J'arrive Part II

(Also written 24 September 2008)

During the smooth, 3.5-hour train ride from Paris to Montpellier, I sat across from Michel, a doctor from Quebec, and a young French woman who I believe was a student and seasoned world traveler. I learned three important items from our conversation: first, apparently it’s possible to help out with the vineyard harvest in my new hometown. That would be a bit different from tractor rides at the local apple orchard back home. Second, my French is rusty and often met with blank expressions; third, people from Canada rock. Michel had a mesmerizing Quebecoisian accent when he spoke English, and on top of that he provided a lot of encouragement for my upcoming journey. What was probably an everyday exchange for them was a mind-blowing experience for me. Over the next seven months, I would be meeting with and living amongst French-speaking people from all over the world. My comfort zone was being seriously violated, but I couldn’t have been more excited.

That afternoon I arrived in Montpellier, which is similar to Minneapolis in population but refreshingly different in every way I was hoping for. ALL of the buildings were old, with Godfather-Part-2-style shingling and wonderfully cliché time-blanched walls. I scarcely had time to enjoy my first café when I was whisked away by a friendly, English-speaking Marie-Pierre “MaPi” Estaban, head of the language department at my future workplace. I’d received a warm reception from her via email before departing, but this was unprecedented. Every question I asked in transit was met with more than I bargained for. Along the way another English teacher, Patricia, took the second leg of the journey to the school. She talked to me in a reassuring Franco-Irish accent about day-to-day life in the south of France. I may have missed a few points as I gawked at the enormous vineyards on either side of the highway with gorgeous mountains and the Mediterranean Sea beyond, but her and MaPi’s gesture was more than I could have asked for as a newcomer. People don’t really work here, do they?

After I had dropped off the wonky roller suitcase and backpack in my on-campus apartment at the Lycée Professionnel Charles Allies, Patricia left me with the headmaster, or “proviseur,” M. Augier. We talked about the essentials: “l’argent” (money), and “manger” (eating), along with a brief history of the school as he pointed to an 8” x 11” printer photo of the school’s namesake, Charles Allies, taped and unframed on the wall in his office. At the end of our conversation, M. Augier mentioned something about it “all being very French,” which I took to be a good sign given the country we were in and the language we were speaking. He had a comfortingly official guise about him, and he became increasingly welcoming as the introductions progressed. He also didn’t speak a lick of English, which gave me great practice with the language. Before I knew it, the time had come to manger le diner.

In France, every meal is ceremonious. This is something that I would learn no more than 1 hour after arriving at Charles Allies. Jet-lagged and dumbfounded by the sheer brainpower required to speak so much French in real-life situations, M. Augier led me into the school’s canteen that was, at the moment, packed with a queue of hungry students. As we headed straight for them, a few of them licked their lips, though later I decided this was out of pure coincidence and not cannibalistic desire. Unfortunately, that didn’t make it any more comforting when I found myself surrounded by them, with only M. Augier to protect me. Maybe it was a lack of confidence due to fatigue that made me feel absolutely intimidated to be among them, accusing them of preferring American flesh over delicious boeuf Bourgogne. Whatever the excuse, my friendly proviseur broke the ice and cordially introduced me to all of them right then and there, which was met by many smiles and even a few confident “Hellos.” It was unforgettable, for many reasons. And it might have been that moment where a lot of doubt about my decision to leave America began to melt away.

It’s surreal that all of this has happened in such a short amount of time.