Dear Sister, Even if You're Not

I envisioned this post as a time capsule of sorts. While studying abroad in Nantes, France, I decided that I would one day want something that would be a one-way ticket to an experience of memory, a memory of experience. I wanted something that would make me feel as if I was transported back to the moment when I sat along the Erdre River with my two bare pieds noirs (literally "black feet"), dusty and darkened from wandering barefoot. So without further ado, I present the letter that I wrote to the most important person of my experience--my "host sister."

Dear Mélissa,

I'm writing to you, but you will likely never read this letter. Mais si tu vois ça, n'hesites pas à demander à Nathalie pour une traduction - j'utilise beaucoup d'argot, mais elle fera de sa mieux. (If you do, ask Nathalie to translate- my English is replete with unique slang, but she'll do her best.) I'm writing to you to explain the thoughts that rest idle when the words have run elsewhere. I'm writing to you because there's no map to sincere gratitude that has sufficient instructions when you're lost in translation.

The words "host sister" find their way ever so subtly into my conversation.  The title comes easy now that it's slipped its way into conversation with friends and family so many times. It's easy, convenient, just a smidge endearing, but also quite amusingly incorrect.

We are not technically sisters. And while nobody would guess it, you're not part of my host family either. (Though truly you are considered such, more or less.) You are a student, renting the room for two years now in this house we call ours and studying at the same university in this charming city. Our rooms sit side-by-side and are linked by the bathroom we share, like many other things.

I love that we are always known as les filles (the girls) in the house. We've taken to taking meals together, swapping cheese and sharing bread. I never get sick of laughing about the time when we gleefully put ribbons in our brother's shoes on his birthday. I love that we'll both bemoan missing Nathalie's amazing pumpkin soup and tease the other if she does. I'm constantly amused by your endless love of coffee. And by the time you're on cup #4, I know full well to join you pronto. I wouldn't have it any other way.

It warms my soul that you rush to greet me, when you know I've had an unkind exam at way-too-early in the morning. You are the first one to ask me how it went. To tell me "ça va, c'est fini" (it's ok, it's over), when my lower lip trembles in response. Whether you knew that or not, I needed it more than anything.

When I bounce into a room, I love that you offer to make room on the couch for me. And share the blanket too. Blanket sharing is serious business in this world of friendship. I try to politely refuse every time so as to not make you move. And I laugh every time you shoot me a raised eyebrow and eye-rolling glance that clearly says "shut up, and sit your ass down." You know me a good handful of steps beyond politeness.

I love that you put my host brother, Cyriaque, in his place when he gets sassy up in your grill. I love that we'll eat seconds of dessert at any given chance because we rejoice in just how sweet life is. I love that you know my class schedule and that I know yours. That you're my confidante for all questions bizarre and embarrassing (and believe me, I ask a lot). I love the way you talk to your 2 year old (?) nephew, like your heart is so full of adoration that every word is laced with a love plain and simple. You're kind and silly, easy-going and always ready to answer my next question.

I loved that night you bought hard cider during our spontaneous trip to the grocery store -- "2 for tonight, and 2 for another night," you said. That we cooked dinner, filling the kitchen with music and soul-soothing laughter alike. I love that I uttered the words 'Ryan Gosling', and you took your hand to lips and declared, "Il est parfait!" as I lost myself to laughter. I love that we later hung out and watched The Notebook en français, with you reminding me to make myself at home in your room that sits mere steps from mine. I loved the risotto you made but loved the pride that shone in making it even more. I love that you asked me twice if I was forgetting anything before leaving...even though you knew I likely would anyway. That like my sister, you stopped me before going out, straightened my smile, and beamed saying, "Tu es jolie!" (you're beautiful). 

I smile from head to toe realizing how good of friends we've become so quickly, even with that transparent language barrier that tries to draw a line between two. I try to imagine what it would be like if I could speak fluently in French, or you in English. If this sweet companionship could be even better.

I love that I never guessed we of all people would be best friends. But I couldn't be happier that we are. I wonder if we'll keep in touch and what it'd be like if/when you were to come visit me in California. I think about how much you've given me comfort in being here and if I could ever do the same in return. I think about how much I'll miss you. But above all, I wonder if you realize what all this has to meant to me...that at the end of the day, I would be proud to call you my sister.

Love, Lexi

As It Should Be

I'm smiling. Not the kind of smile that you use for when Grandma goes ballistic with the camera on Christmas. Or the kind of smile you use as a disguise around public audience.

