Posts Tagged ‘france’
• France
Ernest Hemingway famously wrote, “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”
Each day as I ride the metro all over Paris- with increasing agility although I always, always fumble over the manual door handles- I have been reading Hemingway’s novel about Paris, A Moveable Feast. The book, which recounts the day to day activities of Hemingway’s life as a 25 year old writer scraping to get by in the City of Light, has been thrilling and enlightening to read.
Hem, as his friends seem to have called him, dedicates each short chapter to something small and simple about Paris. The first, for example, is called “A Good Café on the Place St-Michel” and describes the conditions in which he liked to write, the lighting in the café, the beautiful passersby, and the empty, almost-sad feeling he would get after he finished writing a good story. His stories about mundane aspects of life and his strikingly simple prose (something, I have learned through the book, which he worked tremendously hard to achieve, often eliminating every unnecessary word in his works, phrase by phrase, attempting to make the “truest sentence” he could) is somehow enthralling and I find myself eagerly turning the page to discover whether he’d get coffee with or without cream or if he would go to the horse races or straight home after lunch.
More than that, though, I have found so much in this little book that I can relate to. As depicted in Midnight in Paris, Hemingway would often stop by the famous writer Gertrude Stein’s apartment to talk about his writing or the works of his friends, who happened to be some of the most well-known artists of all time- Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot (whom he called “Major Eliot” for some reason) and Pablo Picasso. The apartment was on 27 rue de Fleurus, directly across the street from my program offices here. Each day as I walk to my phonetics class or to the amazing boulangerie down the street, I literally take the same path that Hemingway and countless other American legends walked down.
Even without the nerdy, literary star-struck feeling I get while reading A Moveable Feast, each day I am coming to understand more the feelings Hemingway had while he was writing this book. He speaks often of hunger. Not only his literal hunger which was made more evident by each warm, welcoming café whose sparkling patisseries in the windows seem almost too perfect to eat, but also a hunger of a deeper, more complex nature. Paris is so beautiful and yet in some ways so unattainable that one almost always feels as if you will never get enough, or never fully digest it.
But for now, I’m happy with the little movable feast I’ve been consuming, walking down the rue de Fleurus with a perpetual smile on my face, Hemingway in hand.
Packing for Paris, I was unabashedly giddy. I couldn’t wait to bring my cheetah print high top boots and my hip, off-the-shoulder sweatshirt. I brought the trendiest clothes I own (mostly acquired from Brooklyn flea markets during my stint as a Williamsburg hipster). Since the buzzword while packing was “edgy,” I debated whether to even drag along my un-cool Uggs. (Until I googled the question in my title and got resounding “yes! Uggs are everywhere!”).
But when I arrived at my new home I was met with a much different type of Paris than the liberal, trendy one in my mind.
The other day at dinner I told my host-mom about the babysitting job I just acquired, watching a set of Franco American twins nearby in our swanky neighborhood, the 16th arrondissement– comparable to the Upper East Side in New York. She smiled and told me what a great idea it was and how good it would be to earn some cash while I’m here.
Then, she got very serious. The smile almost always illuminates the strong, Peruvian features of her bronzed face was completely dispelled. “Ma-eve,” she said solemnly (the French have a lot of trouble with my name and always pronounce it in two, broken syllables, like a GPS would). “Ma-eve, you need to take our your nose ring. Here, Ça ce n’est pas marche,” she told me. She went on for several minutes about the stereotypes of people like me, with piercings and tattoos, and how in this neighborhood they will often be publicly scoffed at. Her husband seconded the notion later that day and when I told him I would buy a small stud to replace my silver ring, he exclaimed “Do it, do it” almost urgently.
Since the conversation I have become more wary of stares on the subway (and there have been several) and of the conservative nature of much French clothing. Earrings, in my neighborhood, are looked down upon and pretty much everywhere, necklines don’t brave past the collarbone.
So, at least in the 16th, it seems as if I’m better off wearing J-Crew than my original thrift store ensembles (I’m still wondering about my neon green running shorts). But more than that, the conversation has made me wonder what other social cues I’m blissfully ignorant of while I hum on the metro in my cheetah print boots. Stay tuned while I find out this quarter, one way or another.
