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