Archive for the ‘Strasbourg’ Category

Departure Anxiety

 Wednesday, December 31st, 1969

The day has finally come, and now my friends and I must ship off to Strasbourg. This is the real deal: my real French family, my real French school, my real French classes, and with some luck real French friends. With this move in mind, it should then come as no surprise that the pressure of this rather auspicious day may perhaps be making me a little anxious. As such, I’ve compiled a top five list of things that are making my stomach churn more than that weird dessert cheese I had a few nights ago:

5. Fact: I don’t eat meat. Strasbourg is famous for sausage.

Fear: WHAT IF MY FAMILY ONLY EATS SAUSAGE AND SLAUGHTERS THEIR OWN COWS AND WILL BE SO OFFENDED WHEN I DON’T WANT TO EAT BLOOD SAUSAGE? OR CORN CHIPS?

4. Fact: I will be living with this family for the next nine months.

Fear: WHAT IF MY FAMILY HATES ME BECAUSE I’M RIGHT HANDED AND ONCE WHEN I WAS IN PALM BEACH I FORGOT TO PUT SUNTAN LOTION ON MY BACK AND GOT REALLY BURNED?

3. Fact: The University of Strasbourg is the largest university in France. Holy Cross is not the largest university in America.

Fear: WHAT IF I SHRINK TO THE SIZE OF A THIMBLE AND THEN I’M LOST IN A SEA OF FORTY THOUSAND FRENCH-SPEAKING GIANTS WHO MAY CRUSH ME BECAUSE I’M TO SMALL TO BE SEEN?

2. Fact: The Internet is an integral part of my academic needs and social connections.

Fear: WHAT IF MY FAMILY DOESN’T HAVE WIRELESS AND THEN I NEVER HAVE INTERNET AGAIN AND I WON’T BE ABLE TO SKYPE, BLOG, READ EMAIL, OR FEED DONKEYS WITH NEEDLE-NOSE PLIARS AGAIN?

1. Fact: French people can be aloof and sometimes have the propensity to not care for strangers. I can be aloof and sometimes have the propensity to not care for strangers.

Fear: WHAT IF I NEVER MAKE FRIENDS WITH ANYONE AND GROW RESENTFUL OF MANKIND AND BECOME A HERMIT WHO LIVES IN A CAVE WITHOUT ELECTRICTY, WALL-TO-WALL CARPETING, OR TOILET PAPER?

There you have it. Those account for my worst fears about Strasbourg. I really don’t think they’re that irrational. But until I get there I cannot guarantee any of the above, so I will go back to Harry Potter.  In case you were wondering Diagon Alley is not the same in French either. Le Chemin de Traverse hardly evokes the same inscrutable magic of the English name. Hufflepuff is Poufsouffle; this I find to be acceptable.

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It Ain’t Always Easy

 Wednesday, December 31st, 1969

Stitched together, the colors of emotion I have felt here in Strasbourg create quite a technicolor quilt. Fear and fascination are mingling with anxiety and anticipation. Red roofs remind me I’m not in Worcester anymore. My humble pink house here hardly resembles my gray home back in Maryland. In the streets, streaming threads of brunettes and blondes, without a redhead in sight, poke at my Holy Cross heartstrings like a pin. No indeed: on Mount Saint James I am not. Yes: I miss my home and my Holy Cross.

But my homesick heartache blushes at the hope of the future. I have only just begun to weave my story abroad. Words lost in translation or stumbled over in French comprise but a patch of this experience. I am finding that I could not be with a warmer, cozier family who is here to help me create the most fantastic time in France. In simpler words (and in response to my last post), they don’t hate me, right-handed people, or kids who got sunburned once. They even have Wifi. If my family is any reflection on the kids I’m going to be meeting once class starts tomorrow, I might make it after all.

So what does this mean? I don’t think I ever could have anticipated the hurdles and challenges my fellow Crusaders and I have faced here. The culture, the language, and even the food are far more complex than at first glance. It is not possible to find your way perfectly from Gallia to Homme de Fer the first time without a little help and patience. You may have to ask what the difference between the tarte flambée and the galette is. But it’s like pulling a big blanket all the way above your head in bed at nighttime. At first it’s completely dark and lonely. But after a while, your eyes adjust, you get comfortable, and soon enough you have cozily settled into your own personal niche. Oh, and there’s your stuffed panda by your elbow. For right now though, let’s just say I’m only barely able to make out the stripe pattern a few inches in front of my face.

Chez Hubert in the European Parliament quarter of Strasbourg. A little close to the street for my personal comfort.

The very vintage key to my home, sitting next to some “fric” on my bureau. Fric is French slang for dolla dolla bills.

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