Well, I made it! This is my fourth day in France, though I feel as if I’ve been here for weeks! My living situation could not have been more ideal- I am in the 16th arrondissment, a swanky neighborhood comparable to Chelsea or the Upper East Side, in a beautiful little room with a balcony and fireplace. We live about 60 seconds from the Seine and the past two mornings I have run along the river, the Eiffel tower in the distance, thinking that I could not have been any luckier.
My host-family is also ideal. My host-mom is an incredible Peruvian woman who has had every job you could think of– professor, social worker, Spanish teacher–and now she is working on opening up a nursery as she has noticed a lack of early childcare in her neighborhood. She is unceasingly patient with my butchered French and consistently upbeat and cheerful. We have spent three dinners together talking for over an hour about everything from politics to Woody Allen. Her husband, too, is genial and sarcastic and has a knowledge of the States which is really helpful for mutual understandings. They have two daughters, Aoud, 15, and Laura, 20. They are both sweet, though a little shy, and their French is much too fast for me at this point. However, I got to hear all of them interact yesterday at dinner, and the parts that I did catch (very few) were hilarious (they made a place setting at the table for their Chihuahua, Applebee, and sat him in a chair) and I can tell that all of them are kind, fun-loving people.
Though speaking entirely in French is extremely difficult and tiring, I have been nothing but reassured and comforted by this city. In or out of my host-family, people have treated me with patience and kindness. The first night I got back from school, for example, I walked off the metro and couldn’t remember which direction I needed to go to return to the apartment. After wandering a bit, I decided to ask a couple walking, who directed me happily. Another, older, couple was nearby and volunteered their directions as well. More sure of where I was going now, I began to walk and then paused for a second at the corner where I thought I should turn. Then, from behind me, I heard the voices of the older couple inviting me to follow them as they lived only one apartment down from me. Thus, I walked home with the pair, who were very kind and practiced their English with me, and they didn’t even snicker when I mistakenly exclaimed “I was so lucky to meet us!” in my embarrassing French.
I could go on and on about strangers who have been kind to me thus far, though I don’t think I will because to do so only highlights the multitude of clueless moments I have had so far. Whether it be the woman working at the Metro who literally came out of her office to help me add money to my card, or the man in the phone company who listened for about five minutes while I recited my e-mail address using the letters of the French alphabet, I’ve only been encouraged to keep trying.
So, that is what I’ll do. Even when it’s hard, even when it’s embarrassing, even when my tongue literally hurts from talking from the back of my throat like the French, I know that my efforts will pay off when I’m able to speak to these kind Parisians with full understanding. Until then, I’m eternally grateful for the warm welcome they’re giving me.
It’s 12 in the morning and I’m on the plane to Paris. Well, actually, after a series of mishaps, I’m on a plane to Frankfurt, Germany and won’t arrive in Paris until 5 pm. The hours (many more than anticipated) before takeoff were tumultuous, to say the least. With a flight delay and missed connection that almost had me staying overnight in Toronto, not to mention Public Enemy #1, my mother, whose purse, sweatshirt, and keys each separately set off security on our way to catch my planem I would be lying if I said I didn’t have doubts about my trip. As I fumbled for my boarding pass in Toronto and pondered how to call a cab once I get there, I still questioned whether I, Maeve Wall, a talkative twenty year old from Columbus, Ohio, am really capable of living in Europe for five months. Not only must I learn how to live in a foreign country, but I must struggle to speak and write and learn in a new language, without any prior acquaintances in France, and with very little previous language education. As I mull over the challenges ahead of me, with a knot in my stomach, I find a part of me asking myself again and again, can I really do this?
Yet a larger part of me says that’s exactly why I need to go. I was told once that my greatest weakness is my inability to trust myself, and I wholeheartedly agree. I have a hard time making decisions without checking in with friends, I have a hard time declaring my answers to questions with complete confidence, and until lately, I have had a hard time writing anything without having it scrupulously proof-read and OK’d by someone I trust.
As I sit on the plane at 12:17 in who knows what time zone, leaving my family, my friends, and an entire continent behind, I’m already proud of how far I’ve come. Though this is most certainly a baby step (can I really call crossing the Atlantic ocean a baby step?) I’ve already seen myself handle situations flawlessly that in my mind seemed almost insurmountable. I thought that going through customs in Germany, for example, would be extremely difficult, and that I would find myself trying to rationalize the presence of a box of chocolates in my suitcase to a massive blonde man who spoke little English. Instead, I had a nice little conversation with the German customs man (who was, in fact, massive and blonde) about whether London or Paris is more beautiful.
