My Second Family

Chère Lexi,Nous sommes très heureux de t’accueillir à Nantes.

(Dear Lexi, we're very happy to meet you in Nantes.) 

Late August. I popped open my Gmail to find a note from a woman named Nathalie, who introduced herself as my host mom and told me about the family I would soon join.  Today, it's my pleasure to introduce them to you.

Nathalie, my host mother. 

You are truly a Renaissance woman, if there ever was one. And I rarely go a day without wondering how you do it all. It's the sheer amount of things you do but also the effortlessness with which you do it that renders me in a constant state of awe known as "WHOA DUDE."  You have made me question the American notions of feminism, proving singlehandedly that a woman who maintains the household is far from secondary. In our maison, it's apparent that you are far, far from inferior. You stand at the helm of the home and the family but have mastered the art of being une femme d'affaires (business women) too. Working alongside my host dad and chef of the restaurant, you manage a full-time business operation with a dual presence of skill and grace. You carry yourself with sureness, easily commanding the attention of a room should you choose to do so.

Though I find myself at a loss to truly describe it in speech or on paper, your marriage is one of the most successful I've ever seen. Is this janky to note? Maybe, but it's important. The relationship between my host dad and you both at home and at work is one of impressive equality, even while the roles may differ.

You are an impeccable chef, even if it's my host dad who is the chef of the family. I marvel at how you maintain such a level of fitness, though it seems that life is your main form of exercise. You've raised five children and have hosted 10 exchange students alongside my host dad. Even while I see implicitly the pride you take in your children, you've made it seem like raising a big family is an easy feat. I know it couldn't have been. At home, you cook, do the laundry, sew, organize, email,  faire le ménage (clean the house), and keep things running in order without second thought. And you appear impeccably dressed and beautifully put-together through it all. Much like my own mother, you are a superwoman of sorts.

Pascal, my host dad.

You are the Master Chef, quite literally. After competing on the TV show "Master Chef" last year, you finally decided to quit your old job and pursue your lifelong dream to be a chef. You opened a restaurant bearing the family name in downtown Nantes. You cook with immense respect for the French tradition, while adding your own creative flair to give each dish its personality. As an entrepreneur, you are like my own dad. You work at the restaurant every day of the week when it's open and for every meal at that. I see you only in the mornings; while I wish I saw you more sometimes, I have so much admiration for how you appreciate your craft.

When you are home, we almost always talk about food. With the communication barrier stronger here than with my host mom, food is our natural common ground. I tell you what I know about Napa Valley, and you explain how you make the best dang roasted potatoes on the planet. (Hint: it's all in the butter).  You explain Daylight Savings in French to me the best you can and cut me some slack when I totally mess up with kissing at mass on Sunday. On your day off, you tend to the garden  in the rain, even though it soaks you to the bone. After all, is it not that same rain that gives the plants life?

I've seen plenty of instances of love, but you cherish your wife in a way unlike any I've seen. You treat her with a tenderness that makes me impossibly weak in the knees. It is not in grand, sweeping declarations of petty love but rather, the little things you do. The way you lightly brush your lips in a kiss across her forehead at breakfast. And the way you sweetly reach for her hand on the walk to church. The way you'll cook for her like she's the most important restaurant critic there ever was. The way you simply look at her with inexplicable appreciation. As if her presence is better than all the presents you could ever receive.

She, your family, and your food are everything to you. Forgive me, if you've caught me staring at such unconditional love.

Cyriaque, my host brother.

(Almost) 15. Spunky as all heck. Deserving of his own post before this post  turns into a novel.

Melissa, my sort-of host sister

Amazingly capable of firing back sass at host brother. Hot dang, there's a lot to say on this one. Also deserving of her own post.

So to my deuxième famille, thanks for having me. Like any family, we are not perfect.

But we do a pretty darn good job of making it work. Without second thought.

-lexi

What It's Really Like to Study Abroad in France

You know that one junk cabinet/drawer/closet you have sneakily stuffed with everything that wouldn't fit elsewhere?

That's an accurate depiction of what my thoughts & life have looked like for the past few weeks.

There's been a lot of song and dance around these parts. A few colorful character deets and plenty of wanderlust. But as I mentioned in this post, there's been far more left unsaid. Which would be completely  in 'whatevs' territory, except that I've been going multiple degrees of crazy with how much I want to say. That's rare for a keen observer who typically leaves details to the outside lands.

Let's get on this wild ride. Grab the rando fake mustache that's been sitting in said junk cabinet, the strongest cup of coffee you can find, and a tub of butter for good luck. We're going to France!

I arrived in France, wide-eyed and wonderful. It was my second time in the country, but I had been a veritable youngin' during my first trip. Living somewhere, I learned, is also a fast departure from a weeklong vacation.

Studying abroad in Nantes, France has been like nothing I expected, yet more than I ever could have dreamed. It's bizarre being an outsider, while pretending to be an insider for a few months. It's an unapologetic kick in the butt that makes you realize the shallowness of your own world -- like the feeling you get when throwing on a pair of 3D glasses in the movie theater.

It's a total holy-crap-this-is-real moment that could fo sho be on Oprah.

As a hopeless wanderer, I tend to adapt to new environments relatively quickly. Even after spending 2.5 years away from home (at Georgetown, in DC/Philly/NYC, Google, etc), I've never been truly homesick. (Mom & Dad, this isn't to say I don't love you bunches). Change doesn't scare me that way.

Studying abroad in France, however, is a different beast. I changed, adapted, and familiarized as I normally would. But there was one snag in this game plan: mindset.

