"Sorry! It's my first day!"

My whole life was stuffed, squeezed, and smashed into four bags, every zipper tugging against itself, trying to hold back the contents within. It's humbling, really, to condense your existence into such relatively small packages, but then again, what choice do you have when you're about to get on a plane, all by yourself, and leave everything you know behind to start a new life across an ocean?

The day I left seems like years ago even though it has only been a week. I was surprised by how well I was holding up, especially because I am such a big fan of tearful goodbyes. I suppose I had used up all my tears in the previous weeks after the Harrisburg match and the subsequent impromptu pub crawl with the rugby team. Maybe it was just all the estrogen... But there I was, plane ticket in hand, on the way to airport with my parents and all I could think was "I hope that cat doesn't run away."

My parents, in their infinite kindness, have agreed to house our cat, Carlos, for the duration of our time in Bordeaux. Jason and I didn't really plan on having a cat, less so when we found out we really were moving to France, but I guess the universe had other plans for us all. Complete transformation to cat-ladyhood took approximately 3 days. I see your rolling eyes and hear your judgmental thoughts but just try to have a cat as awesome as Carlos and not love him to death. JUST TRY.

***

I find international airports to be strangely delightful places. I love the way all these different cultures and languages come together in this one place, destined for another. Sometimes, while sitting at my gate, I try to make up stories about where are the people are from and how we both ended up here at the same time. Claude and Pauline came to visit their daughter, Marie, who was studying in Chicago this semester. They surprised her at her downtown apartment, only to discover young Marie in bed with Rufus, her landlord... and lover!! Back to France, you tramp! I am also floored by the logistics of a place like this. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of flights that pass through this airport everyday and I find it to be nothing shy of a miracle that there aren't more lost bags, or security breeches, or mid-air collisions. Truly remarkable.

Less delightful is the actual international flight. I never know if I should try to be friendly with my seat mate. Does he want to talk to me? I don't want to be annoying. But is it better to be annoying or to be rude? I have to sit next to this person for eight hours, he's bound to form some opinion of me. Which is it going to be? Oh thank God, he's going to sleep. Pressure's off. But he's going to miss the in flight meal. Should I wake him up or just try to put his tray table down for him so that he has food waiting when he wakes up? I would want that if I fell asleep. What if he wakes up in the middle of me putting the tray table down and he thinks I'm trying to fondle him? One wrong move and I have a handful of old Frenchman balls. Oh thank God, he's awake.

Lather, rinse, repeat for eight hours.

***

Thanks to some shitty airplane coffee, I am surprisingly alert when we land in Paris. I find my bags and truck it over to the train station to purchase my tickets to Bordeaux. I wish I had swallowed my pride and gotten one of those little hand carts because now I am overheating in the boots and coat I didn't have room for in one of my four bags and I already stink from being on a plane for half a day and I'm sweating out my perm and... Finally! Trains! Okay, time to use the three years French I learned in college six years ago. I can do this.

Ticket agent: lkdfmneo;wirjhoirjnlkenf,dsmfn;oiewjro;ietrlknf, mademoiselle?
Me: Um... Je vais à Bordeaux?
Ticket agent: oiejlkjfkdlladkjc,m 10:00 ou 3:30?
Me: 10:00! Oui!
Ticket agent: oijeklnfdklajfrioewndmsncieriejr. [hands me a ticket and points to the credit card machine]
Me: [Grinning like an idiot, swipes card]
Ticket agent: cmnvm,dpirtpqpwskjsipo1. kljlkueueiwjieekjzpow [something I interpreted to mean "The train will be here soon so you better get down to the track"].
Me: D'accord. Merci! [runs away in an attempt to not miss the train]

Okay, that wasn't too bad. I rushed to the track, only to discover that there was nothing to indicate which platform I needed to be on. I went back into the station and a sign told me that I wouldn't know which track until 15 minutes before the train was supposed to leave. Ha! I got this. Train doesn't leave for another 30 minutes. I'll just hang out here. Hey! I recognize these validation machines. Glad I have traveled in France before or I could have been in real trouble. How would someone know to do this otherwise? I am so worldly!

