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| Cultural misunderstanding #1 in London: Is this the way to the Ministry of Magic? |
Over lunch on Saturday, I mused how different things are in London compared to back home. They drive on the wrong side of the road, they put milk in their tea, and their fifty pence coins are abnormally large and hexagonal. My friends laughed at me, I laughed at them, and it was all good fun. Whenever I was struck with a cultural difference, I would explain, “Oh, back home this is what we call it…”
But I wasn’t talking about New Jersey. I wasn’t even talking about the United States. Back home had become Aix-en-Provence. In the lumpy hotel bed, I dreamed of the tiny twin bed in my studio apartment with the exposed beams and not the spacious, memory foam of my double bed in the States. When I tried to figure out British money, my mind converted pounds to euros, not dollars (though it probably should have been, given the horrendous exchange rate).
I couldn’t tell you the moment I flipped the switch. But I felt it as early as after winter break in February, when, after a week in Italy, speaking French felt like meeting an old friend. I knew how to order a coffee, to say thank you and ask confidently for the Wi-Fi password. The familiarity of Aix was comforting. I knew which side streets to take, to turn left at the second moss-covered fountain and right at the dolphin fountain.
The familiarity of your host city comes gradually. You don’t notice it happening. But it does. You start to develop habits, much like you would at home. You have your café or coffee shop, and you know exactly what to order. Maybe the barista knows your name (mine does). You’ve tried different restaurants and figured out which ones are tourist traps and which ones are preferred local haunts.
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| One of my personal haunts: Pavillon Vendôme, a classical French garden in the heart of Aix. A great place to chill between classes! |
My time in Aix is almost half over. When faced with this dismal reality, I try to not take my comfort here for granted. It’s a beautiful thing. I was once an outsider here, tripping over cobblestones, fumbling at a cash register with unfamiliar change and crying with delight at finding a chai latte (they’re not as popular in France). But before I knew what had happened, I was weaving effortlessly between tourist groups, whipping a scarf around my shoulders, plopping down in my favorite seat in my favorite café and ordering a café crème in almost seamless French.
And don’t worry. If you’re the one tripping over cobblestones and the passé composé verb tense, you won’t be for long, I promise.
Elizabeth Manovill is the Spring 2015 CEA MOJO Blogger in Aix-en-Provence, France. She is currently a junior at The University of Dayton.
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