Chapter 4

Chapter 4

May 18, 2016

 

     "You have to let it go, this idea that you have to be perfect," Dominique (my host father) informed quite clearly. It's a directness that I've noticed among the French that both delights and unnerves me. Today was spent doing homework and later in the day, preparing for the children's arrival home. I made apples into roses then baked them since it had been raining all day. Have I ever done apples in the shape of roses? No. I just felt like it, because the apples were about to turn and it seemed like a good idea at the time. They ended up much prettier than I expected so that was nice. After the usual bout of negotiation the kids were in bed and Rebecca (the mom) was at a meeting. I finished loading the dishwasher and was going to settle in to work on my grammar workbook (which I brought with me. 'Why did you bring French books to France?' one of the children asked. "Because my French is rusty and I want to get better," I replied) when Dominique came home. I let him know the kids were in bed and that Rebecca was at a meeting and dinner was on the stove.

     "It really is quite marvelous, the way you are with the children. It rather surprises me that you haven't any children because it seems you've been at this for a a good while," he stated with a smile. I felt myself blush and murmured a thank you as he was called by the children to tell them good night, and he pointed at me. "Unless you are too tired I'd love to have a beer and you tell me about your life," and with that he sprinted upstairs. After a while (which he apologized for) he grabbed dinner and a beer for each of us and we just talked.

     He asked about the differences between France and home. I mentioned the restaurants, the negotiating, the shops closing at lunch, and the general willingness to help someone if they are genuinely trying. Dominique is a storyteller. In addition to being quite intelligent he is very aware and practical about the duality of his German/ French heritage. "You will discover in all the things the French ultimately  love life," he goes on to tell me of how his mother instructed him how to get into museums for free. About how if you are trying to get a passport or the such in Germany and they say it will take 4 weeks that it will take precisely 4 weeks. The French, conversely, would also say 4 weeks, but if you truly need something, she told him, cry. If you tell them that you need it to visit your Mum and you haven't seen her in some time then they will tell you 'ah, you go over to this boss here, fill out a form, carry it to this office and you will have it in two days'. As we talked a bit more, he stopped abruptly, "What do you want to bring away from this? In terms of an experience or an object, what do you want to have after 3 months?" 

     It made me pause and I told him that he'd have to give me a minute. "Short term?" I began, "I would love to walk into a shop or a restaurant and communicate clearly what I want without the trepidation and nervousness I have now and receive it." I told him about the bookstore. "So what makes you nervous now?" he asked. "I speak French fairly well, but I get flustered easily and even though I am rusty I am still fluent, but I speak to a native speaker and I just forget my grammar and my vocabulary and I end up speaking like a 12 year old." As he looks pensively at me I feel the blush creep up my neck because I don't speak about my social anxieties to many people, anxieties that are exacerbated by the fact that everyone here is new, everything here is a strange situation. I haven't even been to Paris yet. Not because I am afraid of it per se, but because it's daunting and so far outside of my comfort zone. Also I am cripplingly afraid of getting hopelessly lost. "Why does it bother you if your French is not as good as you think it should be?" Dominique's question does not seem to come from a place of ridicule but rather a wish for comprehension. I take a deep breath before I answer. 

     "It's who I am. I am a procrastinating perfectionist. I want to speak well because I want to pass for French in terms of language. While everyone has been kind and helped me the best they can, I know my French is broken. I went into a sandwich shop and he didn't think I was a tourist or an American. It's in the eyes I've noticed. As soon as they hear an incorrect verb or the wrong vocabulary that marks me as a non-native speaker a glint comes into their eyes; they subtly treat you different after that." "So don't give a shit," Dominique shrugged, "You can go about nervous about being good at this or that, but it's better to experience I think. These people don't know you. That gives you a freedom, yeah? To be whatever you want to be. If you mess up, who cares? It's about the experience as it is in most of life. So you have to let it go, this idea that you have to be perfect." It stopped me cold and I had to take a deep breath because it was like a weight had been lifted from my chest. "Thank you," was all I could really say. Being given that sort of permission...well it's hard to describe unless you've experienced it.

     "I meant what I said about you and the kids. They've really taken to you," he states. "I feel you realize they don't really judge you so you are more yourself wit them; intelligent and sarcastic, but also very kind and I just want you to apply that idea to the rest of your interactions. Because I feel you're not always quite you with the grown-ups, with us. You can be, you know. It's like that in France too, so long as you don't hurt or offend people, people really don't care. So I sing in the supermarket, I could stop in the middle of the road to chat with a friend and they might beep me, throw their hands up but as soon as they understand that 'oh he is just talking to a friend' and it's like whatever." He finishes his dinner and beer and tells me he hopes I sleep well and I walk down to my room. I take a deep breath, sit on my bed and I write. It's good. It's good. It's good.

-Alicia
July 22, 2016