Pollarding: An Essay on Studying Abroad, Alphabetically Arranged

Abroad 

Away. Overseas. Studying. I knew what it meant, but the concept didn’t seem real until I was driving to the airport, knowing I wouldn’t be home for four months. Up until that point, I only thought of all of the wonderful experiences I was sure to have. I refused to let my reluctancy, my hesitancy, my fear creep in until that drive. 

Bruno 

He was with Emilie and one of their sons, Adrien, when they picked me up at the Marseille airport. About a week later, I was told he would no longer be living with us. A few days passed and I returned to find Bruno standing outside the apartment door. He asked to come in. Confusion ensued. 

Ça va? 

“Ça va?” 
     “Oui, ça va.” The standard question. My standard response. It goes. Don’t know what to say? Ça va. Ça marche. It works. 

Dryer 

I will never, ever take for granted having a clothes dryer after I return home. My soft, fluffy towel has become cardboard-stiff and scratchy. It’s as uncomfortable as I feel when Emilie discusses her relationship issues. 

Emilie 

Ma mere d’accueil. My host mom. Kind, questioning, easily upset. But not without reason. Mais pourquoi? Fragile but tough. “He left me for that… that whore.” 
     My response: “Je suis tellement desolée. Les hommes sont horrible.”
     She is always busy, always on the go. Traveling. Trying to keep thoughts of Bruno and the whore at bay. 

France 

     Capital: Paris. 
     Area: 213,011 square miles, or if you’re like the French and use the metric system, 551,695 square kilometers. Or, if you prefer another way to think about it, roughly the same size as the state of Texas. 
     Motto: Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité.
     Government: Republic, currently the Fifth. 
     Head of State: François Hollande.
     France: Land of baguettes, cheese, wine and berets. Stereotype? Yes. True? Baguettes, cheese and wine, yes. Berets? Not so much. 
     It’s also the country to host the most foreign tourists in the world at around 83 million annually. How that number is calculated is beyond me, but it makes me wonder what they consider students studying abroad. Am I a tourist to France? Probably. 

Growth

With the emergence of spring, there’s new, green growth on the plane trees that line the streets. During the late winter and early spring, these trees are pruned in a style called pollarding, which consists of cutting off the new branches and offshoots. While this may seem counterintuitive and harmful to the tree, it turns out to be quite beneficial. Plane trees grow quickly — up to nine feet per year — and trimming them back to the major branches eliminates weak spots, removes excess weight, and allows for the tree to flourish. Additionally, it is the pollarding that causes the plentiful, aesthetically pleasing foliage in the late spring and summer, as if the tree is making up for its bald, scarred branches. After its stark nakedness, one can find solace in its shade. 

Hitchhike 

Hitchhiking has such a seedy, dangerous connotation to it. Never, in a million years, did I ever think I would willingly accept a ride from a stranger, let alone in a foreign country. However, it’s interesting what you will do under certain circumstances. My friend and I weren’t actively trying to hitch a ride — we weren’t standing with our thumbs out — but we were sitting on the side of the road, at a bus stop more or less in the middle of nowhere looking miserable. I guess the two send the same message: Somebody, anybody, take us with you. Please. 
     Just as we were sitting there, talking about how we wished we had the guts to try and thumb a ride, a lady passing by must have saw our forlorn selves and pulled her car over. 
     When I recounted the situation to Emilie, she told me it was probably better that I hitched a ride here than back in the States. “At least you know that people here don’t have guns.” I’m not sure if it was meant to reassure me or not. 

Intercultural      

The reason I decided to study abroad. To experience a culture other than my own, Midwestern American culture that I’ve known all my life. To better learn another language. To explore. To become more independent. To do things, like hitchhike, that I never thought I would do, ever. To learn to better relate to people with views, opinions, lives different than my own. To see how cultures are similar, to see how they’re different. To become a citizen of the world. 

