Adjustment to French life...

Adjustment is still taking some time. Every time I think I’m just about settled in, I get smacked by one more thing that makes me feel completely out of place. The good things are easy to adjust to. The hard things take a little more out of all of us.

I miss hugs. No one gives them here. They kiss. But our group is not French and doesn’t really kiss either, so there’s no human contact at all. I have to make do with affection from the dog, Shipy (which I found out means “bêtises,” or stupid things/someone who does stupid things). He’s very affectionate.

I really miss milk. My family has plenty of it, but it’s disgusting since it’s not pasteurized and I’m definitely not used to that. I’m not sure what I’m going to do for the next three months without it. So if anyone wants to ship me some, that would be super.

The French go to bed really early. Like 10 o’clock, every night. We were told not to make or receive phone calls after 9:30 at night. We assumed that it was simply because it’s rude to call late. Nope. It’s because they’re already in bed.

They also don’t have excess space. I think they’d be really confused by U.S. consumption, like “why do you need that when this much works just fine?” Everything is just big enough and no more. It’s great when this means no leftovers because Anne made just enough. It’s a little bit of a problem when it comes to showering and I can barely turn around, much less shave my legs.

The French are never in a hurry. Unless they are in a car, which is when they try to kill you (especially in Paris). The service here is incredibly annoying in a sense. While it’s nice that the waiters don’t hover, it’s nearly impossible to get their attention or have them bring you something else without asking for it explicitly. So paying the bill can easily take 20 or 30 minutes. Even a water refill is difficult. I get where they’re coming from — if you don’t drink it, they’ll just have to chunk it, so what’s the point unless you actually need/want it? – but I’m so used to the American standard of “never let the glass get more than half empty.”

Nothing is ever to-go, especially after 7. I know this is a bad American habit, but it is really helpful sometimes. When we were in Paris, some nights we were really tired and just wanted something like pizza or Chinese, but the French don’t believe in take-out. So we had to sit through 2-hour dinners every night if we wanted to eat. The French do plenty of sandwiches and the like for lunch, so you can do that if you want, but every single one of these places closes no later than 7. The French don’t start eating dinner until about 8. So if you want to have any chance of finding something simple and ready to go, you have to plan way ahead. Which is difficult when you don’t know you’re going to need to do so.

Doing without a dryer is a pest. My clothes aren’t soft anymore, that’s the main thing. I’m going to go buy a bottle of fabric softener tomorrow and maybe that will help the process along.

The French are also very frank. Mme Vedel has no trouble correcting us bluntly in class, nor does Mme Chauchat (the American-turned-française). Especially today, when Mme Chauchar lectured us, there was a definite sense of unease. In America, the host probably wouldn’t have spoken of it at all, or at least mentioned it quietly and very much “oh don’t worry about it, just be careful for next time.” None of that here. It was simply “I have other things to do. Make sure to not come more than 5 minutes ahead.” Eesh. This frankness is killing me.

Standing out is also annoying. No matter what we do, we all look distinctly German-Irish, much like most Americans. We don’t blend, even when we dress just like them. Mainly because we’re all huge compared to them. My sister here is 17, but she’s approximately the size of a 12-year old boy. Literally. They’re all like that. Tall, model-thin, gorgeous. It’s hard not to feel completely inadequate every time I walk out of the house. Or in the house, as the case may be.