Married to Paris

What they don’t tell you when you go to study abroad is that by studying abroad, you have actually entered into a marriage with the place to which you will be traveling. They might phrase it in different terms, but if you’re studying abroad, don’t forget to pack something borrowed, new, old and blue, because you’re getting hitched.

Old wedding customs aside, the phases each student goes through while living in their host country mimics the phases couples experience in marriage, or perhaps when they first live together. Unfortunately, I’m beginning to feel like my honeymoon with Paris has come to an end.

I visited all of its major landmarks, tasted its delicious food while sitting outside at cafes on its cramped sidewalks, and found charm and surprising generosity from people most Americans think are all cold and unfriendly.

At first, the bright lights glittering on the Eiffel Tower at night blinded me so I could only see the beauty and magnificence of this historical metropolis. Now that my body’s internal clock has been reset and I have been here longer than the average vacationer, I have unfortunately discovered some of Paris’ quirks and annoyances.

Of course none of them have to do with the quality of the food, but more like the snotty looks I get from the businessmen on the subway in the morning while I’m eating the toast and jam I didn’t have time to finish at home. Or when I ask in French for a baguette or a coffee, they reply in English, probably in an effort to be accommodating, but it still makes me feel like an idiot for asking a question in French in the first place. Less accommodating is that restaurants usually don’t stay open all day or afternoon. They usually close from about 3 to 7 p.m., between lunch and dinner hours.

I’m sure there are things Paris (or rather Parisians) in turn, find irritating about me. I am constantly snacking between meals, (you try walking by pastry shop after pastry shop and not indulging in a pain au chocolat or croissant), I never keep my hands on the table throughout meals as is general French etiquette, and every once in a while I grit my teeth and bear, looking horribly American, and put on a pair of sneakers so my feet aren’t completely ravaged from all of the walking.

I really do love Paris. Where else do you find people gathering on bridges and mingling with open bottles of wine and extraordinarily stinky (yet delicious) cheese. No other museum can rival the incredibly overwhelming beauty and prestige of the Louvre. And French people don’t always hate Americans and think they are just a bunch of gluttonous cowboys. I’d argue that the French find Americans to be hard workers who don’t know how to properly enjoy leisure time.

I’m just going to have to work through our differences and find a way to compromise. Maybe I can start by getting rid of my secret snack stash of bon bons and baguettes I keep hidden from my host mom, for fear of her pinning me as another gluttonous American.

Once we accept our differences, I know it’ll be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.