Riding a train from Paris to Bordeaux sounds like such a romantic idea, doesn't it? Train travel to southern France! Ooh là là! Less romantic when the narrow aisles are not big enough for your giant red suitcase and you're completely blocking the whole train car and people are literally climbing over seats to get around you. "Desolée. Desolée!! Pardon. Excusez-moi, si'l vous plait." Thank you, random lady who knew I was obviously American and helped me figure out what to do with my life. "You put bag here. This my seat. It's okay." Consciousness was not my strong suit on the train and I dozed almost the whole four hours to Bordeaux. I did catch a few glimpses of the French countryside. All those pretty rounded clay roof tiles...

I arrive in Bordeaux and the hardest part of the trip so far was trying to get my bags up to the other side of the track and up the stairs to get into the main part of the station. I really thought that was going to be the end of me, but I guess you get a little dramatic when you've been traveling for 13 hours with minimal sleep. I wish I had gotten some Euros at the airport because I am supposed to take a taxi to my residence and there is no ATM in here. I looked in my wallet as if I could will some foreign currency into it but all I saw were useless American dollars. Why did I even bring these? I cursed myself. Time to speak more French.

Me: Ummm... Ou est le bancomat? [pretty sure I made that word up]
Ticket agent: ldfjljeroitjmdn retire de l'argent?
Me: Oui. Ça.
Ticket agent: oeirjkdnffoijerij Credit Mutuel a gauche kjhdkjheir Hotel.
Me: D'accord. Merci!

Okay, across the street, left of the hotel. Yes! I see it! Stupid bags, stupid train tracks, stupid curb. Got some money. Get a cab. Stupid curb, stupid train tracks, stupid bags. Taxi!

***
Is this the French version of Biggie we're listening to right now? I swear this song sounds just like Big Poppa but in French. Maybe he's not dead and he's just living in France now...

***
I make it to the residence that my school's program coordinator had set up for me. It is pretty much a hotel-shaped dorm. My "studio" has a bed, desk, closet, table, two chairs, two nightstands, a mini fridge, stovetop, kitchen sink and full bathroom.

 

 



It's about what I expected, and very dorm room-esque, but the surrounding neighborhood is not really the UNESCO cultural heritage site I had envisioned. It's clean and seems safe, but it's just so... suburban. There's no one around. Not even in the residence itself.  I thought this was a bustling college town with local sommeliers selling their wines on the streets! I'll explore tomorrow. For now, I have to get checked in.

Me: Je suis Nicole! (They were expecting me. I must have looked like an absolute mess in this moment.  Bags falling off of me, hair in a snarl, clothes wrinkled and sweat-stained...)
Residence director: Bienvenue! iojeflknfm,pomsmpwrotzmnn!
Me: Desolée. Je ne parle pas beaucoup de français.
Residence director: [shoots a concerned look to her assistant] D'accord...

Thus commences 20 straight minutes of them trying to explain things to me, such as how I need to pay my rent as soon as possible but I will need a French bank account, and here are all the keys you will need for various doors around the building, and didn't Madame Lambert explain to you about the bank account?

There are some people who make you feel like you know nothing at all. The residence director is one of them. She's very nice but I don't think she really understands how to talk to someone who doesn't speak your language very well. The assistant is a bit better but it was her first day on the job so she didn't have many answers for me. Sweet Jesus. This is going to be a disaster. Why didn't I study more?

Luckily, I was able to figure out enough that I could get to the bank. Enter: Isabelle, my savior. She is the friendly banker down the road who helped me get my account set up. This is extremely important because you can't do anything in France (get a phone, pay your rent, get a bus pass...) without a French bank account. I was doing well in French for a minute but then things started to get complicated. We didn't have a unit on "How to Open a Bank Account" in my French 101 class. It somehow came up that I spoke Spanish and she just happened to be fluent in that as well. Thank you thank you thank you Spain for giving me the gift of Spanish fluency. We completed the rest of my transactions in Spanish and everything went pretty smoothly. I have seen this woman almost everyday since I moved in because she is just the most helpful soul in the world. Everyday we start speaking in French but I get stuck and she just laughs her little laugh at me and switches to Spanish. I will show you one day, Isabelle. One day you will be proud of the progress I have made in my French skills and then we will both laugh! Ha ha ha!

Account is opened, paperwork is complete, I'll grab a pizza to go and start to make my house a home. I think this will be okay, actually. I can do this. I can and I will.

Next time: Getting settled