Journal from the first day

September 23, 2009; 14h France time

I got onto my flight yesterday to go to Chicago and sat next to an elder woman who I later found out was named Georgine. Georgine is probably in her sixties, has reddish hair, went to the Holy Land last fall, and wears mauve lipstick; she and I talked very well at the beginning and end of the flight. At the end, she told me that she would show me around the Chicago O’Hare airport, which she absolutely did. We went and looked at artifacts and things about Mr. O’Hare (I don’t remember his first name) himself, a kids’ playground, and a dinosaur sculpture. Then Georgine dropped me off at my terminal, asking me for my email address and giving me a hug and a kiss goodbye. I got extremely nervous in the Chicago airport before departing on the flight to France, but felt better once in flight.

I barely talked to my seatmate on the flight to Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, but at the end we got to know each other; she told me her name was Martine, which sounds very French, but she was very American. While on this same flight, I had a happy exchange with the French flight attendant, Christoph. He said,
“What would you like for dinner?”
“Pasta, please.”
“Wrong choice.” (They were out of the pasta meal on his cart.)
“Oh! I’m sorry. Well then, I want chicken.”
“No you don’t.”
“No, I love chicken.”
“No you don’t.”
“Non, j’adore le poulet!”
“No, I’ll get pasta for you.”
When he returned with the meal, I said, “Merci.” Then he proceeded to ask, “Are you French or American?” I said, “American,” and then grinned like an idiot for a couple of hours.

After the flight to Charles de Gaulle, I made the acquaintance of a girl I had thought was French (because she was wearing a scarf- they all wear scarves!) but was actually American, and we figured out the RER and métro together. Her name was Jacky, and she is vacationing in Paris for a week on a whim. She was very fun and grateful to have met me because she was scared (as I was) and didn’t speak French. So we helped each other out. I asked around for things for her, and she found where my luggage was. At the switch to the RER C, I met Roxanne, a practically forty-year old photographer who looked like she’d seen the world (and she had) and who went everywhere taking photographs for big events (weddings and concerts). She helped me all the way to the TGV and offered me a pass, through her, to the Manu Chao concert she would be photographing. Tonight. I can’t go, because it’s way far away and I’m exhausted, but she was fantastic. Roxanne and I ran into Caroline Cooper, another assistante de langue who was at Paris at the same moment on the way to her little town outside Limoges. Then I saw a woman, Carol, who was also on the trip from Chicago to Charles de Gaulle. Carol lives near Limoges five months out of every year, and she gave me her information so that I could visit her whenever and so that I would know someone in France.

I love women. And Americans. They are so friendly.

September 23, 20h France time

All Americans: no French friends, excepting a nice middle-aged man who turned out to be a bit creepy and the receptionist/gardienne of my apartment building. Her name is Nicole, and she’s adorable and treats all of the students in this building as if they were sweet little children who just need to be loved. She laid on me all of the things I had to do initially and freaked out at me several times in rapid French, telling me to listen! and asking every few seconds if I understood. I did the best I could, and was thinking things were going to be difficult with her, but it turns out she’s just a flustered sort of person who does everything 110%. She took me to my room, which I was astonished and ecstatic to find has a bed, closet, shelves, table, chair, and kitchenette-type thing, and which I have realized is either growing mold (Catherine, you would die) or is just smelly because a boy lived here before me. But hey. I have a bed. Yessss. And Nicole freaked out when I told her I didn’t have sheets, and she gave me sheets and a pillow (as well as cookware!) in secret, telling me she usually has students pay but that she felt bad for me. She then asked if I had eaten, and when I said no, she offered to let me eat at her house. And then, when she saw me again and I told her I still had not eaten, she tried to force on me some shrimp she had bought at the grocery store. I think I love her.

Lots of help along the way. But I thought my French was going pretty well, and I really have to work to keep up with these fast talkers. I thought that Paris would be the hard part, but it was way easier than getting along in Limoges has been. A lot of people tried not to look at me when I asked for help today, as though when I addressed them I would ask for money or attack. They would just stare resolutely in another direction. Weird. And I really don’t dress like these people do. I’m trying to get creative with my clothes here. I’m thinking skirts and scarves.

Actually, I feel encouraged and good enough to do this. And I like this whole having my own apartment deal.