Bonjour! I’m here in Clermont-Ferrand! It’s been one week since my arrival and I’m finally settled in. In general, this last week has been very busy, intensive, and très française. Each day presents numerous challenges but also reveals countless pleasures that remind me why I’m here. From the slow and beautiful train ride from Lyon to Clermont-Ferrand, to buying tomatoes and radishes from an old Portuguese man at the outdoor market, to walking through the ancient streets beneath the Puy-de-Dôme, to my first bite of an almond croissant, I am entirely aware of this auspicious opportunity.
So, my dear friends and family, let me recap my week:
So, my dear friends and family, let me recap my week:
Tuesday, September 1 —
After a few tearful good-byes and a last minute scramble to find my lost debit card, I was off to the airport. I had successfully squished most of my wardrobe, too many pairs of high heels (which don’t mesh well with steep cobblestone streets), and few books in English (TWILIGHT! thanks Chris and Luanne) into two suitcases, a computer bag, and a tote. A mere 119.4 lbs of checked luggage . . . . An 18-seater propeller plane brought me from Detroit to Toronto then I boarded a Boeing 777 to Paris. Two glasses of red wine later I drifted off to sleep.
Wednesday, September 2 —
I landed in Paris at 10:00 a.m., collected my checked luggage, and headed toward train station. At this point I realized that wheeling almost 120 lbs and carrying two over stuffed bags was ridiculous. I was a spectacle.
At the train station I needed to retrieve my pre-purchased train ticket with my now lost debit card. I explained my situation but unfortunately I could not retrieve it since I could not present my debit card. My only option was to return the ticket I had already bought, which reimbursed my debit card, and repurchase the same ticket with cash. I was forced to exchange the remains of my American cash for Euros at the station at a gouging rate. The train ticket that I had paid $82.32 now cost me $115.
Every time I travel, I’m very excited for the adventure but at times overwhelmed by the unknown details. As always, my mantra is “I’m not going to die.” It’s stupid, I know, but I had to tell myself this about 20 times this day because I didn’t know where I was going to live, I lost my debit card and didn’t know if my temporary ATM card would work in France, used all the cash I had to buy another train ticket, and realized that I had told the person who was picking me up at the train station the wrong time by over an hour. I was exhausted, hungry, and didn’t really know when or where I would be sleeping or how I was going to pay for my next meal. But, I didn’t foresee that I would die from this situation so I needed to stop thinking about these details; I needed to restrict my thoughts to figuring out only the next step.
The super fast TGV to Lyon arrived in Paris just before 2:00 p.m. With the help of a stylish, elderly woman, who apparently worked out at the gym, we managed to move my bags onto the train and up a narrow, twisting flight of stairs. Two hours later, the same woman helped me carry my bags off the train, push through a crowd and find the platform for my next train. She was the first of a string of kind strangers to help me. The next train, a slow one, arrived in Lyon at 4:30 p.m. This time, two cyclists helped me get my bags on, joking “where’s your friend?” and pointing out the absurdity of travelling with so much luggage.
The two hour and 30 minute ride was beautiful. The train passed through ancient villages and old farms. In the distance I could see the change of extinct volcanoes that I knew surrounded my destination. At 7:00 p.m. the train pulled in the station at Clermont-Ferrand and I saw the city that I would call home for the next ten months.By this point, I was exhausted from going on about nine hours of sleep in three day and very nervous about figuring out where I would stay. Prior to leaving I had tried to find as many potential roommates as possible. Ideally, I wanted to live with a French girl, about my age, who was not a student. No one had fit that profile. Only one person had sent a phone number so I visited him first. His name is Francis. My first impression was that he seemed nice, he didn’t look like an axe-murderer, and his apartment was next to the historic city center and had an amazing view. Cécile, my contact from the university, seemed okay with situation as well. I was relieved to know where I would sleep.
Though I desperately wanted to just go to bed, Francis offered to show me the route I would take to get to the university the next morning. I took up the offer since I didn’t want to be late my first day on account of getting lost navigating through 500-year-old streets. He was very enthusiastic about the city, the region, and his recently purchased apartment. He also wanted to practice his English. My first clues for what was to come.
Thursday, September 3 —
My cell phone alarm sounded after too few hours of sleep; nine to be exact. Though my head still in a fog, I quickly realized three things: Francis did not try to kill me in my sleep, his bathroom was not equipped with a shower head, and his house was not clean. I crouched in his dirty bathtub to wash my hair and borrowed what he said was a clean towel, which I realized was actually disgustingly dirty after using it. EWWW!
