It occurred to me that I never officially blogged about one of the most important events that happened during my internship in Paris. In fact, I'd even go as far as to say that it was one of the most remarkable experiences of my life-it's not every day that you shake hands with the president of the United States. It's true: I have shaken President Obama's hand, and it was electrifying. Some of you are cringing at this point (I had more than one person tell me I should have been throwing something at him rather than shaking his hand). Others of you see it as an incredible, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. For me, it was an unforgettable moment that I will always cherish. Because it was some months ago, I'll rely on what I wrote in my journal about the experience:

"A burst of cheers to my right announced what I immediately knew: President Barack Obama had finally arrived. As he walked out from behind the blue curtain another wave of cheers were let out by me and those that could now see him. He seemed to leap up onto the mini-stage that was there for him and almost strike a pose as he took his place behind the presidential pulpit. Despite having giving several speeches that day as part of various D-Day ceremonies, he seemed fresh and rejuvenated-genuinely happy to be with us. I guess I thought he would be tired and maybe even a little irritated at having to greet another group of people. If that was the case then Mr. Obama could easily pursue an acting career in Hollywood following his 2nd term as president.

"He began his short speech with an awful 'Bonjour' and 'Comment ça va?' His effort was endearing, though. I got a video of the first minute or so of his visit, and I've already watched it several times. He thanked us for waiting and announced to us his nomination of the next ambassador to France. That got everyone cheering! To be honest, I don't remember much else of what he said; there was a lot of thanking us and telling us how much the work we do helps the country. He specifically mentioned the importance of facilitating trade and business, which I felt was a nod to the Commercial Service.

"For the first time I really understood how he took the country by storm in 2008. Say what you will about the man's politics-that he's a socialist, that he's ruining our country, that he's a poor leader-no one can deny the fact that he is an electrifying orator. Obama is a rockstar. It is hard to not want to follow and trust him when he speaks thanks to his charisma. Il est dynamique, as the French would say.

"Then the hand shaking began. He took his time. He held two babies. I didn't know politicians really did that; but then again, I guess there's a reason why they get mocked for it. There was a barrier about 6 feet from the podium that the 200 of us embassy staff had to stand behind. He went to my right, flanked by the secret service, and slowly made his way around to me (I was almost dead-center and was at the very front). There was a little girl next to me and he was sure to exchange a few words with the kids. Finally, he looked into my eyes. I had had my hand stretched out for the handshake for some time by that point. He took it with his right hand and put his left hand on my shoulder as I said, 'Hi, Mr. President!' He said, 'Keep up the good work!' As he was about to move on I added, 'Thanks for all you do for students.' I had a big grin on my face the whole time; I was really fortunate that another intern got an excellent photo of the two of us shaking hands.

"And then it was done in about 15 minutes. Two and a half hours of waiting that were completely worth it! It's very likely that I will never meet another president in my life, unless I ever do get into politics. We were at l'aéroport d'Orly. Obama literally flew directly from Normandy and we got on buses at the embassy that took us to the undisclosed location. He was late, of course, and I wonder if he would have spent a little more time with us had he not been behind schedule. Probably not, though. After all, he is arguably the busiest man in the world."

I did an internship in Washington D.C. last fall and I never saw the guy. Then I do an internship of a few months in Paris and I get to shake Mr. Obama's hand. It is amazing to me how such short moments can be so impactful. I'm grateful for the time I took to reflect on that moment to remind me how much I enjoyed my time in Paris. Maintenant, la question c'est quand est-ce que je pourrai retourner??

I would never have imagined that the movie “Muppets Most Wanted” would be the perfect movie to watch on my flight home to close my time in Paris, but it was.  Even though the movie wasn’t particularly good, it featured a character that reminded me of why I write these blogs (besides the fact that they are part of my grade…) There is a French detective from Interpol who embodies many of the classic stereotypes Americans have of the French: he sips from a miniscule coffee cup, is constantly taking lunch breaks of several hours, and tries to leave on an 8-week vacation before his job is done.  Obviously his quirks were extremely exaggerated, and yet I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that on some level most Americans probably see that portrayal as fairly accurate.

