The Aging Process

“When faith in myself was so strong that I believed I could move mountains.”

A card given to me before leaving for France.

As I look in the mirror, I can see my days of youthful optimism dwindling. The lines in my forehead have become deeper. My eyes don’t have quite the same shine. My hair is thinning. Not only can I see the physical signs of my aging, but I can feel it as well. Just months ago, I felt I could conquer the world. I truly believed I had hundreds of possibilities for my future and it was simply a choice of deciding which I wanted to do next. But now that I’m here in France, living out one of my many dreams, I don’t have quite the same excitement as before. It’s sad to find the day when you realize that it’s not that you can’t do it all, but maybe you just don’t want to. What hurts me the most in saying this is the fact that I truly do believe in myself. I know full heartedly that I will succeed at whatever I set my mind to and be great. But it seems as though I’ve lost my passion. For traveling. For living in new places. For meeting new people.

Perhaps I’m looking at it in all the wrong light. Maybe I haven’t lost my passion for experiencing the unknown, but instead, come to appreciate the known. This summer I was able to develop deeper friendships with the people around me. I was able to see the beauty of the countryside of North Dakota as I would run down the gravel roads. I could look forward to meeting my mom for lunch. I knew that Sunday afternoons would be spent with Grandma. But now here I am, alone in a small French village. I’m craving the relationships I left behind.

It’s hard to accept that this is okay. To allow myself to want to settle down and have stability. It just makes me sound so… old. Students continually ask me what my plans are for the future. And I give them my honest answer. “I don’t know.” At twenty-two, I still have the world ahead of me. But perhaps at the end of these seven months, I’ll want that world to be filled with things I know and love.

Seeing the World Around Me

 A common belief: Stand up straight. Make eye contact. It gives you confidence.

This, however, no longer holds true for me. 

As I walk down the streets of France, I have learned that keeping my head high could be dangerous, deadly even. I could become "that girl". Yes, the one who wasn't looking at her feet to avoid that brown pile of mush and now has it all over her shoes. In France, dogs do not seem to understand that the grass is for such private matters. Nor do their owners appear to know the common courtesy of picking up after their beloved pet has done the deed. So not only do I have a lack of confidence due to my below average comprehension of the language around me, but I can't even fool the passerbys on the street by looking them in the eye because my head is glued to the ground, in fear of what I could find myself stepping in.

Thoughts:

No butter popcorn in France!

• In the past week, I have attended two movies. For each, I had no problem following the plot despite only comprehending 50% of the words being spewed at me. But it’s funny how back home I would never notice how loud and distracting my own sound of chewing popcorn could be. I would never have the need to take out a dictionary to better understand what’s being said. I wouldn’t be wide eyed as words rapidly shot across the screen, unable to take it all in before they were gone. As opposed to being relaxed, watching movies in French feels more like homework. I hope to keep these experiences close to heart and by May, announce to you all that I laughed at every joke in the latest flick, all while boisterously chomping my bucket of kettle corn.
  
  

• PDA is so overdone here. I can barely stomach what I see in the halls. The passionate kiss exchanged between couples as they can’t stand to be apart during the next fifty five minutes. Hands groping back ends with no effort to even conceal it. I keep my eyes averted to the best of my ability.
  
  
• I have yet to understand the school system here. I’ve got this part down:
  
  
  seconde (tenth grade)
  première (eleventh grade)
  terminale (twelfth grade)
  
  
  But then they throw in acronyms and I’m lost again. LV4. 1S1! TBPC?! 1BPUS?!? Really now. It has something to do with the fact that this is both a general and technical/professional high school which in turn is why my students’ ages range from 14-23. And despite their efforts to explain this to me, I’m just utterly confused. I simply go where I’m told and don’t ask questions.
  
  
• My first week in Commercy, I would practically die as I walked past groups of students surrounded just outside the front gate of the school on their smoke break. While trying to sneak past even my youngest, secondes, getting their nicotine fix, I can’t help but wonder “does your mother know you’re doing this?” But this week, something wonderful happened. “Hello. Hi! How. are. you?” Were they talking to me? YES! The smiles and greetings from my students made my day a little brighter. I flash a smile in return, and keep walking, a little less horrified of making my way through the crowds, knowing that they’ve accepted what I have to give.

Smiles from a Flower

«Plus on grandit, plus on a peur. »
The bigger we get, the more afraid we are.

I own a book called 2,001 Things to Do Before You Die. It has motivated me in many ways. It’s the reason that I made such an ordeal of seeing David in Florence and splurging on my gondola ride in Venice. It’s also inspired me to go skinny dipping, attempt to make pizza from scratch, and take up knitting. The joy I get from ticking off those little boxes after accomplishing something is wonderful. Thus this summer, a friend and I made another list for me. This special set of tasks is for the next eight months. Things to keep me motivated and involved as I carry out this French adventure.

“BreAnna’s List of Awesomeness!!”
17. Treat yourself to fresh flowers every once and awhile.

