Well, folks, here it is: my new blog. After finally turning thirty, I had to retire "Approaching Dirty Thirty", but I still had a yearning to blog so I created a new one. I thought that since I am infatuated with all things French (well, almost all), I would devote my newest blog to that. French stuff. The title is "Je rêve en français", meaning (I hope) I dream in French. It's true, I do dream in French, quite frequently actually. When I was in 8th grade we had to take the New York State Foreign Language Proficiency Exam, and since I had been studying French I was to take it in French. I remember being very nervous about this "big" test, and my teacher said we'd know we'd studied enough when we started dreaming in French. I can't recall if that happened then, but I definitely dream in French now. Of course, I continued studying French through high school and college, eventually pursuing it as a minor. Now my French has been dormant, BUT I still dream in French. So I thought it would be a perfect title for this blog.
It's funny that I have this unnatural obsession with French things. There is a tiny bit of French in our family line, but not enough to spark this obsession. I'm really not sure where it came from or exactly when it manifested, but it's very much a part of my life. During my sophomore year in high school we went on a quick trip to Paris, and later I returned during my junior year of college for some time. By some, I mean a semester, and what a semester it was! Just days before I was set to depart, a letter from the university's program director arrived in the mail stating there were not enough dormitory living spaces and I'd have to make my own arrangements. Gasp! They could find us, and I quote, "temporary dormitory housing" until we could find an apartment. Well, then. Panic set in faster than you can imagine. Fortunately, my friend had received a similar letter. After hours of frantically calling people and searching on the Internet, we were able to connect with a relocation service in Paris that was able to find my friend and I a furnished studio apartment. Bingo! We were elated with the fact that we'd not only have our own apartment in Paris, with no rules or curfews, but that we would actually have a place to live. The catch was that we couldn't move into the apartment until two weeks after our arrival. So? Temporary dormitory housing it would have to be until then!
The day of departure finally arrived, and the finality of my decision to essentially move to Paris for four months kicked in. There was a bit of apprehension and excitement, mixed with a LOT of anxiety. I spent the morning altering my bank account to allow ATM withdrawals abroad and stuffing my suitcases with last-minute items. I had had months to prepare, but of course left these things to the very last minute. After loading up the car, we were Newark International Airport bound.
Now, this trip happened back in January of 2001, pre-9/11, so my family not only walked me through security but actually came to the gate with me to await my plane. That could never happen now.
The plane ride itself was uneventful, thankfully, and aside from some light turbulence and pretty awful spam, we arrived at Charles De Gaulle airport unscathed. We claimed our luggage and went to greet our program director, Celine, who herded us - there were about 15 of us - onto a small charter bus. It was after 7 in the morning, but the Parisian skies were still almost black. We made a couple stops, dropping people off at various dormitories, and finally I was let out. Just me and a girl from the Midwest. My friend, the one I was set to live with, would be going to another "temporary dormitory" until our apartment was ready. I reluctantly grabbed my suitcases and descended the steps into the cold Parisian drizzle. My companion and I walked up the sidewalk toward our destination: le BVG. A hostel? A hostel! Temporary dormitory housing my butt! Giving in to fatigue, we walked to the counter and announced our arrival. Moments later we were led through a smoky entryway and up a fairly wide spiral staircase (our "guide" did not offer to haul our bags, by the way). I noticed a payphone on the wall and made a mental note to call my parents to tell them of my safe arrival. (I knew my father had mixed feelings about my decision to study abroad in a foreign country for an entire semester.) The man opened our room for us, rattled off something in French that was too fast to comprehend, and left us alone. My new roommate and I claimed our beds - there was only enough room for two single beds and a small shower/sink are - and set down our suitcases. I was tired and confused - where was the toilet? - and she was way to chipper and excited. She wanted to go explore the city, while I wanted to lay down and cry. And that's what we did. I cried for my bed back home, my boyfriend (now husband) who I'd left behind, friends who'd be returning to college in a few days, and for my own naivete in thinking I could live alone in a foreign city that didn't care about me. I must have cried myself to sleep, because next thing I knew it was dark outside the window and I was drenched in sweat. A smile spread over my face. I was in Paris!
And that was my first day of my semester in Paris. A tiring day of anxiety, excitement, and disappointments, followed by the realization that none of that mattered. I was there. I had followed a dream and I was determined to make the best of it.
So maybe it's not that I'm in love with all things français, maybe I'm really in love with all things Parisienne!
Paris me manque!
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