Welcome To France?
In order to appease my peeps at home (hey mom) I’ve agreed to document my ups, downs, and all arounds with some blogging. For my first post, I felt it a good idea to highlight the differences, both good and bad, between my new home and my greatly missed motherland, America. Now that I’ve been living in the south of France for approximately two weeks, I feel I’ve earned enough credit to form opinions. To start, I can confidently say that the refrigerators here are incredibly small. For me, it’s not that much of an issue, but I imagine my mother trying to squeeze groceries for a family of six into this thing and tears of laughter stream from my heavily bagged eyes. My sleep schedule has yet to be fully adjusted. It’s honestly the worst.
I recognize that I am a spoiled American, and proud of it, but one thing I do not think I will adjust to easily is the laundry situation. The washers (also very tiny) will suffice, but hanging my clothes out to dry has proved to be an interesting adjustment. I’ll do it, I have to. But I can promise you that hanging your hanky panky’s 15 feet above a busy little French street is a very humbling experience. Glad I don’t have much shame left.
In addition to the awkwardness of hang-drying my underwear, my first week here was certainly one to remember. En route to class, my comrades and I caught the wrong bus and subsequently had to wait outside in the freezing cold. Tip: jumping jacks, while awkward, keep the blood flowing and encourage laughter in a rough spot. An Uber finally retrieved us and took us to school: bus fail. We also got kicked out of class for being late, whatever Gigi. Later in the week I decided I would be ~*HeAlThY*~ and go for a cool run on the coast. About halfway through pretending I was in The Hills intro listening to Natasha Bedingfield’s Unwritten, I took an embarrassing tumble that left me with a broken iPhone, torn leggings, a scraped knee, and what I’m positive is a broken shin (ignoring).
Despite all of my setbacks, there are some sweet benefits to this creepy little beach town. There are a ton of cute old couples and little tater tots wandering the streets at all hours. As my friend Tiffany so eloquently said, “I usually hate kids in public at home but I don’t hate kids here because when they scream it’s like they scream in a different language.” Well said, and valid. You know they are saying annoying things but when you can’t understand those annoying things it’s almost endearing. Plus, the old folks give you all kinds of feels and “couple goals” moments to keep your mind off the fact that you’re single and surrounded by very feminine dressed dudes with weird haircuts.
Wine is cheap, and delicious, which certainly makes the bad moments better. Food is carb-full and also delicious; though too much consumption requires more ~*HeAlThY*~ moments that honestly might give me PTSD. The local markets are super cool and, whether you need to shop or not, provide you with a great opportunity for people watching. My classes are generally going smoothly, which is a blessing when taking them in a different country.
The best part of all is having friends here to experience it with. Whether it’s a nightclub where your waiter turns into a Chippendale Dancer, or desperately searching for hot sauce and Mexican food; having people around you to laugh off the weird stuff (and send embarrassingly hysterical Snapchats) makes the homesickness subside.
For now, I may not say I’m thriving (because there is definitely a learning curve), but I CAN say I am surviving. And if all else fails, there’s plenty of McDonalds around to remind me of all the benefits of home.