I’m sure that, like my voyage to get there, my time in Paris will be full of ups and downs- turbulence in my transatlantic voyage. But I’m just as sure that it will be worth it and that the girl on the plane typing frantically into the notes section of her smartphone on the return flight this June will be someone wiser, smarter, and one who trusts that she is capable of anything.
Midnight in Paris is the valium to my Parisian anxiety attacks. I just returned from my second viewing of the film (by Woody Allen, my absolute favorite director and/or person), and I feel renewed, revved up and ready to embark on a journey to the city of light.
The film’s protagonist, Gil Pender, is a romantic, wishy-washy writer engaged to a domineering California princess who is visiting the city with his soon-to-be in-laws. Through the magic of the city (and Woody Allen’s screenwriting), Gil travels back in time to Paris in the 1920s, chats with Hemingway about the “movable feast” around him, falls out of love with his fiancé, and falls in love with the city.
Most of my winter break has been consumed with my anxieties about Paris. I know next to nothing about the city, have no clue about how life goes on in Europe (how do I call people or withdraw cash from the ATM?) and feel as if I speak the language like a French Neanderthal.
In a very Northwestern-esque way, I began break with the notion of “studying” for Paris. I rented 3 French films, 7 guide books, and attempted to read everything every famous author ever wrote about France. But every attempt to study for studying abroad left me more panicked, more anxious and more aware of everything I don’t know.
Then, suddenly, it hit me: that’s the point. The idea of study abroad, at least in my mind, is to expand your mind, to test your limits and to learn a great deal through life experiences in a foreign place. Though I’m sure the first few weeks will be tough, I think the best way to prepare myself is not to try to cram French history, culture and grammar through my post-finals brain but instead to embrace my not-knowing. As long as I show up willing and eager to learn, with a smile on my face and a French dictionary in my hand, I think I’ll get by (besides, I have the lyrics to Lady Marmalade memorized- doesn’t that count for something?).
So, my idea of molding myself into the perfect Parisian in three weeks has been discarded. Instead of coming to Paris as a rough clay sculpture, in the need of some retouching and polish, it seems like I’ll get there as a lump. But, all the better, á mon avie, for what better a sculptor than dear Paris, one of the most beautiful places in the world?
So, here I am, with 13 days until I say au revoir to the US. I’m sure there are plenty of panic attacks to come, but I think my first midnight in Paris will make it all worth it.
Throughout my travels, I’ve liked thinking of myself not as just a food sampling, museum going, photo snapping tourist, but also as somewhat of an anthropologist. Trying to piece together a more general “take away” from each country has been difficult for many reasons. First off, there is no way you can judge a country by one of its many cities. That’s like saying the United States is known just for Elvis Presley, when in fact that only describes Memphis. Next, you run the risk of creating an offensive or incorrect stereotype (see what I did in that last sentence?) And last, an unpleasant experience in said city might bias your overall opinion, causing you to make hasty judgments about it.
That being said, I’d like to counter my original post (see Meet Madison here). Originally, I said I couldn’t wait to undergo my Parisian transformation: becoming that chic girl with the baguette sticking out of her bicycle basket.
Since I wrote that first blog post, I’ve learned some things that are doable as an American expat. Always choose the color black and wear a heel, don’t smile on the street, and say Bonjour and Au revoir, merci when entering and leaving a shop. However, at times, I would find myself giving up. Walking in heels on the cobblestoned streets gave me blisters, I was still approached with rude comments, and shopkeepers who would listen to one word of my French, dismiss me and speak in English. There is nothing more frustrating than trying, and when I’d tried for three months and nothing showed signs of yielding, I was about ready to give up. Then, one day, I found myself walking on air in my heels. My stone cold face shut people up before they could utter a syllable. And shopkeepers replied in French. I had changed my luck—or so I thought. Just because Paris was nice to me one day didn’t mean it would turn back to its old tricks the next.
Just like a schoolbag weighed down by books, it was sometimes comforting to set Paris down at the end of a long school week, jet off for a few days, and return more relaxed. Each time I left—Normandy, Amsterdam, Athens, Florence and Copenhagen—I found myself less willing to attune myself to Parisian standards upon my return. Why should I have to change? Other than the obvious—any American blabbing loudly on the metro is asking for the punishing glance of his/ her Parisian neighbor—I was tiring of this need to transform into something else. In Amsterdam, I was greeted with friendly hospitality; in Athens, I bumped into direct but well-intentioned locals; with Florence came flourishing hand gestures that readily showed me the way in an unfamiliar city; Copenhagen made me feel cozy and welcome with its candlelit cafés. All accepted me as the American tourist that I clearly was.
