Saturday, October 11th, 2008

A french connection

A Parisian girl quelled my reverse culture shock after living in France, and helped me once again appreciate home.

By Ashley Thompson

Thursday, November 1st, 2007

A subtle suggestion from my mom last February about my spending habits helped me realize I may have had a problem.

“Honey, if you have $70 in your bank account,” she said as gently as she could, “maybe you should stop buying so much expensive cheese.”

Cheese. I went broke because I couldn’t control myself at Au Marché, or the Merc, or anywhere else in town that sold $6 blocks of imported cheesy deliciousness. Gruyère, brebis, Camembert, chèvre. I needed it all and I needed it now.

Cheese snobbery is just one of the many side effects of reverse culture shock after I spent last fall in Angers, France. I was clinging tightly to the lifestyle I had cultivated and cherished over there, and I was going broke because of it. Living a European life in Lawrence is no cheap endeavor, but I was dead-set on remaining a Frenchie. My wallet ached.

And so did my heart, never ceasing to long for the French me. The better me. The happier me. The passionate me. The me that woke up each morning with a sense of purpose.

My host parents were a retired couple who were successful horticulturists. Madame and Monsieur was all I ever called them. No first name, no last name. Madame was a tiny woman with a bob cut, a wardrobe of plaid pants, and a mousy voice. Monsieur was tall and lean with a slight limp, and a choppy and contagious laugh. Five years ago, they began hosting international students attending the French language school a few blocks from their home, where Monsieur and Madame had lived since 1964. During most of my stay, five other international students lived with me. There was Julia, a lovely, free-spirited blonde from Finland; Naomitchi, a Japanese boy who spoke absolutely no French when he first arrived; Caroline, a Chinese girl who sang opera in the shower; Virginie, a girl from Beijing studying French tourism; and Michelle, a soft-spoken Chinese girl who stayed in her room most of the time studying wine chemistry.

And me, the goofy little American out on a mission to quash stereotypes. I said repeatedly that I despised our president. I bragged to skeptical ears that I hadn’t eaten at a McDonald’s in five years. I wasn’t fat. I walked down the winding, cobblestone roads without a hint of a smile on my face, even though I was happier than I had ever been. I didn’t want to be seen as a grinning American idiot. In short, I was trying with all my might to be French. And when, three weeks into my stay, a little French boy walked up to me on the street while I was walking back from my two-hour lunch break and asked if I knew what time it was—in French —I beamed. I was shedding my American skin.

I began to realize, though, that this little game I was playing had quickly turned me into an anti-American. My fellow American classmates at the international school made me shudder, with their sloppy sweatshirts, their loud English and their general inability to adjust to another culture. After a month of attempting to be friendly, I cut them off completely. From mid-September to early January, I forbade myself from hanging out with any Americans.

As a result, my French progressed rapidly. I went to dinners with French girls, who politely demonstrated to me how to properly wear a scarf. I kayaked with Julia, my Finnish roommate, and took walks with her around the city’s chateau every Sunday. I rode my bike to the Saturday markets with Japanese friends and stocked up on cheese for the week. I spent weekend afternoons alone in the park reading, completely satisfied with the company of myself. Life there was simple yet dynamic, calm yet enticing. And I thrived on it.

Almost five months later, I was back in the United States The stubborn streak in me refused to acclimate to American culture. I looked through photo albums from my stay and wept. I talked on Windows Messenger to my friends from France about how much I hated everything here. I proudly wore French scarves and boots in 70-degree weather, despite profuse sweating and strange looks. I ate pizza with a knife and fork. And I bought a lot of cheese.

Then something happened that shook my anti-American values to the core. I met Elodie, a girl from Paris studying at KU for the spring semester. She couldn’t stop talking about how wonderful things are here, and she professed that she actually preferred Lawrence to Paris. I thought she was clearly delusional and just caught up in an initial study abroad high. But she never came down from that high. We started hanging out more and more. I’d wear my scarves, tall boots and skinny jeans. She embraced an American fashion sense, sporting KU hoodies and tennis shoes. She went to nearly every KU basketball game and screamed herself hoarse. She raved about the food at Buffalo Wild Wings.

Elodie tried to point out to me the positives about America. I retorted that every positive aspect of American culture is rooted in our superficiality as a culture—such as timeliness and efficiency. But after almost six months of bitching and moaning about having to be here, my negativity started to zap too much of my energy, and I tried to open my eyes. The game was getting old.

Nine months removed from my jolting return to American soil, I can now say that I appreciate it here. After all, if a girl who has grown up in Paris gives Lawrence a glowing review, certainly I can, too. I am no longer lugging around town with a frown. Instead, I prefer to let myself smile without fear of being judged. I am happy here. I am.

But if I do ever feel France sick, I have a stash of cheese in my fridge to pick me up. Just don’t tell my mom.

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