Really smiling. 1% of you have seen this smile. The 1% that has truly made the effort to keep in touch this semester. The 1% that can decipher the face I'll make when faced with hilarious awkwardness. You're probably the same 1% that has Chapstick rites of passage.

Why the smile?

Sunlight floods the room. And I sit in its presence, greeting the streams of gold as they gently wash over me. Something feels right. I can't quite put my finger on it, but the smooth click on life's gears feels apparent. This could totally be the effect of too much coffee. Yeah? Saturday, get at me.

Or it could be the discovery that:

• I have 14 days more in France. That it will be an amazing 14 days but that going home will be the freakin' tits.
• My host sister has become like a sister to me and my best friend here. The fact that she is neither a biological sister nor my host family's actual daughter is irrelevant. Friendship extends beyond culture and language.
• Studying abroad is a janky crash course in showing you which friends remain friends, even when it's not convenient. Ironically, the people that I've talked to most are some of the busiest people I know. It's taught me that saying "Sorry, I was too busy, but I miss you!" or "Sorry! I just really suck at communication" is a bit misleading. "Busy" is a convenient excuse but a rather inconvenient truth. I haven't kept in touch with people this semester who 'have' time but rather people who have 'made' time. It's a small, but important, distinction.
• By American standards, what I eat on a daily basis is considered horrifyingly unhealthy. Yet I've never felt more at peace with my body.
• Language immersion is like playing the game CatchPhrase 24/7 -- you spend most of your time describing what you want to say to people, while they try to guess the meaning or word you're trying to convey. Sometimes you win; sometimes you lose.
• I will eat Chipotle with reckless abandon upon return to the states. RECKLESS ABANDON. To the kind man/lady in charge of said inaugural homecoming burrito: please inform HQ that you will need exactly 1.74296 shit-tons of guacamole for my burrito.  Thanks!

Over and out.

Happy Saturday :)

-lex

My Second Family

Chère Lexi,Nous sommes très heureux de t’accueillir à Nantes.

(Dear Lexi, we're very happy to meet you in Nantes.) 

Late August. I popped open my Gmail to find a note from a woman named Nathalie, who introduced herself as my host mom and told me about the family I would soon join.  Today, it's my pleasure to introduce them to you.

Nathalie, my host mother. 

You are truly a Renaissance woman, if there ever was one. And I rarely go a day without wondering how you do it all. It's the sheer amount of things you do but also the effortlessness with which you do it that renders me in a constant state of awe known as "WHOA DUDE."  You have made me question the American notions of feminism, proving singlehandedly that a woman who maintains the household is far from secondary. In our maison, it's apparent that you are far, far from inferior. You stand at the helm of the home and the family but have mastered the art of being une femme d'affaires (business women) too. Working alongside my host dad and chef of the restaurant, you manage a full-time business operation with a dual presence of skill and grace. You carry yourself with sureness, easily commanding the attention of a room should you choose to do so.

Though I find myself at a loss to truly describe it in speech or on paper, your marriage is one of the most successful I've ever seen. Is this janky to note? Maybe, but it's important. The relationship between my host dad and you both at home and at work is one of impressive equality, even while the roles may differ.

You are an impeccable chef, even if it's my host dad who is the chef of the family. I marvel at how you maintain such a level of fitness, though it seems that life is your main form of exercise. You've raised five children and have hosted 10 exchange students alongside my host dad. Even while I see implicitly the pride you take in your children, you've made it seem like raising a big family is an easy feat. I know it couldn't have been. At home, you cook, do the laundry, sew, organize, email,  faire le ménage (clean the house), and keep things running in order without second thought. And you appear impeccably dressed and beautifully put-together through it all. Much like my own mother, you are a superwoman of sorts.

Pascal, my host dad.

You are the Master Chef, quite literally. After competing on the TV show "Master Chef" last year, you finally decided to quit your old job and pursue your lifelong dream to be a chef. You opened a restaurant bearing the family name in downtown Nantes. You cook with immense respect for the French tradition, while adding your own creative flair to give each dish its personality. As an entrepreneur, you are like my own dad. You work at the restaurant every day of the week when it's open and for every meal at that. I see you only in the mornings; while I wish I saw you more sometimes, I have so much admiration for how you appreciate your craft.

When you are home, we almost always talk about food. With the communication barrier stronger here than with my host mom, food is our natural common ground. I tell you what I know about Napa Valley, and you explain how you make the best dang roasted potatoes on the planet. (Hint: it's all in the butter).  You explain Daylight Savings in French to me the best you can and cut me some slack when I totally mess up with kissing at mass on Sunday. On your day off, you tend to the garden  in the rain, even though it soaks you to the bone. After all, is it not that same rain that gives the plants life?

