tour guide and his BFF), snapped the whip every time we sat down until we lost a student (from a group of 12) and promptly staged a sit in until we found her. As fate would have it (and a lack of cell phones for fear of roaming charges), we left the Palace with no trace of her and Larry (the tour guide) stating it wasn't that big of a deal. Hmmm... Well at least the grounds were beautiful.

Days 5-8 have been titled "Getting acquainted with Paris"

After three days of more walking and less food that felt slightly akin to the Chinese death march, I decided to butcher enough French to get a pizza to go. Ordering the right kind I immediately offended the waiter in which I waited an extra 15 minutes and paid en extra 10 Euro. I love France. Pizza and bottle of wine in hand, I rang in the next days with a bottle of vino and a lot of cheese. Under eating be damned.

Starting school was another transition from which I was unprepared in the sense of practicality. Why is it that culture shock was not even in my mind from day one? I guess I thought 6 weeks wasn't enough time, but maybe it isn't enough time in one sense, but in another, like having to create a routine and actually DO homework never really entered my romance soaked mind of Paris. This was supposed to be all fun and games right? Not school work and tests. Wrong again. As wrong as the assumption that 45 minutes would be enough time to get to school, and that I would be able to do it without getting lost on the Paris metros. 

Well, as it goes, after numerous attempts at transitioning, the double and triple metro change-overs become another symbol of how making the harder for "difficult" decision is always the right one... right? Walking around Paris in heels at 11:30 at night lost, is not my idea of cultural transition, but hey, at least the next night found me in Leonard Skynard tee-shirt and fake vans at a feux-American bar playing hard-core beer pong. Now THIS I could do. A win and a loss later, my newly formed friendships had found a new local hangout... and a slight hangover on a Wednesday morning. At least school wasn't until 2:00, which I promptly arrived at 2:15 since I once again am a master of the Parisian metro system. 

The following days are what I would like to title "We're Not in Kansas Anymore."

Culture shock and the symptoms hit everyone differently and never with the same out comes. Some cry, some hide, some dow both... me? I turn into a doomsdayer with veracity attacking everything from my wardrobe to my hair to my weight... so basically an incredible sense of insecurity accompanied by an incredible case of "I miss my boyfriend." 

As the shock of arrival wore off and the newfound sense of "This is home for now..." settled in, the reality of no longer being home came with it. Hard to swallow, especially when you are basically by-coastal anyhow. Where is home becomes a weird question to answer. But a 24 hour fever down, tourism quenched and appreciation for cheap middle eastern food acquired, the practicality of the time and place is now settling in. 

Longing for home still settles in that deep down place, but not so overwhelmingly that the exploration of the 4th, 5th and 6th arrodisimonts of Paris did not hold a charm and promise of future luster calm to come. 

Though not detailed, the over all lessons of the latest and greatest in adventures are still to come, with many told... and untold stories to be paired.