Don’t get me wrong: Americans are not the only ones doing the stereotyping (I myself have been the victim of vicious overgeneralizations as the World Cup recently started and everyone feels the need to help me understand the significance of the most important “football” tournament in the world; it doesn’t help that I have to ask about the rules every five minutes.)  Indeed, cultural classifications are rampant around the world.  We do it because it’s much simpler to say “French people are lazy” or that “Americans don’t care about the environment” than it is to try to understand the complexities and nuances of a culture, and we humans of the modern age hate it when we can’t sum up our perspectives in tweetable fashion.  I’m not saying we shouldn’t ever make generalizations.  What I am saying is that our experiences with other peoples and cultures will be much more rewarding if we doubt the negative stereotypes we’ve heard about them and choose to explore who they are without all of our biases.

Bref.  There are so many subjects I could cover for my final post, but I thought I’d stick to something close to home: college life.  Since I spent most of my time in Paris with university students, I feel adequately equipped to talk about the significant differences between our two countries. 

Let’s start with cost.  How would you like your college education to free?  This concept is almost inconceivable to American students’ whose average debt upon graduating from a 4-year university is in the tens of thousands of dollars (much more for those who attend private schools).  Americans love talking about how much more the French government taxes their people, but what they never talk about is what the people get back in return.  Much of the revenue from taxes is funneled into education.  College students in France only pay a few hundred euros a year. A year.

You might be thinking that the lower cost means poorer facilities, limited research opportunities, or less-qualified professors, but this is not at all the case.  Part of the reason that French universities can maintain a high level of quality with extremely lower fees is that they focus solely on education.  They don’t build multi-million dollar football stadiums (good luck filling up that new stadium now that Johnny Manziel is gone, Texas A&M!), pay coaches and athletic directors ridiculous amounts of money, or spend time recruiting up-and-coming sports stars.  If you’re like me, it’s probably hard for you to imagine how you could have survived college without Saturday football games or March Madness.  And yet, think about how much more your school could accomplish academically if they didn’t put so much emphasis on athletics.  There’s a reason universities like Harvard and Yale have lousy sports teams.

I know I’ve only scratched the surface on this topic, but I like to keep these blogs fairly short.  All I can say is that my two months in France were incredible.  It’s hard for me to believe that I was only there for two months because the friendships and relationships that I developed feel deep and enduring.  I love France and I love the French.  I love the striking green foliage and the old-fashioned countryside; I love the city with its never-ending shops and international character.  I love the French’s pride and determination to preserve their culture; I love their sarcastic humor and their obsession with double negatives.  I could go on, but instead I’ll just say that I’ll be back.  I’ll be back to see more of what I loved and to discover more of what I didn’t have a chance to experience. Vive la France!

Au revoir,

Brian

Most students studying a foreign language in a more serious capacity know wordreference.com to be one of the best online translating tools available. I use it regularly personally, for papers, as well as for my internship, and it rarely lets me down. Last week as I was finishing up a paper about cultural differences between France and the United States, I put in a word that I knew I wouldn't find a good translation for: "dating." Despite my low expectations I was still shocked by the response I got: "traduction non-disponible" ("translation unavailable").

That had never happened to me before, and yet it was perfect. "Dating," as we understand it in the US, doesn't exist in France. There is no word for a "date" in the sense of a couple going out together in a formal setting to get to know each other better. I first started to understand this concept while serving as a missionary for the LDS church in Québec, Canada. I had a native French companion who phrased it perfectly once, and what he said has always stuck with me (I've shared this with several people, so this may not be new for some of you). He said, "You Americans are weird. You date someone to see if you love them, but in France we date someone because we love them." When I asked him the inevitable question of how you know you love someone without dating them a little first he responded simply, "You just know."

