More on Chez Moi

So, I realized I'd never completely introduced Isabelle or the rest of my flatmates...

My “host mother” really isn’t much of a mother figure at all, which isn’t to say that she’s not helpful or understanding, but just that she’s not really the maternal sort (at least, in the way I’ve come to know it). Isabelle (formerly known as Mme. Godin), has been, I believe, divorced at least twice, has a grown daughter living in Canada, and a grown son living in London. She hosts me, Veronique, and Morgan because she likes having people in the house. She’s looks to be aged somewhere between an old-ish 35 and a young-ish 65. Or, I’m not very good at estimating age. She works most of the day as a grade-school teacher, and this predisposes her, I think, to tolerate my stumbling speech and erratic behavior. Like all of the French families hosting, I think she has a certain need to culture me (as France is the most civilized country in the world), and at dinner she brings out certain cheeses and wines and so on and tells me what they are and how they are consumed.

When Isabelle comes home, she drops an armful of elementary art or writing on the table, which the cat promptly sits on contentedly. Isabelle has few house rules, often has guests over late at night, and, at my behest, speaks to me only in French. I think that she (and probably everyone else living with me) finds me an odd sort of tenant…I don’t come late at night on a Tuesday evening smelling like Pastis, and I frequently pack my book of 501 French verbs in my purse before heading out for the evening, which, I hear, is quite different from the behavior of the two Californians who lived here before me. Isabelle has a great and abiding love for the band Coldplay, which she plays more or less constantly over the speakers in her area of the house. It’s a bit strange to hear Parachutes wafting out of the speakers – I haven’t listened to that album for two years at least, and it’s odd to be thinking of humid summer drives to Pittsburgh or Sewickley Heights while surrounded by France. Isabelle also has an apparent obsession for white, breezy clothes and healthy eating. I am slowly being indoctrinated into the French woman’s secret club of thinness and eternal beauty…it has a lot to do with facial creams, olive oil, small portions of fresh food, and liberal glasses of white wine (and perhaps the occasional “death in the afternoon”).

Isabelle’s cat – Malicious – has finally, begrudgingly, decided to accept me. She no longer perches at the top of the ladder to my bed and scratches for my face, and when I try to pet her, she bats at my hand with sheathed claws. Malicious is definitely the strangest cat I’ve ever seen: she is a very vocal cat, and meows like a dog would bark whenever Isabelle or any of the other girls comes home. She’s also very acrobatic, and jumps up on windowsills and furniture (such as the dinner table while we’re eating – Isabelle blows raspberries at her, but doesn’t make her get down, because Malicious never actually tries to eat anything, but just sits directly on the pile of schoolwork set at the end of the table). For some unknown reason, Malicious loves to writhe about on the floor for minutes at a time, stretching and curling like a worm. Occasionally she will behave more like a normal cat, and I caught her once stalking a moth under my desk. Good kitty.

Both Veronique and Morgan are French students with jobs, and they're out often working or socializing, and I do not eat dinner with them. I haven’t seen much of Veronique recently – I think she’s in Paris – and most of my interaction with Morgan consists of smiling, pointing, and apologizing, as she has a thick accent and speaks very rapidly. Kind of like me in English, I think. I’ve met some of the friends of Isabelle and Morgan – Isabelle’s niece Marie, for instance, or Serge, or Marc – who typically just say, “bonjour” or “bonsoir,” startle me by swooping towards me and kissing my cheeks, and then ignoring me and continuing whatever conversation I’ve interrupted by my trip into the living room.

It’s funny, being a foreigner. I’ve always thought of myself as, although often a bit of an outsider, at least still in the general majority. Here, though, I am an alien. This was made clear to me (although maybe not to everyone) during orientation, when one of the American guys in my class asked the panel of French students where some good foreign night life was, and they directed him to a club which I later determined to cater primarily to Americans and Brits. Everyone says before you leave for a foreign country as a college student that the experience will “change your life.” The pressure’s on, I thought, and then initially was confused and disappointed when I realized I’d already been to Europe several times, and that it wasn’t the culture shock, the blasting away of quaint American idealism or narcissism that it might otherwise have been. However, I’m starting to realize (and I hope I’m not mistaken) that just by being here entirely on my own, by participating and observing, I am definitely very able to learn some things about this culture and my own, these other people and myself. And there shouldn’t be any pressure to this informal education. As far as I can see, there’s no right or wrong way to go about it, and no final lesson that needs to be learned. But, I (tediously) digress. We’ll see what happens after another five weeks?