I gathered my stuff, said “au revoir” to Francis (who had not showered and was wearing exactly the same outfit as he was wearing the day before), and trotted off towards the university. After going into four buildings and asking six different people, none of whom understood what I was asking until I wrote it, I finally found Cécile’s office. (Apparently I say her name about as well as French people say mine—“Eweeen.”)
I spent the day with Cécile, filling out the loads of paperwork (“the French LOVE paperwork,” she explained), meeting collegues, going to the cell phone store, and finally the bank. For lunch, which has become an almost daily occurrence, we went with several others from the university to a cafeteria in another building. For just a few euros, we eat a full meal: a slice of bread, an appetizer (paté, dried meat, salad, cous cous, or tomatoes), an entrée (choice of meat or fish, vegetable, and starch), some cheese or fruit, and then dessert. Lunch is fun; it’s an hour and a half, the group I go with is very nice, and it’s an opportunity for me to listen to French conversation.
That evening I returned to the apartment about 7:30 and was ready to go to bed. Instead, I was greeted by an excited Francis who had 101 questions about how I spent my day and about Cécile. Keeping in mind the differences in cultural norms and that neither of us spoke the other’s language fluently, I found his questions to be nosey and inappropriate. It was like I was answering to my father after staying out past curfew. He seemed annoyed that I had not returned back to the apartment earlier. The questions he posed were not for the sake of conversation but rather for determining why he had spent the evening alone. Regretfully, I gave him Cécile’s cell phone number, after he asked for it, so that he could ask her a legitimate question.
Friday, September 4 —
Before I could even get into the bathroom after waking up, Francis told me that he thought we should “do sports” tonight. I replied that I did not know my schedule. I declined to make plans as politely as I could although I already knew that I would avoid spending any significant amount of time with him at all cost.
This morning I met the British woman, Judith, who teaches at the university and who helps me with my classes. Like Cécile, she is extremely nice and helpful. Though I don’t start until the 17th, I’m very anxious to start teaching and preparing lessons. I’ll be teaching two undergrad classes to sophomores and juniors, and then a first-year master’s class. The classes I’ll be teaching are a semester long and are: 1) Intro to American Law, 2) Torts, 3) Contracts, and 4) Constitutional Law. And, everything will be in English.
I opened a bank account today; a small accomplishment which is necessary in order to get paid. I had to produce a copy of my work contract, my passport, my visa, an attestation of domicile from Francis, a copy of a bill in his name, and a photocopy of his identity card. Unlike the banks in the U.S., I had to pay 37.00 Euro for an ATM/Debit card; however, I don’t get charged for withdrawing money for other banks’ ATM’s and I earn points that I can cash in for money buy using their ATM’s.
While at the bank, Cécile invited me to join her at a spa/pool place at 8:00 in a nearby city. I accepted her invitation and waited for her to pick me up at the apartment. Of course this meant I had to face Francis’s stream of questions. This time, he even took it a step further and invited himself. I dodged his every attempt to join us and darted out the door when Cécile pulled up.
This “thermologic center” is that type of place that leads to experiences that I love. They’re so strange to me. First, there’s not a separate changing room for men and women. Second, people, locals and out-of-towners, believe that the water in this region cures your ailments. Third, it’s not a “spa,” it’s a bunch of funny shaped pools at different temperatures with a few types of water jets (I think they do offer spa services). Though I was unable to image the success this destination in the U.S., I was pleased to have visited it. It was nice to relax in warm water after the last few long days.
After the pool, Cécile invited me to join her and her friends, Vincent and Yanis, at one of the local bars. The bar that we went to is unlike the typical bars in the U.S., or even in France for that matter. It is an “association” so it’s a non-profit business, but it’s almost reminds me more of a co-op type establishment. From what I’ve gathered, it’s a place for people to meet for music, education, etc., with hippie-like clients and a coffee house atmosphere. It’s a great place to listen to music, and drink and eat for cheap. It was here I learned a new custom: the person who invites you pays for drinks. So, even though I tried to chip in a few euros, Vincent and Yanis picked up the tab.