Journal 

In general, humans like to keep track of time, events, memories. We document everything. We take photographs, we keep ticket stubs, we clip newspaper articles. We write down our thought and feelings in journals, diaries, notebooks. Some things we document for a public audience, other for a specific audience, sometimes just for ourselves. Now we even document the most minor things, thanks to social media. Have a delicious-looking meal? Snap a picture and show hundreds of your closest “friends” with a few taps of the finger. 
     All that being said, however, journaling, writing, documenting can be a great way to process change and what is happening to and around you. It can aid in figuring out the new and the unknown, and cope with what is no longer present. 

Keen

Adjective: 1. Having or showing eagerness or enthusiasm. 2. Sharp or penetrating, in particular: (of a sense) highly developed: keen eyesight; (of mental faculties) quick to understand or function: keen intellect.
     Keen to go. Keen to see. Keen to do. Keen to explore. Wishing I had a keen sense of direction. Being surprised when my gut feeling for where to go is actually right. Maybe my sense of direction and navigational skills are becoming more keen. Maybe it’s like a muscle. Work at it long enough and it will grow and develop. 
     Peachy keen, adjective (informal): attractive; outstanding. Origin: mid 20th century from peachy in the sense “excellent” and keen in the sense “wonderful.” 
     If things aren’t always peachy keen, don’t worry, they’re not supposed to be. Not everything, at least. If things are never peachy or keen, though, maybe you should worry. Be proactive and do something to change your situation. Advocate for yourself. Strive for peaches rather than lemons.  

Love Language, Lost Love 

When people think of France, everyone has this inherent notion of love. Amour. French is a romance language after all, right? But all that means is that it has Roman roots. Nonetheless, French still has a reputation as the language of love. So, what is the reality of love in France? From my experience thus far, pretty bleak. 
     My host mom is in the process of divorcing her husband of over twenty years because of the aforementioned “whore.” While in general she is doing a good job of not being too down about it — or at least not showing it in front of me — the day Bruno moved his stuff out was rough to say the least. She was in full-on meltdown mode, lamenting the fact that she did and gave everything to their relationship, and look where that got her. 
     As for my own, personal experience with love in France… don’t get too excited. Guys here, while different in some aspects from guys in the States, are the same in that they don’t seem like they’re looking for love. Which isn’t to say that I am right now either. But I’m definitely still guarded, perhaps a bit too cautious for my own good to really have any further insight on the issue. 

Missouri 

“D’où viens tu?” 
     “Uhh,” I hesitate, knowing what the response will be. “Missouri?” I say, with my American accent. I then repeat it, doing my best to say it with a French accent. 
     “Ahh! Missouri!” they say. But it sounds like Misery. 
     “Oui,” I repeat. “Je viens de Misery.”

Nobody Knows Anything About Missouri 

Even Americans. Half of the IAU students I’ve told I’m from Missouri have told me, seemingly without any embarrassment, that they don’t know where Missouri is located, or that they forgot that it existed entirely. 
     So it’s even more fun when I tell a French person. Especially after my friends from California and Texas say their states. Everyone knows California and Texas. Missouri — or should I say Misery — not so much. 
     The best reactions are when I tell people I’m from Kansas City, Missouri. Here’s how that typical conversation goes: “But isn’t Kansas a state too?” 
     “Yeah. It’s right next to Missouri.” 
     “So you’re from Kansas?” 
     “No, I’m from Kansas City.” 
     “Kansas City isn’t in Kansas?” 
     “Well, it’s actually in both. It’s two separate cities. Kansas City, Missouri and Kansas City, Kansas.” 
     “But… why is it Kansas City if it’s in Missouri?”  
     “I don’t know, it just is…”
     “Oh… Wait. Where is Missouri again?”

One Percent 

I miss American milk. Milk that’s always refrigerated, always cold. Milk that doesn’t sit out on the counter until you begin to drink it. Milk that isn’t sickly sweet. 

