The Homestay Adventures Pt. 1
Going abroad, I don't know what I expected, but I always somehow pictured a little French apartment or even a dorm room when I arrived in Aix-en-Provence. Never had I previously pictured exactly what is now upon me. A host family. Hosting me. The bumbling French language killing American.
I must admit right now however before we move on, that this may not a story to make you feel better if you, like me are going to another country to invade a foreign man or woman's household. This is simply the story of my home-stay.
Or at least, the first one.
Getting off the plane, tired with my cell phone still clutched into my palm even though it no longer worked across international boarders, I walked through baggage claim with the rest of my school group to pick up. There we were. After fifteen hours of airport and airplanes we were suddenly being handed over to people. All we knew of them were their names. At least, that is all I knew of my host family. Or person in my host family.
Andrea.
I was still debating if it was pronounced And-ree-ah or Ahn-dray-ah. She waved me towards her and sputtered out, "J'ai oublié mon anglais."
You...you forgot your English?
She said it again. She said it a few times, even after my assertion of "Oui, je comprends."
This was a new fact, and I was a bit alarmed, but I nodded and told her how I spoke a little French over the voice of her yelling towards another woman who I suppose was also picking up her new american student for the next six weeks.
It was ok though. I knew a little French. For the past year, I studied French.
But let me tell you my friends, if you think you speak a little French after taking a good year or so of French classes, you are wrong.
I ate breakfast and tea in my pajamas with hope tucked in my heart each day only for it to be crushed as Andrea waved her hands in front of her when one of us couldn't quite get the other to understand what we were trying to say. Even after days, there came a point to where I stared at Andrea and she stared at me back. Neither of us had a clue what the other was saying except for the moments where I was, in fact, picking up on certain words that made me feel maybe this was for a reason. I was learning. Leaning, slowly, but learning all the same.
Lingo I had not known before began to fill my head in the middle of the night. One such word Andrea repeated more times in a day than I repeated silence. Alors. So.
But for her, for both of us, it came to simply not be enough. At times we simply resorted to pointing. Each time my phrase did not come across quite right enough for her, I felt myself crumble internally more than I assume the ruins in Aix were. Not that I knew exactly there were any.
Over the past few days over the group message I had been recounted the adventures and trips already that the rest of my classes took into the city with their home-stay parents. They saw ruins. They saw a castle. They saw the one and only market that I had continued to only hear so much about.
After two days of living with her, unlike everyone else's home-stay, I had yet to be able to leave the house.
One day, I questioned if I could walk into the city to see my friend. Confused, I finally whipped out the sometimes helpful translator.
She shook her head and typed back, "To far. You could sit in the garden and read?"
Oh. Ok.
The first time I saw the city was in the rain for my first day before orientation at a student meet and greet. There was water and orange juice and too many bodies squeezed into too small of a space. A space that we were historically informed, once housed nuns and men who were to be taken care of after being tortured for information a few days before, back a century or few. Everyone recanted their stories and lives that were forever changed since they stepped off their international flight in Marseilles.
I stepped off, and now I simply stood.
"How is your home-stay, Kendra?"
The tea in the morning was good. I had my own room. I should not dare complain.
Opening my mouth, my lip quivered. Before I could make much more of an explanation for it though, a hand was clasped back around my wrist, pulling me through the crowd of students and out the door. Another woman stood there for Andrea to point at me frantically, introducing me it seemed as if I was a new prize cow.
I turned back to my friends still inside who glanced to watch before returning to their conversation.
I cried for most of the night.
I cried for quite a few nights. With little dreams of Aix and what it had to offer.
Until finally, I didn't. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I decided. Ane night, there I was. I stood out on the corner with three boys surrounding me looking for the tiny white car that was sure to come pick us all up. Sooner or later.
There I was, homeless in Provence.
I must admit right now however before we move on, that this may not a story to make you feel better if you, like me are going to another country to invade a foreign man or woman's household. This is simply the story of my home-stay.
Or at least, the first one.
Getting off the plane, tired with my cell phone still clutched into my palm even though it no longer worked across international boarders, I walked through baggage claim with the rest of my school group to pick up. There we were. After fifteen hours of airport and airplanes we were suddenly being handed over to people. All we knew of them were their names. At least, that is all I knew of my host family. Or person in my host family.
Andrea.
I was still debating if it was pronounced And-ree-ah or Ahn-dray-ah. She waved me towards her and sputtered out, "J'ai oublié mon anglais."
You...you forgot your English?
She said it again. She said it a few times, even after my assertion of "Oui, je comprends."
This was a new fact, and I was a bit alarmed, but I nodded and told her how I spoke a little French over the voice of her yelling towards another woman who I suppose was also picking up her new american student for the next six weeks.
It was ok though. I knew a little French. For the past year, I studied French.
But let me tell you my friends, if you think you speak a little French after taking a good year or so of French classes, you are wrong.
I ate breakfast and tea in my pajamas with hope tucked in my heart each day only for it to be crushed as Andrea waved her hands in front of her when one of us couldn't quite get the other to understand what we were trying to say. Even after days, there came a point to where I stared at Andrea and she stared at me back. Neither of us had a clue what the other was saying except for the moments where I was, in fact, picking up on certain words that made me feel maybe this was for a reason. I was learning. Leaning, slowly, but learning all the same.
Lingo I had not known before began to fill my head in the middle of the night. One such word Andrea repeated more times in a day than I repeated silence. Alors. So.
But for her, for both of us, it came to simply not be enough. At times we simply resorted to pointing. Each time my phrase did not come across quite right enough for her, I felt myself crumble internally more than I assume the ruins in Aix were. Not that I knew exactly there were any.
Over the past few days over the group message I had been recounted the adventures and trips already that the rest of my classes took into the city with their home-stay parents. They saw ruins. They saw a castle. They saw the one and only market that I had continued to only hear so much about.
After two days of living with her, unlike everyone else's home-stay, I had yet to be able to leave the house.
One day, I questioned if I could walk into the city to see my friend. Confused, I finally whipped out the sometimes helpful translator.
She shook her head and typed back, "To far. You could sit in the garden and read?"
Oh. Ok.
The first time I saw the city was in the rain for my first day before orientation at a student meet and greet. There was water and orange juice and too many bodies squeezed into too small of a space. A space that we were historically informed, once housed nuns and men who were to be taken care of after being tortured for information a few days before, back a century or few. Everyone recanted their stories and lives that were forever changed since they stepped off their international flight in Marseilles.
I stepped off, and now I simply stood.
"How is your home-stay, Kendra?"
The tea in the morning was good. I had my own room. I should not dare complain.
Opening my mouth, my lip quivered. Before I could make much more of an explanation for it though, a hand was clasped back around my wrist, pulling me through the crowd of students and out the door. Another woman stood there for Andrea to point at me frantically, introducing me it seemed as if I was a new prize cow.
I turned back to my friends still inside who glanced to watch before returning to their conversation.
I cried for most of the night.
I cried for quite a few nights. With little dreams of Aix and what it had to offer.
Until finally, I didn't. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I decided. Ane night, there I was. I stood out on the corner with three boys surrounding me looking for the tiny white car that was sure to come pick us all up. Sooner or later.
There I was, homeless in Provence.
To be continued...
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