While that might seem beautifully romantic to some, it was perplexing to me. The French tend to be less flirtatious as Americans (at least as overtly) and more serious in their dating habits. For example, if someone asks someone to go out for the night-for dinner, a movie, or whatever-it probably means they've gotten to know you well and are almost certain that they're ready to pursue a serious relationship.  A lot of the young people here are fairly shocked when I tell them that it's not uncommon for Americans to ask someone on a date after only knowing them a very short time-maybe even just a few hours or less (granted, this process might be particularly fast at BYU among girl-deprived guys just home from a 2-year mission).

Part of the difference stems directly from the language. In French the closest word they have to describe what a date consists of is deceiving. "Sortir" means "to go out," but it has a much more permanent connotation in French than it does in English.  A couple of weeks ago, I was trying to explain to a friend here how it wasn't uncommon for me or other guys at BYU to go out with one girl on a Wednesday or Thursday night and another girl on Friday or Saturday. My friend was appalled. While I was trying to communicate that I went out with two different girls, she was hearing that I dated one girl on Thursday and dated another girl on Saturday; in essence, she understood that I was seriously dating both of them at the same time! It took me some time to explain that the girls wouldn't be surprised or particularly disturbed by the situation, and that the girls themselves most likely had multiple dates in the same week.

I did not intend to spend a whole entry on this subject, but I admit that I have found it both frustrating and hilarious trying to comprehend these differences between our cultures when it comes to romantic relationships, as well as why they exist. Like many aspects of French culture, this was something that I understood theoretically before coming here, but seeing it in action has made me realize just how quickly an American in France (or a Français in the States) could get him or herself in trouble. What might be considered harmless in one country could be heartbreaking in another; maybe love isn't such an international language after all.

Gros bisous,
Brian

I've gotten used to blowing smoke out of my face, and I'm learning how to use the wind to do the work for me.  Parisiens smoke.  A lot.  Luckily, most people only do it outside; although, I have already had a few run-ins with those not afraid to smoke inside a metro car (as well as those not afraid to be completely drunk inside a metro).  You can't pick and choose which parts of someone's culture that you get to experience, and I suppose it wouldn't be the same if you could.

Culture is such a funny thing.  It's like breathing--something locals do without thinking and would never think we would need to explain why it is the way that it is.  I'll give just a few examples all from one night; last night.  I went to a restaurant with two friends, both French girls.  The server brought us out some bread as we decided what we wanted to eat (much like any American restaurant), but there wasn't any butter.  I asked one of the girls where the butter was, and I only got a perplexed look in response.  Her eyes said it all: "Why would you want butter?"  I was particularly confused because a French breakfast usually consists of little more than bread and butter (often with jam and coffee as well).  After explaining to her just this she said, "Yes, but that's for breakfast.  Not for dinner" as if I had asked her to explain why ice melts or why we say "please" and "thank you."

That was only my first faux pas.  I finished my meal quickly; european portions just don't compare to what we get in the U.S.  Having said that, the quality of food is head and shoulders above what we have in the States.  It was obvious that one of my friends wasn't going to finish her meal and, having seen that I was still hungry, asked me if I wanted some of hers.  I said, "Tu veux pas l'apporter? You don't want to take it with you?"  She let out a little gasp (yes, a gasp--not an exaggeration; gasping is almost a part of how the French speak, though) and simply said, "Ça se fait pas/We don't do that."  This time it was me who didn't understand.  She explained, again exasperated, that it was impolite to take the food from a restaurant. [At work today I told this story, and I was informed that some restaurants in Paris have begun allowing people to take their leftovers with them due to pressure from tourists.  They call the box used to take the food a "doggybag."  I had never heard that before, but apparently some Americans on the east coast call it the same thing].

