Journal Entry 1: Reflections on Misconceptions
I’m
currently seated at my desk with its imitation grain wood finish wondering why
I have an incredible amount of sand on my chair and simultaneously trying to think
about how to start my first account of Montpellier? I now understand why
journaling necessitates a will power to recount the day’s events as I find
myself at a loss for how to describe all the incredibly embarrassing and
delightful moments I’ve experienced these past three weeks.
What
started with a 16 hour bus ride from Naples, Italy, a pit stop at Marseilles and
finally my arrival at Montpellier, France has now led me to feel like a
different person. Not different in the sense that I’ve somehow majestically
transformed into the epitome of a French girl with effortless style and a “je ne sais quoi” X factor attitude but
rather changed in a way that makes me feel less like a gaudy American tourist.
You know the image it brings forth with the sun block on the nose and the fanny
pack securely fastened around the waist (I only resorted to the fanny pack upon
my parent’s insistence it now lays buried in one of my luggage pockets…never to
see the light of day if I can help it). Reflecting on how much I’ve been able
to get accustomed to in such a short period of time has allowed to me look at a
lot of the misconceptions that I had and even have now about France. If French
people were to look at me I would hope they wouldn’t be able to spot that I’m a
tourist just by sight alone and only realize I’m American once I open my mouth
to speak and say “Excusez-moi” with a
New York accent.
I
realize it sounds incredibly clichéd but when I think back to my first day in
Montpellier when I thought that the tram lines were akin to train tracks and
refused to walk on them for fear of getting hit by an ongoing tram (it turns
out trams only clock in at about 15 mph) I can’t help but laugh. The real
menace on the road happens to be the tiny Fiats
and Peugeots that seem to have a life
of their own whenever you find yourself crossing the street. It takes a leap of
faith to put your foot on the white painted line of the crosswalk because the
traffic lights mean nothing to French drivers. This entropy theory was only
further proved when I happened to be the unfortunate victim of a ride home from
The Greyhound Pub (no the irony is
not lost on me) with a couple of French friends. The speed limit…what speed
limit? As I was hurled against the sides of the windows and onto the laps of my
two friends who were also sitting in the backseat, I couldn’t help but think
what I wanted my last seconds of life to be. I couldn’t envision crashing head on;
to the sounds of a techno beat whose bass was so loud I could feel it thumping
in time with my elevated heart rate. And yet while I don’t think I can
confidently say I’ve mastered the art of crossing the street I think I’ve
gotten a little more apt at walking in big groups and making eye contact…it’s a
start right?
Another
severely understated conception about France is the demographic and their
attitude towards hygiene. After three weeks of taking public transportation and
being in confined spaces with many French people I’ve come to the conclusion
that there is a polarizing divide between the debate of deodorant which really
shouldn’t be a debate to begin with. You’ve got on one corner the pros who
smell of Chanel Number 5 and Aqua di Gio from Giorgio Armani, they seem to emanate a cloud of cleanliness and
sophistication. In the other corner, you’ve got the cons whose idea of hygiene
must mean only wearing the same shirt three times and showering once every
week. Okay, so I might be exaggerating a tad bit but there’s nothing quite as
horrific as standing in a stuffy bus crammed against someone’s backside and
underneath the armpit of a gentleman who decides to hold the handlebars on the
top of the bus and who neglected to wear an anti-perspirant that morning. I
don’t think any amount of days, weeks, months or years will ever allow me to
fully acclimate to the smell of body odor but I have found that if you douse
yourself with perfume beforehand when said unfortunate circumstances arrive,
you can resort to sniffing your shirt. Holding your breath also works wonders
and thankfully Montpellier isn’t that big of a city where you might pass out
before you reach your destination.
Before
I came to France I thought that I’d be eating snails or frogs legs at every
other meal. In retrospect I realize how incredibly “American tourist” that was
of me considering those are delicacies of certain regions. It would be much like how in Italy there’s a
delicacy called sanguinaccio which is
essentially a hazelnut chocolate spread made with…wait for it…pigs blood. Yes,
that would be the “sangue” in the
name and while it might be good, in all my summers spent in Italy I can’t say
I’ve ever tried it. It’s funny because one night while talking about French
stereotypes with a bunch of French people I realized that delicacies are dead
giveaways for tourists. One guy actually laughed when I asked him if he’d ever
eaten “cuisses de grenouille” and
grimaced when I mentioned “escargot.”
I was informed that tourists pay big money in commercialized cities like Paris
to taste what they believe to be typical French cuisine while French people
themselves don’t typically eat them. In reality France should really be re-nicknamed
the “Panini” country instead of “Wine and Cheese” because they take their
sandwiches and carbohydrates for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Who would have
figured that I would grow such a tolerance and even dare I say it a liking for camembert
cheese, cured sausage and baguettes. Those three basic food staples compose about
roughly 99 percent of my diet, partially out of economic feasibility and
partially because of the sheer seconds it takes to cut up some saucisson and slather some cheese on a
fresh crumbly loaf just purchased at the closest Carrefour.
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