Leaving One Nest for Another

I cry a lot. At movies that are supposed to be romantic comedies, at puppies and babies hugging, and when someone else I love leaves home. For some reason, most likely related to nerves, I did not cry until I was hugging my parents and brother goodbye at the airport. Even then, it was not the waterfall of tears and sobs that I expected. My parents and I did shed a few tears, but we were smiling the whole time. Maybe that was why I left my family with a heavy heart, not from sadness or regret, but from the weight of they joy and gratitude I felt pushing at my ribcage. I know, I know: I am one lucky girl.

Getting through security was not nearly as trying as I expected it would be, and I was able to get all of my things into the TSA boxes without much hassle. The only time when I truly felt my heart rise into my throat was a two minute incident involving a misplaced passport (in my pocket, not my purse) that made me feel absolutely sick to my stomach. The prayer that was later bestowed upon me my a elderly minister might have kicked in early, as I found the passport before I ripped the airport apart. I would definitely recommend NEVER EVER putting any of your important documents anywhere other than their designated place. In this way, you can hopefully avoid a debacle such as mine.

Once happily seated at my gate, I, scarred by my earlier passport scare, decided not to browse the terminal shops. Instead, I sat in my Rotary blazer and talked to a couple next to me. The were very sweet, and counseled me to double major in French and something with "marketable skills." So, the rest of my life is figured out, thanks to my fear of shopping and losing my boarding pass. 10/10 would recommend to a friend.

The plain ride itself was uneventful. I believe we took off at around 19:00 (Boston time) and landed at around 06:00 (Lisbon time). I was seated next to Victoria, a Russian woman pursuing her MBA at UCLA, and we discussed raising children multilingually and the benefits of an international education. We ate at around 20:30, by which time I was starving and ready to devour my new friend. The food was delicious and plentiful: chicken, potatoes, peas and carrots, salad, bread, cheese, meat, and a lemon-almond tart of some sort. After dinner and brushing my teeth with water from a cup, we dozed off; I believe I probably slept for about three fitful hours.

I woke to the sound of a true continental breakfast thumping onto my tray at 04:30. I ate the bread, meat, and cheese, and drank the black coffee with my eyes still at half-mast. I don't actually remember much of what Victoria and I discussed, but I am pretty sure it involved my love of the French language and university system and our shared hatred of the United States' skyrocketing college tuition costs. We parted ways in Lisbon, minutes before I dug through my backpack to prove to the Australian man working the passport-checking booth that I am not just running away to France in a decorated blazer.

The two hours layover in Lisbon was stressful. I was acutely aware of my American ways: I was unable to communicate in Portuguese, and I was floundering to orient myself without looking lost and vulnerable. The Portuguese airport's way is to post gate numbers less than an hour before take-off, a system which caused me a considerable amount of stress. Once on the plane, I switched my seat around in order for a woman to sit next to her young son, both of whom spoke only Portuguese (I tried both French and English). The boy slept for much of the flight, and I watched as his mother wound his black curls around her fingers. Again, quite uneventful.

The airport in Geneva was the simplest airport through which I have ever travelled. Unlike Lisbon, I did not need to present my passport. In fact, I did not even need to go through customs and declare any of the food I was bringing into the country. After gathering my baggage (with the help of a very kind French-speaking man), I walked through a set of doors, turning a corner to see a committee of Rotary leaders and my host parents holding a banner, on which my name was handwritten in bubble letters.

Featuring a Happy-Puppy Head-Tilt and Three Hours of Sleep

After much cheek-kissing ("on doit faire la bise!") and rapid-fire French, my host parents and I left to pick up the car and drove home. I had been worried for much of the flight that I wouldn't be able to understand a single thing as soon as I set foot off on Francophone soil, but I managed to understand much of what was said and make myself understood, hopefully without sounding like a complete imbecile. I will warn those coming to France: French spoken between the French is a whole new world in terms of speed and language dexterity; best of luck, and may the force be with you.

As soon as we arrived at my new home, I jumped straight into unpacking. Seeing all of my things in their new places helped me to settle in, and I felt infinitely more calm as soon as the job was finished. I also loved reading the little sticky notes that my host family's youngest daughter, Elise, left me before departing for her year in Taiwan.

Before I knew it, lunch was ready. My host parents and I sat underneath a tree in their backward and ate homemade carbonara. It was one of the most wonderful meals I have ever had the pleasure of consuming. The process did involve cracking and separating a raw egg in order to cover the pasta with the yolk, which forced me to try something very new very quickly. I will admit that the obligatory restaurant warning ("consuming raw or undercooked eggs will basically kill you," or something of that ilk) flashed before my eyes as I took my first bite, but the cheesy deliciousness quickly kicked that thought somewhere far over the Alps and into Switzerland. It was the best raw egg that I have ever eaten. In true French fashion, the meal was, at our leisure, followed by bread, cheese, and a lovely coffee.

After the meal, I returned indoors, met Marielle, my lovely host sister, and took a quick nap, which turned into a very long nap. After I woke around 18:00, we all piled into the car and headed down to a nearby lake, the water of which is crystal-clear and perfectly clean. We sat and talked by the lake for some time, before deciding that the flies were far too pesky and driving home. The lake was beautiful, and we were lucky to arrive before the looming storm did, many hours later.

Yes, Those are the Alps in the Background

Back at home, I showered (making sure to turn the water off while I washed, as I have read that the French do) and ate a late dinner of mushrooms and salad with my family. We talked (more accurately, they talked and I strained my brain trying to follow all of the new names and words) and laughed, finishing our meal with more cheese, bread, and fruit. The grapes are particularly lovely, full of seeds but ripe and juicy.

After dinner, we played a lively game of "les petits cochons," (I don't know the English name of the game, but it has something to do with pigs) a game involving chance and two tiny pigs that behave as dice. I won the first time, and lost horribly every other time. Beginner's luck, I suppose.

I finally said good night and retired to my room upstairs to sleep. After a long day, I looked out of my window and almost cried at the beauty of the lights in the neighboring comunes flickering out as families finished their own evening rituals. How very lucky I am to have flown to as beautiful a nest as the one I left behind.