This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at ASU chapter.
I drank.
The fourth of July does not mean anything to the rest of the world: what my somewhat naïve self quickly found out during my third week in Lyon. Of course, I know I’m in France. But, this was the first time I experienced my national holiday in another country and it was just like any other day.
When people ask me how I celebrated the Fourth of July in another country, I simply tell them the truth: I drank too much wine and initiated a dance party on my floor for no particular reason.
In my residence hall, we shared bathrooms and kitchens with native students. I liked this because it forced me to be proficient in the language; there were no excuses to make when it wasn’t in a classroom. I couldn’t explain to someone that I didn’t know how to say a certain word if they didn’t even understand my excuse. But this night, my friends and I knocked on each of their doors, and invited them into the kitchen for a party. They didn’t understand why we were playing country music (which I secretly hated), or why we wrote “BUD LIGHT” with Sharpie on clearly foreign beer, or why we were partying on a Tuesday.
But we knew why, and we celebrated until the early morning.
Bastille Day rolled around one week later, and our program director planned on us going to a ballet that night. Both of the guys in our group groaned, but us girls were excited. I have never seen a ballet in a different country, so I was excited for the cultural aspect of our night. If only we knew what was in store for us. As a group we took the verniculaire (a rollercoaster-type deal that takes you up and down the hills of Lyon) and entered the ancient Roman ruins, which was turned into an amphitheater for concerts and other events. I didn’t grow up with ancient ruins overlooking my city, or even a city in general. I grew up in the suburbs of southern Orange County, and this city really changed the way I looked at things. Where I live, we watch fireworks that come from harbor boats sitting on the Pacific Ocean. Now, I can say that I witnessed fireworks in a city over hundreds of years old. Once we sat in our seats at the Ancient ruins, I only heard the rap songs that I mostly hear on weekends at a club in Tempe. Yet, the bass made the ground shake, and I knew our director had gotten the term “ballet” mixed up with something else.
The night’s host comes running out onto the stage, and started to introduce the groups for the night’s B-BOY DANCE BATTLE.
That’s right, my professor took us to a dance battle in the heart of Lyon.
Each of us started laughing, watching our professor admiring the performance, but cringing at the lyrics of the songs. I could not stop chuckling. Here we were sitting on historical grounds and listening to Dr. Dre/Snoop Dogg while Italian, Russian, Portuguese and French boys competitively dance around each other on stage. It was probably the most surreal experience of my trip to France, and one that changed the way I viewed my place in the world.
I think there comes a point when you realize you are just not the most important person. Everyone talks about how America is the dream and that’s where success begins, but I have learned that traveling is where success begins. We stop learning when we stop searching for something new, and if it weren’t for me deciding to step out of my comfort zone I would never feel fulfilled.
Now I sit in American classrooms, speak my native language and sometimes daydream of fireworks and Italian boys dancing shirtless. I hope Lyon misses me too.