Grenoble: Part Deux

I at last arrived in Grenoble, capital of the Isère département, around 3.30pm on June 23, a positively sweltering Saturday. Stepping out onto the quai, I was blasted by sizzling heat, quickly reminded how incredibly far I’d blazed across the French countryside in 3 hours, now deep in the southern half of the métropole. After waking from a luscious nap on the train, I spent my time gazing across la France profonde. This is the term for all the country's rural domains to which French urbanites flock with a seemingly religious observance every weekend and summer (merely one way to spend five weeks of vacation, I suppose). Despite the new surroundings – and the trial endured hours before – I had vastly matured in Paris, and thus felt surprisingly adjusted and prepared for the next six weeks in a new city.

Feeling like a completely different human being since my arrival at the Pigalle apartment two Saturdays prior, it was strange meeting my academic program directors from the University of Michigan at the station. The fact that I was just beginning my experience abroad hadn’t really occurred to me until then. I had felt oddly suspended between two continents, pleasantly detached from my American life while slowly adopting my new French reality. I felt for my new peers in the program, just arriving in a daze of culture shock…and jetlag. I gratefully realized how fresh and content I was, by comparison.

We were a small group of about three or four at the moment, meeting our mères d’acceuil (“host moms”) at the train station. I also met up with my friend Alex, the program assistant, who had been of major emotional support during my hours of drama at Gare de Lyon. Earlier on the phone, he had already assured me that my mère d’acceuil, named Laurence, was a veteran host mother with a history of patience under pressure and a relaxed attitude. That was certainly one thing in my favor on a day when everything seemed to blow up in my face.

“Last time, one of her students went into apoplectic shock, and she couldn’t have been cooler about it. Believe me, this woman is the most laid-back person in the world.”

 

For once, a promising start.

I had sent Laurence an email back in May, introducing myself and thanking her in advance for welcoming me at the station. She had given a brief description of herself – tall, with short brown hair – and had mentioned that she had a son. Other than news of her famously pleasant personality, I knew nothing about the person with whom I’d be living until August.

I also realized I was speaking in French…entirely. In Grenoble, everything was quickly becoming official. As I stood in the lobby of the gare, adjusting to the thought of becoming a summer student for the first time in my academic career, heads turned to peek behind me.

“Bonjourrrrr!” sang a buoyant voice at my back, slightly short of breath, “Oh la-la! Cette chaleur, c’est affreux!” (“This heat is awful!”)

Almost my height, in a precious white peasant blouse, jeans and Roman sandals, the woman approaching me resembled numerous past elementary school teachers. Harried and quirky, Laurence sashayed into the station with a perky giggle that indicated we would be friends before we reached her apartment in town. I eagerly leaned in and we exchanged the famously French bises (one kiss on each cheek) in greeting, a custom that doesn’t exist – beyond eccentric circles – in the U.S. (As much as I love hugs, definitely NOT a French norm outside the closest friendships, I absolutely prefer the intimacy and elegance of this traditional salutation.)   

An unofficial adoption ensued, as Laurence gathered her two Americans and gabbed cheerfully for the entire tram-ride to her home in Grenoble proper. From information on local swimming facilities to recent gossip about city officials, my classmate Ruth and I were treated like natives in a city we had never before seen. Laurence spoke energetically but clearly, enhancing her speech with theatrical gestures. “So this is immersion,” I thought, suddenly feeling more and more confident that I could speak more than I’d thought. Fears about not knowing enough idiomatic expressions, speaking inanely in textbook French, disappeared when I realized Laurence understood everything I said and actually appreciated my level. 

Whatever I had learned in so many years of studying French, the moment was at last upon me to make it count.