And Aubrey Was Her Name...

Like a lovely melody that everyone can sing; take away the words that rhyme, it doesn't mean a thing.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

"Bienvenue"

There it was, printed forthrightly across a nondescript sign hanging just outside of the baggage claim area. Though translated into several languages, including the English "welcome," just below, I couldn't help but gaze with happiness at the mellifluous French version. And welcome, indeed.

Having just transported an obese amount of luggage that included two overweight check-in bags (53 pounds and 59 pounds) along with 5 carry-on pieces (yes, 5!), all of which by their conservative sizes belied the exceptional weight within (the heaviest piece was 45 pounds by itself), I was exceptionally ready to be welcomed to my new home. Truth be told, I was ready for anywhere that meant I could drop my luggage without sitting on it like my personal, over-sized nest, and lie horizontally on an actual bed. Yet my journey was not yet finished.

Perhaps a preface is needed. You likely already know I am a francophiliac (a personal invention, indeed, but it feels stronger than the plain "francophile." Mine is more like a disease; therefore, an excessively adoring francophile creates a francophiliac!). I have been such since my first day in French class in ninth grade, when my teacher walked in with such serene levity and explained happily to us why she loves the French language so much. "'La poubelle' just sounds so beautiful while 'trash can' in English has to be something ugly, don't you think?" And, of course, after enduring years in the land of Kimchi, I decided the greatest reward to myself, and something that I just needed to do in life, was to go to live in France. One year later, here arrives Aubrey at the airport, dragging with her the contents of her former apartment.

Thus far I had made the trip well enough. Check in at Chicago was nerve-racking, knowing how overweight my bags were. Yet I was fully prepared for the front desk; my plan of attack included either crying a little bit to induce pity, or talking in the friendliest, most engaging manner about getting to live in France for a year (sans return ticket, hmm...)! As I stepped up to the counter and assessed the woman's face, I decided the second option was better. She replied with equal enthusiasm, wished me a great year, tagged my bags and waved me through. Walking away buoyantly with my 5 carry-on pieces, I attempted to appear as if they weighed nothing at all. I must be a great actress, because no one along the full trip gave me any trouble, save for a somewhat snide comment from a stewardess in Copenhagen: "Well, THAT'S a lot of bags."

From the airport, I had to buy tickets on the TGV (France's speed train) to my sister Ashley's town of Orléans. This was my first opportunity in roughly 8 years to speak French without the clear mutual understanding of me being a student who is only learning the language. The lady at the guichet (ticket window) had no idea I was coming. Silently practicing my French in my head as I waited in line, as I detest looking like a feckless tourist who makes obvious mistakes in language or is socially disrespectful, I tried to ask for my ticket in the best, clearest, most rapid French I could muster. "Je voudrais un billet pour Orléans, s'il vous plaît." Ah. Not bad, not bad. The lady didn't even miss a beat when responding. And as I strained to listen, I realized that I understood NOT A WORD. Oh, crap.

"Uh, pardon?" I demanded.

She sighed. Gesturing with her hands, she repeated only 5 words. "Aller simple ou aller-retour?" (One-way or round trip?)

But of course. Stupid tourist. I managed through the rest of the conversation, able to answer that I wanted a (1) one-way ticket (2) for that day (3) in second class (4) and that I would pay with cash.

Approximately two hours later, exhausted and ready to throw my luggage into the nearest poubelle, I waited on the curb in front of the Orléans train station for Ashley. As she pulled up, hair thrown into a messy pony-tail, riding breeches still on, the exhaustion disappeared and I was overwhelmed at my fortune of getting to be here with my beautiful sister.

A greater fortune for me is how much Ash loves it here, too. With a first weekend that included both mucking horse stables and forgoing a hotel room to dance the night away with Ash in Paris, we were given ample opportunity to discuss our respective futures. Since my arrival, we have been working on ways to become contributing members of French society, mostly so as to prolong our stay here. We have some ideas, which may mean a slight change in my plans for this year. But more on that (and my own city of Montpellier) at another time.

Until that time...
(Uh, turn your head on that one; blogger and my computer weren't coordinating!)


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