The reason this didn’t sit well with me in Paris is because here, I was not a tourist. I was a resident, however temporary, and I wanted to feel as if Paris was my hometown. This is what compelled me to act the way its people did. In the end, I find myself at a crossroads: not willing to become the chic yet cold and unyielding Parisian I encounter everyday on the street, but not accepting of the title of tourist. Something that made untouchable Paris a lot more approachable was living with a family here. Though the Parisians of the street want nothing to do to you, if you have the honor to be invited into their homes, you become a part of the family, a trusted confidante, an insider. Though my months at the Sorbonne left me wanting French friends, I saw that their close-knit circles were based off of years of trusted friendships. Once banded together, they became silly, told their deepest secrets, treated each other like family. Or so it seemed from my outsider’s standpoint. Knowing that this warmth did exist and that it was based on years of shared history made me like the Parisians much more. I felt I had gained a broader perspective than I would have as a student living in an apartment or dorm here. Though I was a part of a family here, I had yet to win the trust of my fellow students and neighbors. It is clear to me that becoming a French citizen is only half the battle; gaining your full social citizenship here is a much more difficult process.
Thus, I concede: the title of American expat will have to do. I think it describes me well: someone who is fascinated by what the city has to offer, but not willing to settle down just yet. Just like the writers of the “Lost Generation,” I find myself drawing inspiration from Paris even after I’ve left it. You might say we’re in the beginning stages of our relationship. But Paris—I don’t play games. You and I both know I’ll be back again soon.
My name’s Maeve Wall. I’m a junior English major and a Brady Scholar in Ethics and Civic Life. I love adventures, social justice, working with kids, Mac Miller, and hipsters, preferably with moustaches. I’m involved with Wildcat Welcome, Alternative Student Breaks, and The Daily Northwestern here at school. I’m also Vice President of Recruitment of my sorority and am jet-setting from Bid Night, after selecting our new members, to the city of lights, where Sorority Recruitment will just seem a distant dream (or nightmare).
I consider my upcoming trip this winter and spring to be the journey of a lifetime. I’ve never been to Europe, don’t know who I’m living with, and I still don’t have my Visa. This will be my second time out of the country and my first time (since college) that I’ve lived away from my family in a new place.
I’ve heard that when you study abroad, it all works out- that the situation is “sink or swim.” Whether due to awkward language miscommunications or lost escapades with the directionally challenged (me), I am prepared to flounder a lot during the process. However, by the end, I hope to come out performing a confident, determined breast stroke.
Join me as I tread water (and avoid drowning) this winter and spring and learn about myself along the way!
I only have one more month in Paris. I’m about 13 weeks in, and there are just over four weeks left. And I’m terrified that the quantity of weeks will soon turn into a quantity of days, and lists of unvisited landmarks, and unchecked streets. And I know the “right” thing to do is to live in the present, and let the experience become a sea of great moments, and great memories, not a calendar of weeks and dates. But I can’t resist counting and calculating.
There is a lot of pressure put on study abroad. It’s a term that’s often accompanied by phrases beginning with “this is your one chance to…” and “when else in your life can you…” In some ways, the high stakes make the experience even more meaningful, and in other ways, the high stakes add a layer of perpetual insecurity. The “when else’s” and “one chance’s” force you to wonder if you are making the right choices, and maximizing all of your moments.
Last December, I went on a reporting trip to Amman, Jordan. Throughout the experience, we produced stories, videos and photos documenting the lives of Iraqi refugees. On one of the final days before we left for the trip, I remember sitting in a conference room in McTrib with Peter Slevin, a brilliant journalist and all around wonderful person, who led my group in Jordan. Peter told us all how excited he was to take part in this experience and he told us to prepare ourselves to “live inside the story.” “Living inside the story” is an idea I brought with me to Jordan and I’ve held onto it over the last 12 months.
