Why do we venture abroad? This is a question I find myself asking again and again during this Fall. For some of us, the motivations include escape from the heavy college workload and redundant culture of a college town. (For me, this is Winston-Salem, but it may not be the case for other Universities.) For others, it comes down to wanting a break from the people. And some of us, myself included, came for more learning – both cultural and academic.
I know European history and the geography of the world. But knowing is not enough. I seek understanding. I cannot understand the French without meeting them, without stepping into their shoes, nor without observing them on French turf. A month ago, I had never stepped on European soil. Go back three months, and I had never ventured beyond a resort town in Mexico. I took French intermittently since childhood, but before I landed on August 19th, I’d never interacted with a native speaker.
But everything has changed since that morning I stumbled out of Charles de Gaulle airport with a too-heavy suitcase and a whole lot of unknowingness spinning in my head. And I think I have my host parents to thank for that.
They weren’t serious, as I expected the French to be, nor picky about my mistakes. My parents d’accueil turned out to be a couple of shorter-than-me, gentle, joking, and encouraging hosts. They correct me when I’m wrong, but in a way that leads to understanding, not a way that sacrifices my dignity. They ask me things about my culture. We play scrabble after dinner, and go for walks. We talk about politics in non-condescending ways. We laugh over the dad jokes that my host father loves to use. We share family stories and holiday traditions. There are no limits to the questions I could ask them, nor are their limits to their support for me in this crazy-new experience of mine.
My time chez eux is limited to this semester, alone, so as much as I can, I will continue writing about my new understandings in my Biz with Izz articles. To start, though, here’s one lesson I learned incredibly fast: the importance of the baguette.
I definitely thought baguettes were the most stereotypical French food before getting to France. You think France, you think bread. But the bread obsession is real. The French carry around baguettes like it is nobody’s business. On the bus? Baguette. Walking down a road? Baguette. Got a backpack cup holder? Forget water; the French put a baguette in that.
I mentioned to my host mom my fascination with the frequency of baguettes. She essentially told me that the baguette is king. It is an unspoken rule to always have a baguette in the house. If you are having friends over for dinner and buying bread slips your mind, forget it. The group leaves, and everyone eats at a restaurant. If you’re lucky, you can have your husband run down to the store (or boulangerie), and grab the last baguette.
I experienced the catastrophe of a missing baguette not two days after my mère d’acc explained everything. Dinner was delayed 20 minutes while my host dad drove to the local Intermarché and saved the day with a fresh baguette. I definitely though she was exaggerating, but no; the French will go to extreme lengths to have a baguette with dinner on a random Tuesday night.
Humor aside, I do think this little piece of French culture is profitable to understand. The baguette accompanies each course of the French meal, and in order to eat like the French do – to clear your plate of all food/sauce/etc. – you need du pain. Dinner is a marathon here, not a sprint, and the baguette is a foundational energy supply. Why sacrifice such a primary source of pleasure? The French understand the little things, the details we all too often overlook in the USA.
I’m not going to go back home and require a baguette at each meal, but I will bring this seamingly small mental lesson back to the States: the French idea of Bonheur. There is never a reason to neglect something small that can make something big, better.
*Cover photo and article photos by Isabelle Vail
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