Do these differences really matter?  Of course not.  But they add up to form the cultural underpinnings of a society.  Sometimes I feel the need to sit back and watch to figure out what I'm doing.  I feel like a native more and more every day, even just after a little over two weeks.  Whereas before I never thought I'd figure out the underground city that is the Paris metro system, now I'm already tired of tourists getting in my way.

I get caught up writing about the culture and the language that I forget to include anything about my internship.  I really really enjoy it.  I'm so glad I did this internship after my internship with the Senate; the work I do for the embassy is so much more substantial than what I did for our little committee.  I'm busy almost all day every day.  Today I wrote up a report on education opportunities for British students in the U.S. (it's a long story as to why I was doing it about British students instead of French ones).  I polished the report and then promptly put someone else's name on it.  That's the life of the intern: make the boss look good and don't take any of the credit!  I'm just grateful to be able to work in a place that values my work and keeps giving me plenty to do.

A la prochaine,
Brian

The rain hasn't stopped much since I got here.  Apparently, it was beautiful here the week before I arrived.  After the long flight from San Francisco I was eager to meet the French family that I would be living with.  I thought their son was going to be meeting me at the airport, but it turned out that there was a miscommunication between me and the agency who placed me with the family.  Stressed about finding their house, I took a taxi whose driver had no problem overcharging me by €30.  I was still shaky on the euro-to-dollar conversion rate, so I wasn't in a place to dispute the cost.

The important thing was that I was at the house; it is the home of Antoine and Florence Septenville in Suresnes, France.  If you thought I was going to be in Paris, don't worry--it's a tiny city just on the western edge of Paris (right on the other side of Bois de Bologne for those who know Paris a little bit).  They have three kids: two girls and a boy.  Since their daughters are grown and have moved out they decided to rent out their rooms.  Their son, Baptiste, is 24 years old and lives in the room right next to mine.  He was the only one there to greet me last Friday because the agency had given them the wrong date for my arrival.  Two days before I came here the family was given the correct date, but only after they had already made plans to go to their home in the country in Normandie.  I briefly met Antoine, and then he and Baptiste left to meet Florence and some of their other family for the weekend.

Too much detail.  Let's talk about the language.  First off, I forgot how tiring it is to speak another language all day long.  I find that by the end of the day my ability to speak digresses, and I don't pay as much attention to my accent.  I thought I spoke a decent amount of French this past semester, but in this past week I've probably almost matched that amount.  It's like I was running 3-5 miles consistently, and now I've begun the marathon.  Luckily, I love French, and everyday I start out ready to improve.

To be honest, my capacity in French seems to me a paradox.  No one thinks I'm American when I speak and, on good days, I even convince a few people I'm French.  I've been told regularly in the past week how strange it is how well I speak (my favorite comment came from a recent convert to our church here who said, "Mais, ce n'est pas normal qu'un Américain parle comme ça"..."It's not normal for an American to speak French like that").  But despite the compliments, I have been humbled by how much I don't understand and how much I struggle to adequately express myself sometimes.  I forgot how much harder it is to understand when natives are talking to each other and not to me.  Take today at lunch for example.  Today is a French holiday, the equivalent of Labor Day in the States, so Florence made a nice lunch (a salad of tomatoes and avocados in a vinaigrette, cold sheep meat, and cooked potatoes, plus lots of bread and more than six different cheeses to choose from, of course).  When they talk to me I understand without trying.  But as they talk to each other about random subjects I find my mind drifting and not picking up on all the idioms.  It is amazing how much we use expressions that don't really translate without even realizing it.  I feel like I'm constantly asking about a word or a phrase that I've never heard before.

I don't remember how often I'm supposed to write these blogs for my coursework while I'm here; I've got a lot more on my mind that I could write about, but I feel like this is already too long.  In case I forget, here are some of the other things I'd like to cover: figuring out the Paris metro system, grocery shopping for the first time, going to church and meeting the YSA here, sight-seeing, and starting work.  Pour l'instant, cela me suffit!

À bientôt,
Brian