My first
trip abroad was to France. I have mentioned it before, and I think I have also mentioned how inadequate of a packer I was back then (I have learned a few things since then). I was also totally green to the ways of the world, but
in some ways, this is what gave me the gumption to take this trip in the first
place. If I would have stopped and thought about what I was getting myself
into, I may have faltered. But I muscled right through in my naïve, adventure-seeking
way.
The reason I
went was for a summer work abroad program that I had signed up for through my
college. I had gone to countless interviews and to orientations where they told
us things like: don’t put your hands on your laps at the dinner table because
the French would assume you were playing with yourself. I had to do language
proficiency and writing proficiency tests. I had to write letters to my future
employer and roommate, introducing myself and thanking them for the
opportunity. I still have copies of the letters. They are pretty funny.
First I flew
from San Francisco to Paris. I arrived at Charles de Gaule jet lagged,
disoriented and confused. The aforementioned luggage was a hindrance. I tried
to get francs out of the ATM while guarding my bags and trying to remember my
French phrases. Next, I had to get from the airport to the train station, which
seems easy enough, but first you have to take a shuttle to terminal 3, and walk
to the Metro where you go through the turnstile and then take a shuttle back to
terminal 1, where you catch the bus to the train station. Have you ever been to
Charles De Gaule? If not, and you have never traveled before, I would not
suggest it be the FIRST international airport that you tackle. It’s kind of
big.
 |
| source |
I finally
found the train station, bought my ticket and sat and watched the board with
the schedules and times go “tick, tick, tick” and flip all the times and track
numbers and destinations over. I remember thinking over and over, “what have I
gotten myself into?” Here I was in a country where I knew nobody, where I did
not really know the language and where I was like a beacon, a small American
girl with 4 huge suitcases, just waiting to be robbed.
 |
| source |
I wasn’t
robbed. I got on the train and went two hours south to Bordeaux, my new home.
Luckily (and I can’t quite remember how, as these were the days of little
internet) the girl whose flat I was renting for the summer met me at the
station, got me on a bus and took me to her house. Her name, in typical French
fashion, was Marie Pierre. Not plain Marie, but Marie Pierre. And of course, it was not Mehr-ie, but
Mah-REEE! Pierre. She had a boyfriend with her named Khalid. Luckily, although not well, they did know
a tiny bit of English. Not that I expected them to, but if you have ever taken a
long flight, you know how foggy one’s head can be afterward. If you had then ran around Paris like a chicken looking
for the Gare du Nord, and then arrived somewhere new and met new people and you
are feeling a little overwhelmed, you would know how nice it was to not have to
remember all of your French phrases right at that moment.
So, we made
small talk, which was great, because that was the French I knew the best: How
many brothers do you have? Where are you from? Where do you work? Thanks French
101! It was exciting, being in a new place, starting a new, although temporary
life, being out on my own, an independent, French-speaking American, ready for
an adventure. We got to the apartment and I got right down to business starting
my adventure.
I went
straight to bed.
Thank goodness for MP and Khalid. Without
them, I don’t know how I would have managed that first day. Stay tuned for
tales of the adventures at my new job!
Do you remember your first trip abroad? Have
you ever traveled by yourself? Do you like it/hate it/don’t care either way?
