Since moving to Paris, I have experienced several waves of what is commonly referred to as “culture shock.” Certain adjustments to life overseas were expected — stronger coffee, catcalls and copious amounts of bread. These differences in daily habits were surprisingly simple to get used to. When travelling as a tourist with a departure date in sight, it is easier to acknowledge and ignore these differences. As a student, this all changes after about two weeks.
The little-known corners of culture shock begin to take shape, and you slowly begin to realize how different your life is stateside. The only option is take ownership of these differences and make them your own. But the process of Parisian-ization is no easy feat.
Past the point of vacation and realizing your global naivety, assimilation into Parisian culture begins to take force in a process of delicate layers — whether you like it or not. If you’re dressed in dark, neutral colors and wearing a scarf, you’re already halfway there. To play the part, you must look the part. Wipe clean from your face the American smile of touristy awe, and you’re getting even closer. I remind myself I’m preventing wrinkles to justify my badass “don’t even try to pickpocket me” face when riding the metro. Of course, most young women studying abroad in Paris take this as common knowledge, making this the easiest step.
Not having encountered the language since the nearly-failed AP French exam of my senior year, the language barrier has certainly been an adjustment requiring daily effort. When walking out of class, I often feel confident in my skills — even courageous enough to smile and answer the stranger asking me for directions.
Unfortunately, the following cyclical ego-boost shows its face too many times in a single day to plea mental sanity. One moment, I think to myself, “I finally feel French!” — and nearly 10 minutes later I am mute while trying to respond to a waiter. This painful and awkward moment of silence is usually comprised of self-deliberation: the decision to keep trying or point to what you believe reads “chicken” on the menu. The waiters and waitresses are incredibly keen when picking out which patrons are American and which are not, often to the point where they will hand you an English menu upon entering. These are very low moments, usually followed by the pitied deliverance of Heinz Ketchup to the table.
But the chaos of studying abroad is also a weirdly euphoric experience. It is rare to feel so out of place and yet so internally energized all in the same moment. While adjusting to a completely foreign lifestyle is no menial task and takes a daily toll on the psyche, there are certainly advantages to being a “foreigner.” While speaking exclusively English is often seen as taboo, there is an odd, blissful ignorance which takes over the mind when not being able to understand what strangers around you are saying on the metro. Without the burden of eavesdropping, you’re left to think to yourself and simply wonder what’s being said. Assumptions take hold based on the way people wear makeup, the amount of grease in their hair or simply how they stand.
For 90 percent of my day, I would give anything to know where these strangers are headed, what they are saying to one another and even what they are thinking. Do we think differently? My understanding of French so far allows only for juvenile conversations. Discussions about the weather get old quickly. However, taking a moment and just hearing the words run through your brain without any meaning is similar to sitting in the audience of an opera without electronic translations streaming before you. It just begins to sound like a musical melody.
Allison’s column runs biweekly on Thursdays. She can be reached at a.lank@cavalierdaily.com.
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