I came prepared for this one. While still back in the States, I found a flat vase that puffs out once filled with water. Perfect! Now all I needed to do was find fresh flowers. I had heard of the once weekly market in Commercy, so my first Monday here, I set out with one thing in mind: des fleurs. As I went up several aisles and down numerous more, I came out empty handed. The next day, while exploring the town, I came across a flower shop. The bouquets, however, were premade complete with signs of condolences on the loss of loved ones. Not quite the right vibe for my apartment.

Two weeks later, my vase is still sitting empty on my kitchen table.

It’s been difficult these past few days. Now that I’m back from my vacationing and past my initial move in period, it feels like it’s time to make Commercy home. This past Sunday I went to church. I’ve spent hours at the café. Yet no one has talked to me. A goal I made for myself was to get involved in a community activity. I have a whole book of things to choose from, but most have to do with some sort of political or parent group. Or there’s always archery and fishing. Needless to say, there aren’t many items that pertain to me. It’s getting me down. I’m not necessarily lonely. It’s been nice to have time for myself, yet with each day that I sit alone in my apartment, I can’t help but think it’s a day wasted improving my French.

So yesterday, instead of watching French TV, I decided to make my way to the city center before the shops all closed at 7pm. I found myself in front of the tourist office and the library, both of which had closed an hour earlier. While wondering back up the hill, I spotted some flowers on the sidewalk. This shop was exactly what I had been looking for! Yet it was twenty to seven and I couldn’t quite tell if they were open or not. Instead of going on in, I took a stroll back and forth, debating what to do. It’s so silly, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve grown more afraid of the world around me. So what if the shop is closed? Then I’ll go back the next day. Why would such a simple thing even need consideration? But that’s not how I was thinking. After a few minutes of pacing, I finally kicked myself in the butt and entered. As I browsed the selection, the shop owner came out and began chatting with me. I chose a beautiful pink flower, and while she wrapped it, she carried on, asking if I was English.

“No, I’m American.”
“You must be the English assistant at the high school. I know everything around here,” she said with a smirk.

We both laughed. She told me her daughter goes to the lycée and has Mme. Braudel for an English teacher. We discussed my plans for the holidays and how I like Commercy so far. As she handed me my neatly wrapped packaged, she smiled saying,

« Je vous les offre. » (A gift for you.)
« Non, non, » I politely refused.
« Oui! Une petite bienvenue à Commercy. » (Yes! A little welcome to Commercy. )

In the midst of my fear and low spirits, such a small thing meant the world. If I wouldn’t have made myself go in the shop, I would have gone home sad and lonely that night. But thanks to this kind woman, the whole way home I couldn’t help but smile.

The flowers that are now sitting on my table are a lovely reminder that there are people here who want to get to know me. I just need to be willing to put myself out there to meet them.

To Laugh or To Cry

There are sometimes in life when you only have two options: to laugh or to cry.

Trying to cook in French with a dictionary

• Climbing up a hundred stairs in the Paris metro with 85lbs of luggage behind you while your friend looks at you in pain: laugh.
• Watching the Simpsons in French and only being able to understand half of what they’re saying even while giving it your full attention: laugh.
• Making instant mashed potatoes with a dictionary and calculator in hand because you need to translate the instructions and convert the measurements: laugh.

But there are those days that all you can do is sit down in defeat and let the pain of being lost in a foreign language sink in.

For example, as I rounded the corner of an undiscovered road in Commercy, I found a treasure, the InterMarche. As opposed to the little grocery store across the street, this is a mega store, allowing my list of things to be checked off one by one. Here, unlike Hugo’s back home, the lettuce wasn’t neatly packaged, but hanging all out. Looking at the head, I decided I didn’t need much for dinner and proceeded to tear off a portion of the leaves. I collected the rest of what I needed and made my way to the caisse. The cashier weighed my bananas, next the apples, then the lettuce. “Vous avez pincé les feuilles!" Not understanding a word she was saying to me, I looked in confusion. She repeated herself again, even louder, now all eyes on me. “Vous avez pincé les feuilles!" Thanks to her visual cues, I understood I wasn’t allowed to tear off the leaves and there was no way she was going to let me buy just half of the lettuce. As I stood in embarrassment, thinking please shut up, I just wanted to tell her I would pay full price for half the head, but I couldn’t find the words. She finally let me go, scolding me to never do such a thing again. I scooted off sans salade. Claire came to the rescue, grabbing from the produce section what we had left behind and in the end, the lady gave her the other half, but not without giving her another firm word. Leaving the grocery store after being told off by the cashier: cry.

The largest garbage cans in Commercy.

The next day, I was given the telephone number of the insurance company by Nathalie, being told I needed to call them ASAP to get things in order. I took the number, dreading the thought of having to make a phone call in French, but knew it had to be done. After giving it a day, I made my way to a bench outdoors and dialed the ten numbers in front of me. The other end rang numerous times and with each buzz I rehearsed what I would say. Finally, a woman picked up, announcing she was with MAIF, confirming I had called the right place. At the end of my carefully prepared introduction, there was no response. “Pouvez-vous m’aider?” With my plea for help, the woman told me I needed to come to her office in Verdun. I told her that I couldn’t because I lived in Commercy (as I had already stated). She repeated again that I needed to come to the office. I denied this request encore. I said I was told I just needed to call and give her my address and the agency could send me the proper paperwork. With a loud, unforgiving exhale, she agreed to take down my information. We started with my name.