I've seen plenty of instances of love, but you cherish your wife in a way unlike any I've seen. You treat her with a tenderness that makes me impossibly weak in the knees. It is not in grand, sweeping declarations of petty love but rather, the little things you do. The way you lightly brush your lips in a kiss across her forehead at breakfast. And the way you sweetly reach for her hand on the walk to church. The way you'll cook for her like she's the most important restaurant critic there ever was. The way you simply look at her with inexplicable appreciation. As if her presence is better than all the presents you could ever receive.

She, your family, and your food are everything to you. Forgive me, if you've caught me staring at such unconditional love.

Cyriaque, my host brother.

(Almost) 15. Spunky as all heck. Deserving of his own post before this post  turns into a novel.

Melissa, my sort-of host sister

Amazingly capable of firing back sass at host brother. Hot dang, there's a lot to say on this one. Also deserving of her own post.

So to my deuxième famille, thanks for having me. Like any family, we are not perfect.

But we do a pretty darn good job of making it work. Without second thought.

-lexi

What It's Really Like to Study Abroad in France

You know that one junk cabinet/drawer/closet you have sneakily stuffed with everything that wouldn't fit elsewhere?

That's an accurate depiction of what my thoughts & life have looked like for the past few weeks.

There's been a lot of song and dance around these parts. A few colorful character deets and plenty of wanderlust. But as I mentioned in this post, there's been far more left unsaid. Which would be completely  in 'whatevs' territory, except that I've been going multiple degrees of crazy with how much I want to say. That's rare for a keen observer who typically leaves details to the outside lands.

Let's get on this wild ride. Grab the rando fake mustache that's been sitting in said junk cabinet, the strongest cup of coffee you can find, and a tub of butter for good luck. We're going to France!

I arrived in France, wide-eyed and wonderful. It was my second time in the country, but I had been a veritable youngin' during my first trip. Living somewhere, I learned, is also a fast departure from a weeklong vacation.

Studying abroad in Nantes, France has been like nothing I expected, yet more than I ever could have dreamed. It's bizarre being an outsider, while pretending to be an insider for a few months. It's an unapologetic kick in the butt that makes you realize the shallowness of your own world -- like the feeling you get when throwing on a pair of 3D glasses in the movie theater.

It's a total holy-crap-this-is-real moment that could fo sho be on Oprah.

As a hopeless wanderer, I tend to adapt to new environments relatively quickly. Even after spending 2.5 years away from home (at Georgetown, in DC/Philly/NYC, Google, etc), I've never been truly homesick. (Mom & Dad, this isn't to say I don't love you bunches). Change doesn't scare me that way.

Studying abroad in France, however, is a different beast. I changed, adapted, and familiarized as I normally would. But there was one snag in this game plan: mindset.

And that's the part of the roller coaster ride with the unexpected HUGHHHHH JASSSS drop. The one that makes your stomach feel like it just peaced out on a whim.

Without really trying, I found myself thinking about France via subtraction rather than addition. The things lost rather than gained.

I was missing friends who were all sorts of essential, a fall semester on the Hilltop, iced coffee, long showers, summer shenanigans, a common timezone, variety in EVERYTHING, and most importantly, English -- my golden ability to communicate and my homefield advantage. I wasn't stuck on it perse, but I couldn't help seeing those pin-sized holes around me. Normal life minus normal things = just life.

Even loving the experience, that mindset was a wall or sorts. It was the basic realization of meeting a world that was, well...foreign. That seems like Obvious 101, but it wasn't.

In the recent few weeks though, my mindset has changed a bit. Confronted with a few small comforts, it's become easier to see things through the lens of addition.

You see, I forgot a critical part of the equation: the value-added.  I forgot the +France part of this shindig. Granted, that +France comes with -Normalcy, but isn't that the point? I didn't come here to do things normally, to have the same things I normally would, to be comfortable.

Because really, what kind of smashbang is that?

I came here to learn. About culture, language, people. We have a whole dealio going on over here. I came to see what it's like to do life...a little differently. And to try living a little different myself. I came to find the best dang croissant & cuppa joe. (And to endure plenty of trial and error in the meantime.)

I'm loving that my walk home gets better with age and looks like a million bucks on Fridays.

I'm amused by the dear guy who has taken to sitting next to me in class and making me laugh something wonderful.

I'm content that I know ma belle ville (my beautiful city) now and that getting lost is a rather intentional way of finding myself.