For me, “living inside the story” is the golden period of reporting. It occurs after the early phases of planning, hunting down sources and gathering research. It’s the period in which you let the story reveal itself to you. You give yourself permission to forget about logistics in hopes of making space in your head for new observations. You get lost inside of your surroundings, and stretch yourself into every corner of the story, as it closes in on you and engulfs you. Anything outside of the present moment fails to exist. “Living inside the story,” while a bit irresponsible, prepares you to make the most of the information you’ve gathered before finally reemerging.
For the next month, I’m giving myself permission to “live inside the story” – to stop planning and stressing over the items on my to-do list that remain unchecked. I’m going to let study abroad engulf me, no matter how selfish or irresponsible that might be.
I kicked the mission off this weekend by returning to the top of the Sacre Coeur, a basilica in the northern part of Paris. The Sacre Coeur sits at the summit of Montmartre, the highest peak in the city. My friend and I made our way up a whopping 642 steps to get from our metro car to the top of the dome in the basilica. When we arrived, we shimmied through groups of other climbers to absorb a panoramic view of Paris. It stretched further than any other view I’ve had access to so far.
I cleared the “when else’s” and “one chance’s” from my consciousness and stood inside the story as the last hours of sunlight melted away. I’m pleasantly stuck inside the story for the next month, and I don’t plan on exiting any time soon.
This past week was Toussaint, or All Saint’s Day, so many classes were cancelled for vacation. While I got a brief reprieve from the Sorbonne, my host siblings were off for almost two weeks, so my host family went to their country home in the Bretagne region for about a week. It might have had something to do with the weekend I had just spent with my actual parents, or the fact that I can’t cook to save my life, but this marked one of the first times since arriving in France that I had felt truly homesick—whether for New Jersey, Evanston, or my Parisian family, I could not be sure. Though I know many others who live independently while abroad, it felt strange to me to be living in a foreign country without the semblance of a family to come home to. Sure, a host family provides a room and meals, but it is the comfort that I have felt while living with them that truly makes them a family. My host family has been nothing but amazing since I arrived, two weeks into my Paris stay and slightly jaded from the home stay process. Perhaps some of my fondest memories of Paris are from experiences we’ve shared together.
Since I had arrived, my host father had often told me the best way to see Paris was by car and that he intended to take me for a drive. After a couple weeks had passed, I assumed that, with his long work hours, it just wasn’t going to happen. So, imagine my surprise when he asked me the following Monday if I was free that evening. We hopped in the car around ten p.m. (the usual hour we finish eating dinner); what followed was indescribable. I had seen Midnight in Paris this summer and found it, although charming, not without its cheesy clichés. However, when my host father turned on a classical radio station and we crossed over the Pont Neuf, one of my favorite bridges, I felt instantly transported to another time. In Midnight in Paris, Owen Wilson’s character says there is nothing better than Paris in the rain. Well, I would counter that by saying everything is illuminated when you are in Paris by night. Traveling by car allowed me to see things I had never had access to by metro. When we arrived at a neighborhood I hadn’t seen much of before, he insisted we get out and walk around by foot. Passing through chic quarters like the 16th arrondisement, he would point out the best restaurants (ones I will probably never afford) or tell me a historical significance behind a sign or a fountain. Seeing Ile de la Cité’s Notre Dame glowing against the night sky was one of the highlights; equally interesting was climbing up the stairs to the Bibliotheque Francois Mitterand. It was a modern library made to look like open books, which reminded me, albeit subtly, of the University Library back in Evanston. Other than shared dinners, I had never spent much time with my host father; this drive proved to be an adventure that showed me another side of Paris, and a fun and goofy side of my host father.
My host mother Isabel, on the other hand, has given me the gift of conversation. Recently, she decided to go back to work, but this time, for an English company. In anticipation of the interview process, she had been working overtime to prepare. One of the ways she did this was to meet with a group of friends once a week to discuss the news in English over tea and cookies. When their English instructor cancelled for the day, she asked if I would like to take her place. I definitely got a kick out of correcting other people’s grammar, especially since my host mother does it all the time to me. It made me realize how awkward I sound when I use the wrong verb tenses or pronouns in French. Of course, Isabel landed the job, so we don’t spend as much time around the house together as before. However, she said if I ever want to strike up a conversation just to practice French—a luxury I’ll never have when I get home—to just let her know.