Six hours and two beers later I returned back to the apartment. Francis popped out of his room to fire off a list of questions. “How was the spa? Who was I with? How long did I stay? Where did I go afterward? Who did I meet? What bar did I go to? How does Cécile know them? Does she have a boyfriend? Why didn’t I invite him? What was I doing until 2:30 a.m.? What am I doing tomorrow? Do I want to go to his parents’ house?” And on, and on, and on. I started answering all his questions quickly in English as he followed me around from one room to the next. Per the advice of Vincent and Yanis, I attempted to be direct with him. I did answer a series of questions but then told him that I was tired and going to bed and not to knock on my door. I planned to sleep in for the first time since I arrived.
Saturday, September 5 —
I awoke at 2:30 in the afternoon. The haze that I had been feeling finally lifted. I wanted to call Bryan for the first time, buy a few groceries, get a cell phone, do some laundry, and clean the disgusting bathroom. I wanted a day to put my life in order.
Within five minutes of getting up, Francis was informing me of his plans for us for the day. I felt a little bit sorry for him because it was fairly evident to me now--he wasn’t looking for a roommate, he was looking for a friend. This 36-year-old man had lived in this city all his life and he was alone for almost every moment since I had been here despite his desperate attempts to socialize. There was a reason why this man had no friends. He was clingy and odd. I declined his invitations to go to his parents’ house, to get coffee, and to “do sports,” and told him I had some errands to do. He told me that he would go with me and I had to yet again be direct. I wanted to be alone.
I did all the things I wanted to do except laundry. It was nice to wander around city, explore winding streets, people watch, and just observe life here. I’m still amazed that French people really do walk around carrying baguettes under their arm. I’m also still puzzled why so many men smell bad. Don’t they smell themselves? Aren’t they self-conscious of their b.o.? And it’s not just old or unkempt people—it’s all types. Maybe they just don’t care. Just like people don’t seem to care when a car is coming, or being on time, or that they’re holding up pedestrian traffic when they walk side by side at a snail’s pace down a street that’s barely 5 feet wide. Their faces evidence their leisurely pace of life. No one’s hurried or stressed. No one’s yelling into their Bluetooth ear piece or checking their blackberry. It’s refreshing.
I awoke at 2:30 in the afternoon. The haze that I had been feeling finally lifted. I wanted to call Bryan for the first time, buy a few groceries, get a cell phone, do some laundry, and clean the disgusting bathroom. I wanted a day to put my life in order.
Within five minutes of getting up, Francis was informing me of his plans for us for the day. I felt a little bit sorry for him because it was fairly evident to me now--he wasn’t looking for a roommate, he was looking for a friend. This 36-year-old man had lived in this city all his life and he was alone for almost every moment since I had been here despite his desperate attempts to socialize. There was a reason why this man had no friends. He was clingy and odd. I declined his invitations to go to his parents’ house, to get coffee, and to “do sports,” and told him I had some errands to do. He told me that he would go with me and I had to yet again be direct. I wanted to be alone.
I did all the things I wanted to do except laundry. It was nice to wander around city, explore winding streets, people watch, and just observe life here. I’m still amazed that French people really do walk around carrying baguettes under their arm. I’m also still puzzled why so many men smell bad. Don’t they smell themselves? Aren’t they self-conscious of their b.o.? And it’s not just old or unkempt people—it’s all types. Maybe they just don’t care. Just like people don’t seem to care when a car is coming, or being on time, or that they’re holding up pedestrian traffic when they walk side by side at a snail’s pace down a street that’s barely 5 feet wide. Their faces evidence their leisurely pace of life. No one’s hurried or stressed. No one’s yelling into their Bluetooth ear piece or checking their blackberry. It’s refreshing.
Sunday, September 6 —
I was able to sneak into the shower without a bombardment of questions. My plan was to walk over to Cécile’s by 11 a.m., go to a farmer’s market in a neighboring town, and go to a movie later in the day. As I stepped out of the bathroom with uncombed, dripping wet hair, Francis told me that he wanted to visit with me. I explained that I wanted to get ready first and that if I had time, I would have a cup of coffee with him. Twenty minutes later, he knocks on my door and asks if I’m ready. I open the door to say to say no. He then tells me, not asks me, to call Cécile to come to the apartment to have a cup of coffee with him. I then explained that I was walking over there, that she wasn’t picking me up, and that I needed to continue getting ready. I did manage to leave five minutes for a cup of coffee. I sat down on the balcony with him. Again, he invited himself. I explained that it was not my place to invite him, that this was something I had been invited to, and that I would let her know that he was interested. That wasn’t a good explanation for him. He said that he “let” me have a day to myself yesterday but that today I should spend it with him, that spending the day as three people is better than two, that this my notion of not inviting him was very “American,” individual, and egotistical.
