Dear Lakeside,
In theory, it would’ve been great to wake up to the 8:30 a.m. sunrise in France, but my priorities are clear as I press snooze on the alarm and flip over. Many more minutes pass until I finally climb out of bed, grab my towel, and head into the bathroom before anyone steals my bathroom time. Having done my regular routine, I walk down the rickety stairs that are absolutely perfect for a late night climb (if you’re planning on hurting something). On the table to my left, I see the regular: bread, butter, milk, and cereal splayed out in haphazard ways due to little ones ransacking the table. I grab the remaining assiette, des couverts, et un verre and grab the softened butter and French-branded “American” bread. What we call white bread is considered sweet bread/brioche in France, and I can’t even begin to describe French-branded “American” bread because it’s not American bread.
Sidenote: I’ve perfected the technique of cutting butter. We start at one corner instead of cutting from top to bottom. Now, I can aesthetically become a Rennes resident and not embarrass myself. A win is a win!
While dinner is the test of my comprehension skills and speaking skills, it’s also a way to understand how French family dynamics differ from Americans.
Instead of rushing out the door with my breakfast, as I would at Lakeside, I’ve adopted the French value of sitting down and taking my time while eating. However, that doesn’t stop me from missing my bus, so I grab the dishes, set them in the sink for dishwashing later, and quickly put on my shoes and grab my backpack. After yelling au revoir to my host family above, it’s time to roll out. A quick jog/run/sprint to my bus stop takes place as my bus approaches the stop, and I rush to the front of the mob, as the concept of waiting in line is blurred when it comes to securing a seat on the bus ride. A scan of my KorriGo card and I secure a seat, and, with every stop, the bus picks up more and more standing bus riders until we reach Saint-Jacques Gaîte (park and ride equivalent). I transfer onto the self-driving, PACKED metro and ride eight stops to Jules Ferry. We exit out of the automatic doors, and the plethora of students line up on the right side of the escalator while the ones in a hurry climb up on the left. I meet the usual, cigarette-smoke-filled air from questionable high school and university students and trudge my way onto my campus a couple blocks down.
With a bonjour to the front desk, we start the first class out of six. The French school system allows for an overfill on the amount of classes you can take. We see high school students starting school at 8h (8 a.m.) and finishing at 17h (5 p.m.), so their custom of having all classes with variations of the schedule allows us to immerse ourselves in French school. In efforts to continue this pledge, we begin our day with French class. In the small spaces between French grammar, my classmate whispers about the traditionality of French families — for example, the idea of feminism seems unneeded — and I whisper about how jokes seem a little too personal. The cultural sensitivity, in comparison to Americans, is on the level of mainstream cancelability. Comments that body shame or judge someone based on their gender would be unspeakable and offensive, but the French don’t get offended easily in that regard; while the Americans would be dead silent at a movie theater after a racist joke, French kids would laugh.
Every session is a day to learn French slang. How do French teenagers communicate, and what volleyball terms have I yet to learn?
As class comes to an end, we say merci, bonne journée, and soon enough, it is lunch. We eat at the local high school, so we wait in line with all the French students and scan our phone QR codes (French students have student ID cards). The high school has three lunch groups: 11:30 a.m., 12 p.m., and 12:30 p.m., meaning that a lunch monitor will passive aggressively tell us it’s time to leave before 1 p.m. (the end of our official lunch). We move our food tray along the bars and grab two entrées: some cheese or yogurt, a main dish, and the beloved pan. We find our seats in the French-filled cafeteria and have one and a half hours to catch up, eat, and fit in some needed homework time. Again, that element of taking well-deserved breaks follows the French lifestyle of taking one’s time.
After lunch, I go through my other classes and finish school at 16:30 (4:30 p.m.). I take the metro to volleyball practice around 18:30 (6:30 p.m.), and every session is a day to learn French slang. How do French teenagers communicate, and what volleyball terms have I yet to learn? I’m absolutely immersed in the French Gen Z population, and I learn so much from them. After practice, I arrive around 20:00 (8:00 p.m.), and while dinner is the test of my comprehension and speaking skills, it’s also a way to understand how French family dynamics differ from those of Americans. Practices in the U.S. are quite different, particularly when it comes to setting up the table, the multiple courses of small meals, eating for one or more hours, and clearing the table. All of these actions are ingrained in the family culture. After dinner, I head upstairs to finish up my homework and repeat the cycle once again. #dayinalifecompleted
Until next time,
Rahamatou
