Integrating Into A New Place
Still, I'm a functioning member of society. Having spent the past 8 days sick, I went to see French doctors not once, but twice. The first doctor spoke nearly fluent English, though she insisted that her English wasn't very good. The second doctor (and receptionist) spoke hardly any. Trying to explain my symptoms in French while sick was one of the hardest things I've ever done. It was somehow mentally, physically, and emotionally training. I went home with my much-needed antibiotics, but felt exhausted and frustrated.
I love the town I'm living in. Grenoble and the surrounding area is one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen. From my window every day I can see the sun rise and set. I can see the Alps, whose peaks are white on some days. I have one of the most beautiful views in the world. And yet, I am spending most of my time frustrated, isolated, and upset. I'm frustrated that I'm not picking up French as fast as I thought I would and I'm frustrated that my day-to-day French abilities are far worse than I thought they were. I can feel myself starting to get angry at the French language; sometimes I don't even try to understand it. I wonder what it must be like to live in this city and fully understand the language and culture; it must be heaven on Earth.
But beyond that there are also cultural things I don't understand. I don't look like the girls here, who are (mostly) all white, always sporting a thick neutral-toned scarf, and somehow have really nailed the "I woke up looking like this and it's called perfection" look. Meanwhile I'm wearing my black rain boots (apparently the French don't believe in rain boots) and my hair doesn't look messy chic –– it just looks messy. The French eat their baguettes on tables and it's not uncommon to see a couple making out in a public square at any hour of the day. Honestly, things are not so different; but they feel like they are. I find myself missing DC, a city I have only known for two years. Still, somehow, I feel comfortable there. Some part of life there just makes sense. No matter how familiar the situation here, I feel lost.
Today I took my sketchbook to a nearby square – famous in Grenoble as the location of the very first outburst against the monarchy and therefore the start of the French Revolution – and sat at a café, ordered un thé, and people watched. Admittedly, this hour of studying French life was less planned than happy circumstance. After agreeing to meet up with a friend at 2pm, she hastily texted back that she hadn't even had lunch yet. I was glad I had brought my sketchbook.
On the page on the lefthand side I drew the view from the square with the fountain at my back. I drew the tram which ran through the city center ever couple of minutes, the cafés bustling with people, the tall trees that were just starting to change color, and the mountains in the distance. After it was all done I felt a slightly lessened weight on my shoulders. On the page on the righthand side I drew what I imagined the square looked like from an aerial view, the fountain center, flanked on all sides by cafés (with lots of outdoor seating), a boulangerie, a pharmacie, and of course the tram. And then I watched the people. I watched which streets they entered the square from, how they passed through the square, and where they went. I drew their paths again and again on my map until some areas were darker and some light and I had a clear understanding of how people were entering, hovering, and then leaving this space.
My freshman year I took a course called "Global Cities." The professor was a bit unconventional in her ways; for one paper, she insisted that we were not allowed to use sources or look any information up (the point was that we didn't know what we writing was true or false, it was all what we thought we knew or had in the past heard/seen) and she rejected lined notebooks in favor of sketchbooks –– "choose one that speaks to you," she had said. For one assignment she told us to sit in the SIS Atrium twice for two hours at a time and study the people and how they made use of the space. I thought it was a little silly but today, after feeling lost and drained for a month, I pulled out my sketchbook and did the exact same thing. The method is called tracing (don't quote me on this), and it's an exercise commonly practiced by city planners and ethnographers alike. By the time I finished my tea, paid 3 euros, and left, I had a better grasp of this city and the people in it, even if just a little. Somehow, everything just made a little more sense.
That's not to say that by the end of this I was suddenly well acquainted with French life and ready to go about the rest of abroad speaking fluent French. In fact, just an hour ago I had about the worst French conversation with my host dad anyone could have. I had tried to push myself to talk to him some more – I understand his French better than anyone else in the family – but ended up trying to say a sentence with two incorrect verbs and one wrong verb tense. It was messy and frustrating (noticing a theme here?) and I felt embarrassed and ashamed, but in the end I'm glad I did it. If anything I'm building my shame resiliency. Perhaps by the end of abroad I'll never feel ashamed or embarrassed again. But, this is to say that sometimes purposefully studying life (even if it feels silly) can let you have a bit of a better grasp on it, especially when you're in a new place.
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