Pigeons 

Someone once told me that pigeons always bob their heads back and forth when they walk because they have tendons that run from their feet up to their neck, so whenever they take a step, it pulls on this tendon, which in turn pulls on their neck, making them peck at the air. I accepted what seemed to be a statement of fact without question, until sitting down to write this. After some quick, cursory research, however, it seems that the tendon explanation is a myth and the actual reason behind the head bob is to improve the pigeon’s ability to focus on something while walking. This happens by letting the pigeon’s head stay in one place for a longer period of time, therefore allowing it to focus, while the body moves forward. The head then jerks forward, ahead of the body, creating the bob effect. 
     Humans, however don’t have to do this because we rely on our eyes to move and focus on objects as we walk. Sometimes, though, I feel like my body needs a similar focusing mechanism to notice details as the world flies by me.

Quoi?

What? I take a breath and repeat myself. “C’est près de la Rotonde.” 
     She furrows her brow again. “Quoi?” 
     I know I’m saying it correctly — it’s not even that difficult of a sentence. “La roh-ton-duh,” I emphasize. 
     “Ahh!” Emilie says, as her face finally lights up, realizing what I’m saying. “You mean la rotonde,” she says. 
     Now it’s my turn to be confused. Because that is exactly what I just said. “Oui, la rotonde,” I confirm. 
     “Non, c’est la rotonde,” she says, her voice emphasizing the guttural French r sound that I cannot make, despite countless efforts. 
     I sigh with frustration. Did she really not understand me the first three times I said it? Does that r really make that much of a difference? 
     “Oui, c’est ça,” I say, defeated. 

Ryanair 

A word of warning: Be prepared to be dangerously behind schedule. And for a landing so rough that you question if the pilot was even paying attention to the ground. But hey, a girl’s gotta save a Euro wherever she can, right? 

Sainte Victoire  

Montagne Sainte Victoire is a limestone mountain in Provence with its highest point at 3,317 feet. It was a muse of painter Paul Cézanne, and as such was the subject of many of his paintings. I’ve climbed the mountain 1 and 3/4 times and it is quite a workout. My second time climbing it, and the only time I reached the church and the Croix de Provence which mark the summit for most hikers, we underestimated our water needs, nearly finishing our water bottles by the time we reached the top. I think I assumed there would be some water source at the top, either in or near the church. After all, hundreds of people hike the mountain on the weekends when the weather is nice. But you know what they say what happens when you assume. 
     The one faucet we found in the refuge at the summit didn’t work. Two separate people staying in the refuge kindly showed us a large, round concrete water cistern in front of the building, telling us in mixed French and English that we could get water from that. We looked warily at the small plaque that read “eau non-potable” and debated what we should do. Finally, looking at our nearly empty bottles, we decided to take the plunge and trust the men from the refuge. 
     I’m happy to report that our consumption of this water was victorious, as was our return trip to Aix with the kind woman who let us hitch a ride with her, rather than wait another hour and a half for the next bus.  

Toilette 

I walked into the WC in my host’s apartment for the first time shortly after I arrived. I stared in confusion at the toilet, which looks essentially like any other toilet I’ve ever seen, except for the fact that it is missing a toilet seat. Now, from having traveled to France previously, I knew that they had some squat public toilets and I had encountered a few public toilets sans seat as well, however, it never occurred to me that someone might have a toilet without a seat in their own home. 
     In my confused, jet-lagged state, I decided to consult google to see if this was a normal thing in France. According to toilet-guru.com (no, I’m not making that up), toilets can be a lot cleaner without a seat because it’s easier to clean just the non-porous porcelain bowl than it is to clean the seat too. It makes sense, then, why many public restrooms lack toilet seats, but it doesn’t really answer my question as to why Emilie doesn’t have one on the toilet in her apartment. This is most likely to remain a mystery to me because one, I don’t know how to say toilet seat in French, and two, it’s really not a conversation that I would like to have at this point in time — or at any time, really — having not verbally questioned the lack of a seat for this long. 
     And if you’re looking for a free, easy-to-find public bathroom in France, good luck, my friend. Once you do find a bathroom (that you more than likely had to pay 50 centimes to use) it will probably lack either a toilet seat, as previously noted, toilet paper, or both. Like a Girl Scout, always be prepared for this possibility. For a country that draws 83 million foreign tourists annually, France is amusingly (as long as it’s not urgent for you) ill-equipped in providing sufficient facilities for basic human needs. And if you’re thirsty? Don’t get me started on water fountains in France. Sometimes the best you can manage is a questionable water cistern that may or may not contain drinkable water. 