I'm hella happy that my host mom is totally into pumpkin pie; that my host dad thinks French Lit sucks too; that my host sister and I are BUDS; and that my host brother's sarcasm rivals my own.

Finally, I'm starting to understand. We're talking addition, not subtraction. Just like anywhere else, there's ups, downs, but also high fives all around.

So life may kinda look like that one hot-mess-of-a-junk cabinet that you inevitably have. But even amidst the chaos of it all, those surprise gems hiding in the back always seem to add a little something special to life.

And that equation is easy as pie.

En Masse

This past Sunday morning started with me thanking the world for creating comfy beds. Espresso and figs followed suit, naturally.

Over breakfast, my host mom & dad asked what I was planning to do for the day. I responded with a "je ne sais encore" {i don't know yet} and returned the question. They replied that they were going to Sunday Mass and then asked if I wanted to come. I responded with a hesitant, smiling maybe.

30 minutes later, I was on my way to one of the few religious gatherings I've ever attended in my life. Simply out of curiosity. While Georgetown is a jesuit school, I make no secret of the fact that I'm not devoutly religious, much less Catholic. I've attended mass twice before -- once at a jesuit leadership conference last summer with B and once to see a friend sing at a Georgetown service.

But yo dudes / dudettes, I quite enjoyed it. I liked hearing the sweet harmony of the hymns; I liked watching the little girl in front of me contentedly draw herself as a princess in a castle; and most of all, I liked the feeling of togetherness.

It was simple. There is something blatantly beautiful about seeing people come together for a communal purpose. It feels radically different from the individual-emphasized American culture to which I'm accustomed, with holidays and tragedies as the only cultural exceptions.

I didn't understand catch much of the all-in-French sermon, save for a word that was repeated at least 10 times and sounded a whole lot like "gazpacho." Or was it gelato? I digress. In normal space cadet fashion, I almost kissed the guy next to me smack dab on the lips during blessings pecked on each cheek. I cursed under my breath; he blessed me anyway. Thank heavens?

At the end of the day, I didn't call myself any more religious. Or any more Catholic. But rather, I'd say I was just a little more appreciative of the window into a different sort of life. A life where the music flows sweet, steady, and perhaps best of all,

en masse. 

~lexi

This Is Where We Find Rhythm

Right now, I'm smiling like a kid who was given two scoops of ice cream when she was only supposed to get one. Except wait. I am that kid? Fact.

The gelato guy in St. Malo said he liked my smile, and boy did he get a kick out of the mega-watt grin on my face when I received the double scoop salted caramel / cookie gelato pictured. Charm, it seems, is a universal language. 

It's strange the difference a week makes. Last week Sunday, I was slightly stressed about nothing in particular and everything in general. But as pals K and E  reminded me, "Girlfriend, you're in France. It's gonna be ok." Aside from the holy-tits-i-broke-my-family's-oven moment earlier today, all is better than well.

I bonded with my host dad this week, discussing why he believes in using organic/local ingredients at home and in his restaurant. We spent around 30 minutes talking about the importance of wine as a cultural symbol of France. Food is his jam, and it's no surprise to me now that he was on the French version of Top Chef because he's a bo$$ like that. Dang Papa, we're going to be fast friends.

I finally found a class at the university that I really enjoy and later stumbled into a wonderful conversation with some exchange students. One, a computer science major, uttered the words "Mountain View," and I almost lost my marbles with excitement.

Rockclimbing class and Argentinian tango lessons found their way onto my schedule. Beyond that, I befriended my surrogate host sister. To end the week, I also ate a pain au chocolat (chocolate croissant) that definitely maybe changed my life.  Yeah, please check my sanity at the door. We have a whole situation going on here.

Rhythm found its way into the end of this week, and it's more than welcome  to the party.

I spent most of Saturday with the other IES students at Mont St. Michel -- an island town and abbey -- and while I'd been before with my family, the place was still breathtaking. The monastery itself is magical in all of its ancient glory, perched upon a huge hill of the island.

We explored St. Malo for the second half of the afternoon, as I treasured the aforementioned double scoop of gelato and chatted with pals like it was 1989. I almost asked whether Willy Wonka was the mayor of the town because the entire place was filled with candy, chocolate, crepe, pastry, and gelato shops. Now I understand why people put their children on leashes. Except not. Because that is and will forever be bonkers ridiculous.

Today was spent truly and simply in French fashion: hanging out with family, going to church/Mass (more on this to come!), and enjoying an amazing home-cooked meal. With wine.

Because here, wine is the only natural and necessary vehicle for rhythm.

Or so says my host dad.

~lexi