And that's the part of the roller coaster ride with the unexpected HUGHHHHH JASSSS drop. The one that makes your stomach feel like it just peaced out on a whim.

Without really trying, I found myself thinking about France via subtraction rather than addition. The things lost rather than gained.

I was missing friends who were all sorts of essential, a fall semester on the Hilltop, iced coffee, long showers, summer shenanigans, a common timezone, variety in EVERYTHING, and most importantly, English -- my golden ability to communicate and my homefield advantage. I wasn't stuck on it perse, but I couldn't help seeing those pin-sized holes around me. Normal life minus normal things = just life.

Even loving the experience, that mindset was a wall or sorts. It was the basic realization of meeting a world that was, well...foreign. That seems like Obvious 101, but it wasn't.

In the recent few weeks though, my mindset has changed a bit. Confronted with a few small comforts, it's become easier to see things through the lens of addition.

You see, I forgot a critical part of the equation: the value-added.  I forgot the +France part of this shindig. Granted, that +France comes with -Normalcy, but isn't that the point? I didn't come here to do things normally, to have the same things I normally would, to be comfortable.

Because really, what kind of smashbang is that?

I came here to learn. About culture, language, people. We have a whole dealio going on over here. I came to see what it's like to do life...a little differently. And to try living a little different myself. I came to find the best dang croissant & cuppa joe. (And to endure plenty of trial and error in the meantime.)

I'm loving that my walk home gets better with age and looks like a million bucks on Fridays.

I'm amused by the dear guy who has taken to sitting next to me in class and making me laugh something wonderful.

I'm content that I know ma belle ville (my beautiful city) now and that getting lost is a rather intentional way of finding myself.

I'm hella happy that my host mom is totally into pumpkin pie; that my host dad thinks French Lit sucks too; that my host sister and I are BUDS; and that my host brother's sarcasm rivals my own.

Finally, I'm starting to understand. We're talking addition, not subtraction. Just like anywhere else, there's ups, downs, but also high fives all around.

So life may kinda look like that one hot-mess-of-a-junk cabinet that you inevitably have. But even amidst the chaos of it all, those surprise gems hiding in the back always seem to add a little something special to life.

And that equation is easy as pie.

This is How You Franglais

I'm glad we're friends now. Because if you looked at my Google Chrome search history today, you would find an extensive catalogue of research on douches. Homegirl, say what?

In my defense, "douche" is the French word for shower. So if you're all about that franglais life (have you forgotten who you're talking to?), you may or may not have searched for things like "how to take a douche" or "why are douches so small in France." In case you were wondering, a douche is defined in French as une projection d'eau (a squirt of water). Great, even better.

Just be glad you didn't see the Google Images results.

The past couple days have been filled with the start of classes, between the study abroad institute (IES) and the University of Nantes itself. Add-drop period is a beast as is, but when classes are 100% in French, that spells some six hours of class and one very gnarly headache. I'm caught in between feeling like I'm not speaking enough French when around American friends and also feeling like my head wants to give its two weeks notice for trying to think in French all the time. So far, I've compromised by bribing myself with gelato.

Tomorrow, I commence my third day of classes, with courses in French Sociology, French grammar, International Trade & Globalization, and also an intensive lab in Phonetics & Conversation at the university.  Did I mention my first class starts around 8AM?

You know, I'm totally not above gelato bribery two days in a row. Time will tell.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go take a douche.

...I mean shower.

love & other hugs. ~lexi

Thursday Snippet

Thursday, we meet again. This is a morning kind of picture. Glasses, a lazy chignon, and soft French music behind the camera.

There's some baguette, homemade currant jam (did I mention my host dad is a chef?), and coffee so good black that I drank two cups. I'm reading a cookbook just because it seemed like a delicious way to wake up. And because I'm procrastinating on brushing my teeth and taking my vitamins.  (Yes mom, I know I need to take my calcium.)

General orientation starts this afternoon, but before, my host mom is taking me to meet my host dad for lunch at their restaurant.

First thought: I'm dreaming; pinch me. Second thought: TITS MAN, my French is terrible. But if you can't stand the heat, keep out of the kitchen? Allez-y.

(let's go)

~lexi

Bonjour from Nantes

After spending 10 days in the south of France, I'm finally "home" and settled in with my host family at Nantes. Between driving 10 hours yesterday; tackling mobile phone policies in French this morning; and moving in with my host family tonight, I'm just about falling asleep typing this. This may be thoughtful, or it may just be half-asleep. Bear with me? Let's do it quick and dirty, (because we can).

I stumbled into the study abroad center building in Nantes around 4:30 this afternoon and started to feel a touch of nervousness bubbling up. It's not a feeling that comes around often. I'm generally sure-footed, trusting myself enough to know that I can figure it out.

But that's in English. French is a completely different ballgame. Words in French sweep into one another, like a blindingly fast sing-song. I can usually catch words and phrases for near certain, but there are some lost in translation. I know this worry is part of the experience - the growing pains in learning a language - but I wouldn't dare tell anyone that uncertainty is comfortable.

I've begun to realize that the ability to use language, and use it well, is one of my most unconscious advantages. In the States, I'm able to explain, to understand, to respond, to persuade, to charm. But here, much of that advantage is lost. I can convey fact and opinion in French, but persuasion and charm are still locked culture and colloquialisms. It's a beast to tackle, but I suppose that's the challenge.

Day 2 tomorrow. Formal orientation begins, and I meet the rest of the students in my study abroad program.