Sink or Float

As I rushed from plane, to train, to taxi, I had precious little time to appreciate my surroundings.  My old vinyl suitcase was straining to hold everything.  I cursed every extra pair of socks I had jammed in at the last minute.

Cramped in the back of a smoky cab, I stretched to catch glimpses of stone fountains and striking architecture.  Even in the dark I was aware that the passing cars were much more compact than the sedans and SUVs I was accustomed to seeing. 

“Bonsoir,” said the driver. 

“Bonsoir,” I replied, and my polite response opened the door for a barrage of words I couldn’t comprehend.  I tried to respond, but my school French was inadequate.

What had I done?

A year abroad:   At first these words sounded so exotic.  I would be living in the South of France, studying a new language, immersed in a different culture.  And although sitting in a taxi in France would seem an enviable predicament  to most others, I was overwhelmed.   At that moment, I felt as though I were sinking.

It was as though I had plunged deep below the ocean’s surface. Nothing was familiar. The murky palette was as foreign as anything I had never experienced before.  Surrounded by a world that I had only seen in glossy pictures and on screen, I struggled to make sense of the muffled noises that pulsed around me.

I felt a hollow in the pit of my stomach. Yet no one had thrown me overboard into this strange ocean. No, I had jumped in willingly. Tentatively, but willingly.

Later, exhausted from hours of travel, I lay in a lumpy bed staring at the stained walls of my rented flat.  My mind raced in search of a perfect excuse to go home, one that my professor would accept, my roommates would buy, and my family would welcome.  A lifetime of minutes passed until warm light streaked through the opening in the heavy curtains.  I got out of bed, dressed, and set out to explore my neighborhood.

Right away, I could see that my jeans and sneakers stood out in a city where black and high heels were normal casual wear. I tried to read street signs and storefronts. I made my way down the cobbled sidewalk that bordered a long strip of outdoor cafés, and struggled to focus on a single tree, a dip in the sidewalk, some inanimate object that could possibly be found in my own country. Anything recognizable: a voice, a word of English, a billboard, a pizza without eggs. What I wouldn’t give—

I was drowning. I didn’t understand yet that my longing for the familiar was the anchor that held me under. It would be days before I learned that the only way I could rise to the surface was to embrace the differences, learn to accept the sights and sounds of this new country.