Unfortunately for him, I was not the only person who did not want to spend time with him. I knew that he had made Cécile uncomfortable and that another American girl here, who I had been emailing, had had to be rude to him before he’d stop imposing. After some discussion, he told me that he was going to call Cécile and ask to join us. He said it wasn’t my choice.
At this point I stopped being friendly but remained cordial. I told him I thought he was a nice a person and nice roommate. However, I was not interested in spending time with him. I told him that I preferred to be with just Cécile. He didn’t care. He called her, putting her on the spot, and she allowed him to join us. I texted to apologize to her. For the entire 20-minute walk I listened to his “philosophy” and what he expected from a roommate.
Before we arrived, Cécile had devised a brilliant plan. On the way to the market she mentioned her “boyfriend” in passing. I went along. She then later explained that he’s a bit jealous. Then by the end of our walk through the market, she told me, in front of Francis, that she should return home because she did not want to upset her boyfriend by spending time with another guy, especially during Ramadan, as he is Muslim. This upset Francis so he backed off for a while. It was totally made up but she felt it necessary to stop his questions and his interest in her.
Immediately after Francis and I left he started with the questions. He asked if I knew she had a boyfriend and why I didn’t tell him. I asked why I would tell him and why he expected me to tell him. He then went on for 10 minutes about tolerance and in the same breath said that he was “allergic” to our mentality, and that it belonged in Algeria. He also said that Cécile could not come to his apartment and that I should live like a French person while I’m in France.
I was able to sneak into the shower without a bombardment of questions. My plan was to walk over to Cécile’s by 11 a.m., go to a farmer’s market in a neighboring town, and go to a movie later in the day. As I stepped out of the bathroom with uncombed, dripping wet hair, Francis told me that he wanted to visit with me. I explained that I wanted to get ready first and that if I had time, I would have a cup of coffee with him. Twenty minutes later, he knocks on my door and asks if I’m ready. I open the door to say to say no. He then tells me, not asks me, to call Cécile to come to the apartment to have a cup of coffee with him. I then explained that I was walking over there, that she wasn’t picking me up, and that I needed to continue getting ready. I did manage to leave five minutes for a cup of coffee. I sat down on the balcony with him. Again, he invited himself. I explained that it was not my place to invite him, that this was something I had been invited to, and that I would let her know that he was interested. That wasn’t a good explanation for him. He said that he “let” me have a day to myself yesterday but that today I should spend it with him, that spending the day as three people is better than two, that this my notion of not inviting him was very “American,” individual, and egotistical.
Unfortunately for him, I was not the only person who did not want to spend time with him. I knew that he had made Cécile uncomfortable and that another American girl here, who I had been emailing, had had to be rude to him before he’d stop imposing. After some discussion, he told me that he was going to call Cécile and ask to join us. He said it wasn’t my choice.
At this point I stopped being friendly but remained cordial. I told him I thought he was a nice a person and nice roommate. However, I was not interested in spending time with him. I told him that I preferred to be with just Cécile. He didn’t care. He called her, putting her on the spot, and she allowed him to join us. I texted to apologize to her. For the entire 20-minute walk I listened to his “philosophy” and what he expected from a roommate.
Before we arrived, Cécile had devised a brilliant plan. On the way to the market she mentioned her “boyfriend” in passing. I went along. She then later explained that he’s a bit jealous. Then by the end of our walk through the market, she told me, in front of Francis, that she should return home because she did not want to upset her boyfriend by spending time with another guy, especially during Ramadan, as he is Muslim. This upset Francis so he backed off for a while. It was totally made up but she felt it necessary to stop his questions and his interest in her.
Immediately after Francis and I left he started with the questions. He asked if I knew she had a boyfriend and why I didn’t tell him. I asked why I would tell him and why he expected me to tell him. He then went on for 10 minutes about tolerance and in the same breath said that he was “allergic” to our mentality, and that it belonged in Algeria. He also said that Cécile could not come to his apartment and that I should live like a French person while I’m in France.
Obviously, this living arrangement was not going to work out. Francis agreed and actually asked me to leave within the next day or two because he wanted to have a Mexican girl who he had been communicating with as a roommate and she had just arrived in Paris. 
