Fri Mar 01 2024
Swedish-Canadian Noelle is on exchange in France and she is one of our guest bloggers.
My adventure started this summer at 2 am on a chilly morning in Sweden. As the regional train slowly approached Arlanda, I couldn't help but have butterflies. Where would I end up and what would the lifestyle and interests of the family be? To live on a farm in the rural countryside of France is naturally quite different from living in an apartment in downtown Paris. What would school be like? In France, you usually go to school six days a week. Subjects like Philosophy and Moral Education are mandatory, and obviously, all in French. Quite a step up from ordering a Croque Monsieur at a café. Would I be able to keep up?
All of STS’s preparation emails, and my mom’s mini-speeches, about how life-changing a cultural exchange would be had suddenly caught up with me. Summer was like a rug under my feet that had abruptly been swept away. I wasn’t going to France in a year, a month, or even a week. I was going now.
My life was packed into a suitcase weighing slightly over 23 kg. I had said all my goodbyes, and now I was at my gate, sipping my last Swedish coffee somewhat ruefully. I approached two other Swedish STS exchange students, identifiable by their bright yellow backpacks that we were given at a preparation meeting a few months previous. We chatted nervously. What was it going to be like? Would our language skills be good enough to communicate with our host families? Do all French people smoke a pack of cigarettes a day, wear red berets, and grow handlebar mustaches?
As we touched down on French soil, I tried to label this foreign place with the word “home”. It didn’t ring true yet, but maybe in a few months, it would. I grappled with the fact that this was neither a trip nor an extended vacation – I was here to build a new life… in French.
When we arrived, we were treated to a welcome camp that provided us with a soft landing. Students from everywhere were present – from Japan to Brazil, Mexico to Poland, Bulgaria to Singapore, and the US to Australia. My roommate was a friendly Mexican girl who helped translate Bad Bunny’s songs for me, while letting me try her exotic candy, ranging from discs of sugary peanuts to long, red tubes filled with pineapple jelly coated with tamarind and chili powder.
For three days we explored Paris and dipped our toes into French life. We survived on baguettes and pastries, ogled at the Eiffel Tower, saw the Mona Lisa (or should I say, La Joconde, as the locals do) in the gorgeous glass pyramid which is the Louvre, discovered cool eccentricities at the Grevin museum, and inevitably got lost on the metro. We roamed around the gorgeous Montmartre area, holding our purses close from pickpockets as we scaled the white-domed Basilica of the Sacré-Cœur on its summit, admiring the lively markets with street vendors selling souvenirs and art, slant-roofed cafes, and various other colorful sights.
I wandered with a group of five other exchange students. We had walked all day and the last hike up the hill to Montmatre in the heat wave had done us in, so we searched for a cozy spot to sit down. We eventually set our sights on a cute cafe with a striped blue-and-white awning and an inviting outdoor seating area that stretched out onto the narrow cobblestone streets. Some considerable time passed after taking a seat, and still no server had come, so one of the girls got up to grab some of the menus at the entrance, as is custom where she is from. While walking back to the table, a deeply offended waiter intercepted her path, judgingly looked her up and down and then shoved his serving tray and dish cloth into her arms, as if to say ‘you want my job, do you?’. He didn’t take the serving tray back, so she awkwardly put it down on a nearby table and apologized profusely. The server didn’t laugh, but told us a few minutes later (when she wouldn’t stop blushing and apologizing) that it was a blague (joke). That was our introduction to the notorious French irony. They say that understanding humour is one of the last things to come with mastering a new language, and I must say that while I still haven’t grasped the joke, my new friends and I could eventually laugh about it.
That night we took a dinner cruise on the Seine, enjoying a delicious three-course meal while experiencing the beauty of Paris from the water. We passed lovers kissing, friends having picnics with a glass of wine, childrens’ birthday parties, Salsa and hip hop dance classes, gorgeous architecture, and famous bridges and other locations mentioned in many of the books I had read or films I had watched. The romantic views from the Seine culminated in a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower, lit up against the night sky, bathed in the colors of the Ukrainian (and Swedish) flag. From the top of the boat we waved at passersby, while the summer wind flowed through our hair. The rude waiter was forgiven. A new chapter had begun.