Since Constance and Pierre-Louis are the same age as my siblings back home, it sometimes feels like they are my actual sister and brother. Since they are busy with school, Scouts, and work, we often come together over dinner. Dinner conversations are often rushed, despite the many courses Isabel somehow finds time to make. It is not clear how we plow through bread, pate, salad, meat, any number of sides, cheese, fruit and the odd desert in about an hour’s time. In all this, Pierre-Louis and Constance manage to fully debrief about their days, create several inside jokes and make passive-aggressive attempts to be rude at the table. Their dad and I find it hilarious, while Isabel, who considers manners of the utmost importance, is horrified. I try to solace her with the fact that my brother often leaves in the middle of dinner to get back to his video games, only realizing halfway through how much I am perpetuating the American stereotype.
As we finish up dinner, Pierre-Louis puts on some music, often an American band, or shows me a funny video. It’s surprising to me how much overlaps between American and French culture, or at least the extent of what is remade. He talked about a series with a dog named Dingo for about ten minutes until I realized he meant Goofy, the Disney character. Apparently, the word “dingue” in French means silly, so the name change makes more sense to French viewers. Another time, the family laughed for what seemed like forever about a character named Fifi Brindacier; I only joined in after the video revealed a girl with orange braided pigtails- our beloved Pippi Longstocking.
Needless to say, it was strange playing house all by myself while they were gone. While I did perfect my omelet recipe and feel free to blast my music for once, I eagerly awaited their return the following Sunday. When they did walk through the door, I felt they had missed me a little too. We reunited with the typical bise (double-cheeked kiss). I could see that leaving in December will be harder than I first expected.
The transition from temporary tourist to French citizen has shed light on many of the differences between European and American daily life, or vie quotidienne. For example, a recently prolonged Indian summer, which would have gone largely unnoticed at home, highlighted one of my least favorite qualities of French life: its lack of air conditioning. Despite France’s status as a first world country, utilities are expensive, so it is hard to find AC in the homes of even the most well to do Parisians. Unfortunately, this also translates to areas where one would expect at least a slightly cool environment, for instance the crowded metro. For some reason, despite the metro’s seemingly constant rush hour, I often go an entire day without seeing a window cracked. Why do they do this to themselves? As a friend once remarked to me, it seems as if the Parisians never get hot. Decked out in their many scarves, leather jackets, and boots, they never appear to break a sweat. I spot the occasional Parisian using a fan, but they often resemble high fashion accessories rather than a cooling system.
Another place the French don’t take the heat: laundry. For various reasons, from their price to their size, most Parisians do not use dryers. As a result, my host family’s bathroom often looks like a Laundromat, filled with drying racks and clothes of varying shapes and sizes. Don’t get me started on the bathrooms- the French keep their toilets separate from the rest, meaning two bathrooms that do the job of one. The good news is that no one has to wait when one of the five of us is using the shower section. Except it’s not really a shower. A handheld nozzle gives you the option of taking a “douche” (shower) rather than a “bain” (bath). Clearly this saves on money for utilities and is better for the environment, but in my opinion, it takes all the relaxation out of a shower.
Another surprising difference- the French don’t believe in top sheets. While I thought this was a mere oversight the first time I got into bed, I soon came to realize that it was customary. When I tried to explain it to my host mother, the language barrier took its usual toll. I ended up just explaining that it was a different than I was used to. But really, what isn’t?
In the last month and a half, it has become apparent that certain American standbys just do not translate here. Take, for example, food. Skim milk is frowned upon, iced coffee is nowhere to be found, and fruit is just for dessert. Or, the principle of customer service. Here, the waiter will come when he feels like it. You’ll be lucky to get the check within the first hour—if he doesn’t shove it in your face the minute you order something, that is. Because so much of the American hospitality we’ve come to expect with our restaurant visits is derived from tipping, it makes sense that in a country where the service fees are instantly included, the wait staff has no incentive to perform better.
All these are minor hiccups. Obviously, the French endear themselves to me in other mannerisms, often those that go unnoticed by others. Something I have noticed is the grace with which they handle themselves. When standing up or reaching to get something, they avoid the guttural sound of a sigh by emitting a tiny syllable: “hup!” or “toc!” are utterances I have heard. While initially off putting in its formality, the double cheek kiss has become cute to me. Also, upon my return from classes, my family addresses me with “Coucou Madison”, a familiar way of saying hello. While this reminds me of the way the turtles speak in Finding Nemo, it also puts a smile—inherently un-French—on my face.
Great article!