She won’t have my American mentality, he explained. At 3:30 I went back over to Cécile’s to go to a movie. We discussed my options. As we walked down her street towards the city center, she showed me a house that had a room for rent. After the movie we stopped by to see it. It was perfect. It’s turned out to be a studio apartment on the fourth floor of a house, fully furnished, with a shower and small kitchen. Rent included all the utilities, cable, internet, access to a washing machine, and even maid service once a week. The couple who owns the house live on the first to floors with their two sons. They’re very nice and extremely helpful. They said I could move in the next day.
At almost 9 p.m. Cécile and I went to Vincent’s to have dinner with him and one of his roommates named Colleen. He cooked sausages over a fire and served them with pasta, mushrooms, fresh tomatoes and beets, and bread. For dessert we had rhubarb, pudding, and homemade cherry preserves. The food was very good and it was fun to be invited to dinner for the first time at a person’s home. As usual, I had a great time with Cécile and Vincent and was delighted to meet another one of their friends. We laughed a lot, exchanged French and English slang, and I learned how to make a few new dishes.
She won’t have my American mentality, he explained. At 3:30 I went back over to Cécile’s to go to a movie. We discussed my options. As we walked down her street towards the city center, she showed me a house that had a room for rent. After the movie we stopped by to see it. It was perfect. It’s turned out to be a studio apartment on the fourth floor of a house, fully furnished, with a shower and small kitchen. Rent included all the utilities, cable, internet, access to a washing machine, and even maid service once a week. The couple who owns the house live on the first to floors with their two sons. They’re very nice and extremely helpful. They said I could move in the next day.At almost 9 p.m. Cécile and I went to Vincent’s to have dinner with him and one of his roommates named Colleen. He cooked sausages over a fire and served them with pasta, mushrooms, fresh tomatoes and beets, and bread. For dessert we had rhubarb, pudding, and homemade cherry preserves. The food was very good and it was fun to be invited to dinner for the first time at a person’s home. As usual, I had a great time with Cécile and Vincent and was delighted to meet another one of their friends. We laughed a lot, exchanged French and English slang, and I learned how to make a few new dishes.
Monday, September 7 —
Most of the day was filled with more administrative stuff and meeting some international students. I learned that if your country is a part of the EU, you can go to school for a semester, or maybe a year, in another EU country for the same price as it would be if you stayed at home. The program is called ERASMUS. I’ll be taking French language classes with these students so I wanted a chance to meet them.
In the late afternoon, I packed up my stuff and waited for Cécile and Vincent to arrive to help me move. After I was completely packed, Francis returned. I think he was surprised to learn that I had found a place so quickly and of course had 20 questions which I dodged.
Most of the day was filled with more administrative stuff and meeting some international students. I learned that if your country is a part of the EU, you can go to school for a semester, or maybe a year, in another EU country for the same price as it would be if you stayed at home. The program is called ERASMUS. I’ll be taking French language classes with these students so I wanted a chance to meet them.
In the late afternoon, I packed up my stuff and waited for Cécile and Vincent to arrive to help me move. After I was completely packed, Francis returned. I think he was surprised to learn that I had found a place so quickly and of course had 20 questions which I dodged.
We brought all my stuff up 4 flights of stairs. I was really happy to have help.
Afterward, Cécile and I went to a store just like Meijer out in the suburbs. I bought a coffee maker, hair dryer (FINALLY), and a few groceries. I could have wandered in that store for hours. Such small menial tasks are so much fun to do here. For instance, when you buy honey in the U.S., most people just pick up another plastic bear. I would bet that few people know what type of honey is in that little bear or that they there’s tons of different other honeys, unless they were a interested in that stuff. Here, I went to pick out some honey and there was a literally probably 50 different choices. I asked Cécile for her opinion and she laughed in disbelief when I told her there was one option in the U.S. Then I love the milk and egg isle—there’s no refrigeration! I haven’t broken down to buy that milk yet and I keep forgetting to see what fresh milk costs. The worst and best isles are the ice cream and chocolate isles. I feel compelled to try everything I possibly can at least once. Fortunately I haven’t started down that road . . . yet.The rest of the night I spent putting away and arranging my new studio. I love this place. And, I even have a view of the Puy-de-Dôme.
So, it was a busy first week. I haven't really had much time to reflect, read, watch French TV, or even feel homesick. But, I miss everyone. And, I miss some American things like the Food Network, E news updates about Jon and Kate, and washing machines that don't have a 110 minute wash cycle. But I'm definitely enjoying having the time to cook. This was my dinner tonight:
I'm looking foward to this slower paced life.