This happened early in my exchange…. Strangers in swim trunks and bikinis lean in to kiss me. I am very uncomfortable. It is one of my first weekends with my French host family and we’re attending a pool party. La bise, the classic French greeting, is a science in and of itself. In its basic form, a person gently bumps cheeks with another person while making a kissing sound (basically like an air kiss). However, the exact procedure depends on the person and region in which la bise is performed. Some don’t make the kissing sound. Some actually kiss the other person’s cheeks. Some do it once, others twice, others three times. In most parts of France, the right cheek is first, but in the South-East it’s the left cheek first. This knowledge is all very essential to avoid the bunglingness of when one person swerves right and the other left, making for an almost real, lips-to-lips kiss. Despite having been instructed on all of this, I am at a complete loss when these half-naked strangers approach for what seems to me a much too intimate greeting. Luckily, we have just arrived at the pool, and I am still fully clothed. I blush at the mere thought of having to do this donning a bikini.
As an exchange student on the Classic Program, one never knows exactly where in the host country one will end up. I was placed in Poissy, a calm little town on the outskirts of Paris, in a comfortable white house with a red gate and a garden with chickens. I live with a caring family with three teenage children, two of whom live in their own apartments during the week but return home on weekends. It’s a double placement, meaning that another exchange student, Alicia from the German part of Switzerland, is also living with the family. We’re roommates, providing friendship and support as we both adjust to the rhythms of French life.
Poissy turned out to be the ideal location – only 30 minutes by train to the heart of Paris, but still far enough to sleep surrounded by quiet streets and the luxury of a horse nearby whenever we feel like going for a ride in the forest. On weekends, I like to head to Paris with friends as often as possible. One particularly memorable visit took place during Paris Fashion Week in early October. While my friend and I didn’t have tickets to any fashion shows, there were people donning outrageous outfits everywhere and we even spotted a couple of celebrities just wandering around town.
Despite a great placement and plenty of warnings, the extent of the cultural shock I experienced initially took me by surprise. I’ve had to get accustomed to seemingly unreasonable mealtimes (like dinner at 10 pm), school days from 8 am to 6 pm, small manual cars, and an entirely new way of dressing, to name a few. However, as my host family keeps reminding me, there is an IKEA not too far away if I ever get too homesick.
In Sweden, we call teachers by their first names as they are seen as the student’s equal. Here in France, I call my teachers by Monsieur or Madame followed by their last name. While that is nothing new for North Americans, what surprised me is that the teachers use the polite vous form with students as well, stressing the distance between the teacher and student. Most French teachers are pretty strict, but the friendly and supportive students at my high school make up for it. Once in my philosophy class, I had to read a very complex text out loud, and I stumbled over the passage with dubious pronunciation. When I finally reached the end, the teacher asked me to explain the passage to the class. When I had finished speaking, the class burst out in applause. The support of my classmates really lifts my spirits.
While tough at times, I would encourage any teenager who has the opportunity to take part in a student exchange. For me, it has been a very empowering feeling to learn that I can start afresh in a new country, at a new school, and in a new language, and still be able to build a good life for myself from scratch in a fairly short time. And if I can do it, so can you!
My French is actually progressing at a rapid pace. I’m adopting some of my favorite argot (slang) from my peers and learning how to better express myself like a native in this foreign tongue. However, as my host family jokes, I will only ever master impeccable French accents and pronunciation once I learn to enjoy eating moldy cheese, a distaste for which I have yet to overcome.
In this new life, I venture to try things I have never tried before. My host family is very involved with scouts and the MEJ (a Catholic organization for children), so now I’ve become involved too. I’ve started playing volleyball and have made good friends there. My host mom and Alicia play a lot of tennis, so I try to play tennis as well (despite mediocre hand-eye coordination). As a general rule, I have tried to abandon old conceptions of ‘I like this’ or ‘I don’t like this’, and I challenge myself to say yes to every opportunity and give everything a try just to see how it goes. So far, it has been going well.