« Fiala, BreAnna. F-I-… »
« Attendez! Votre nom de famille.  (Wait ! Your family name.)
« Oui, c’est Fiala. F-I-… » (Yes. It’s Fiala. F-I-…)
« Non, non, non ! Votre nom de famille. » (No, no, no ! Your family name.)
« OUI. MON NOM DE FAMILLE EST FIALA. F-I… » (YES. MY FAMILY NAME IS FIALA. F-I-…)
« Attendez ! S comme Sophie ? » (Wait! S as in Sophie?)
« Non. F comme….uh…. Fume. » (No. F like in… uh… smoke.)
« S comme Sophie ? » (S like Sophie?)
« NON. F comme fume. Fumer ! » (NO. F like smoke. To smoke!)

Another annoyed exhale comes from the woman. She carries on telling me just to fax in my information. I need my address, my birthdate, and blah blah blah. The number is 03 39… By the time I’ve figured out the first four numbers, the other six have already flown by and I’m shutting down. For the rest of the conversation, I just fill in ouis and d’accords as appropriate. Au revoir. Merci. But really I’m thinking thanks, but no thanks. I literally sat on that bench, phone in hand, letting the tears roll. All I wanted to do was call my mom, but had no way of doing so. As I slowly got up, shoulders slumped, my phone rings. It’s my mom. How did she know I needed her?! While relaying the story of what just happened, all my mom can do is laugh. All I can do is cry. But in my time of defeat, it was nice to know that someone could find the humor.

And this is where I’m at. Every day I’m interacting with new people and I seem to find one of two things: either they’re a fan or they’re not. Meaning, they are either willing to help a foreigner with slaughtered French or they don’t want to give me the time of day.

FAN:
The men at the phone store.
The woman at the bank.
The girl at the post office.
The man at the café.

NOT A FAN:
The cashier at the grocery store.
The woman from the insurance company.
The man at the train station.

And the lists go on. Each of these interactions has a story and from each I learn something. I just keep reminding myself that for every person that doesn’t want to help, there’s another that does. I can’t let it get me down. And I truly have to believe that sometimes, it’s just lost in translation.


Thoughts:

American WWI Monument

• I've met eight or so classes of students. I was supposed to be observing for the first couple of weeks, but my school decided to skip that part. It's okay. I don't mind being up there in front of all the kids. It's mostly the same things. "What iz yourrr name? Do you like-uh Frrrahnce? Do you have a boyfrrrehnd?" For the most part, they are great. You can just see how some of them are in shock when I talk to them. They turn bright red and get giggly. Then there are those that I just want to scoop up and take home. Most of the students sit in their desks and won't ask me any questions even when I call on them by name. (Which, by the way, has been the favorite activity thus far. I will take the name chart and try to say each student's name. They laugh at me uncrontrollably. How would you pronounce names such as Anaïs or Gaetan? Even Kevin and Jessica aren't so easy. They are Keh-veen and Sheh-zee-kah".) One boy in particular had his hand raised the whole time and I could just see how excited he was every time I understood his question. At the end of class, he came up to me and told me "I half uh corrrr-eh-spone-dahnt een Phee-nix Arrr-ee-zone-ah. Whe whrrrite e-mailz." SO CUTE. And another girl was so excited because we have similar music choices. Another common question: do you like David Guetta? He is the pride and joy of these kids.
  
• Still no internet. I have already been twice to the store and they want me to come yet a third time. Things aren't always as efficient here... It's just not all that convenient for me to get there. It's a fifteen minute walk, but by the end of it I'm sweating and it's no joy to stand in the tiny room that has its heat on full blast while I wait ten minutes before anyone even acknowledges me. And then they can't help. GR. Really, people, I just want to Skype my family.
  
• There's just one church here and its of course Catholic, but on Sunday morning I ventured my way there. Now, not only do I get a bit lost during mass when I'm back home, but imagine me trying to follow along in French. The only plus was there wasn't a lot of kneeling, just mostly standing and sitting. I also chose a special Sunday which included a baptism and first communion. Well I happened to see one of the English teachers at the service. She was surprised, saying I was the first assistant she had ever seen at church. She proceeded to have me over for lunch. She has two kids with whom I was able to speak French! They were great. The whole family afterwards took me to see the American World War I monument about twenty minutes away. A wonderful Sunday afternoon.
  
• Did you know that French milk just sits on the shelves? It's always scared me that it doesn't have to be refrigerated, but I finally faced my fears and tried it. I'm not dead yet and it actually quenched my thirst. I still don't quite understand how that little bottle I bought isn't going to expire until December...
  

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