Umbrella

According to the ever trusty Wikipedia, Aix has a yearly average of 91 rainy days. I’ve not exactly been keeping track, but I think I’ve been here for about half of those days of rain. That might be a slight exaggeration, but still, I think I’ve held an umbrella more during these past couple months than I have in my entire life. Granted, the two worst rainy days I’ve had haven’t been in Aix, but rather in Venice and Lyon. I spent my first day and a half in Venice fearing that one of my eyes was going to be poked out by one of the thousands of umbrellas that ineffectively tried to protect their owner from the elements. 
     After being completely and thoroughly drenched in Lyon despite my umbrella, I spent the train ride back to Aix being self conscious of the fact that my poor, now twice water-logged boots were making me the smelly person on the train. I daydreamed about getting back to Aix, peeling off my cold, soggy socks and jeans that were still plastered to my legs and snuggling up in my warm, dry pjs. 
     All that being said, an umbrella is an indispensable item to have, because even if it fails to keep anything else dry, it can usually manage to protect your face. Not only have I been unsuccessful in easily finding drinkable water in France, but also in protecting myself against water. Funny how that happens. 

Video Chat 

Skype and Facetime have both proved to be quite useful during my time here, letting me see familiar faces, even if only for a few minutes, and helping me to deal with and process my new environment by talking it over with my family or a friend. As much as I love snail mail, I’m thankful for this new technology. 

Watch 

Inevitably, at some point while studying abroad and traveling, you will end up behind schedule. Perhaps your Ryanair flight left late or your bus gets stuck in a traffic jam going through customs at the border. Whatever the case, you’ll spend minutes on end, staring at your watch as it ticks away precious time that you’re losing. You do some mental calculations. You know exactly how much time you can afford to spare. You realize it’s going to take more time. Times like this, your watch, time itself, has the potential to be either your best friend or your worst enemy. Will you make your connection? Only time will tell. 

Xeno-

A Greek prefix meaning relating to a foreigner or foreigners, as in xenophobia, xenophilia, or xenolith. What is xenocurious? Is it the desire to learn more about foreigners or the desire to be a foreigner? To lose oneself in another place, another culture. To lose all sense of what is the norm. To melt away into a foreign place.  

Yet

“No, I haven’t gone there yet.” “No, I’m still not fluent quite yet.” Yet. The implication that something has not happened, but will. Maybe tomorrow, maybe in a month, maybe in three years from now. “I didn’t get to travel everywhere I wanted to, yet I know I’ll be back.” The intention of returning. 
     A word used with a glimmer of hope. “Have you met any cute French guys yet?” “Is it time for you to come home yet?”
     A word used to express a specific time. “I’m glad I don’t have to leave yet.”
     A small yet mighty word with so many different possibilities. Implication, intention, hope, time. A true Renaissance word. 

Zut 

The feeling that creeps in when you realize how little time you have remaining to explore. How did the time escape so quickly? Did I lose time somehow? No, I didn’t lose it. I was busy, so busy that I didn’t have time to realize how fast the weeks were passing. I was busy exploring new places. I was busy getting lost. I was busy finding myself. Zut. Bittersweet. Time crunch. Come on, there’s no time to lose. 




Note: This essay was inspired by Dinty W. Moore's essay Son of Mr. Green Jeans: An Essay on Fatherhood, Alphabetically Arranged and was written for my Creative Writing and the Intercultural Experience class.