Paris

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[This is long and rather personal so be forewarned or just skip it altogether.  There is a professional connection at the end if you make it that far.  And, yes, the picture was taken by me.]

If you’re a regular reader then you know I’m tackling French this summer.  Well, I’m starting French this summer.  It will take a good deal of time and effort to actually tackle it.  Right now I’m in Paris.  It’s Sunday night and I’m on day five of my 16-day trip.  I’m here by myself; I arrived not even knowing one to ten in French; I know nobody over here.  I meet with a private tutor each morning for three hours and am expected to do three hours of drills and study each afternoon/evening.  In between, I’m free to be a tourist.  The scene is set.

Let’s set another scene.  I don’t have a particular film or television show in mind but we’ve all seen this storyline play out.  The patient is in a coma.  The reason why doesn’t matter.  She can hear everything.  Her mind is 100% and she is in command of her intellect and her emotions.  What she has no control over is her body.  She is fully aware but can’t communicate in any way—no blink, squeeze of the hand, wiggle of the ear, zip.  People in the room talk around, about and over her as though she is not there.  She has things to say.  She wants to let them know she’s alive in there somewhere.  She is pained by the misery her condition has caused her loved ones.  She is desperate to know what decisions might be made on her behalf, in which she can’t contribute or participate.  She wants to live.

It is maddening, possibly literally.  This could drive a sane person insane.  It’s frustrating.  It’s angering.  It’s heartbreaking.  It’s even infantilizing.

It’s lonely.

It’s Paris July 2012 and it’s me.  When I first got here, I could barely manage a bonjour and a merci.  Someone taught me how to say my name so I could say it to the passport guy, the front desk clerk, the receptionist at school.  Even then, whatever was said to me I did not understand and could not respond.  With my little dictionary in hand, I could stammer out some nouns: “me, taxi, hotel”.  After three days of lessons, I can accomplish most anything if it can be started with, “I’d like…,” “I am…,” or “My name is…,” or involves counting to ten or pronouncing the vowels.  I still can’t understand any reply and can’t engage in a response.  I have a hard time even engaging in a conversation with my tutor because her English is so lacking.  I’ve been here five days and I’ve had no significant, longer than a minute, meaningful human contact.  I can’t even argue with the television.  I’ve got no English language channel.  God Bless the few people (typically in their 20’s and 30’s) who have had patience with me and/or knew a bit of English.  One taught me how to ask for a receipt.  That’ll please the Business Office.

It’s maddening, frustrating, angering, heartbreaking, infantilizing…lonely.

I don’t post this seeking your sympathy.  On the surface, what an absurd expectation.  “Oh, poor Andrew, in Paris for two weeks.  Rough life.”  As a matter of fact, when I get back, I’m sure I’ll just tell my family, friends and co-workers things like, “What a beautiful city.  Let me show you my pictures.  Can we talk about the food and champagne?”  After all, who dare complain about being in Paris for two weeks?  I go where others only dare to dream.  I’ll dazzle them with my two weeks’ worth of French: surely I’ll know a few more verbs, can complete a sentence, and maybe even count to twenty by that point.  I’ll go back to the solitude of my Rosetta Stone and look forward to it.

No, I post this in solidarity with and empathy for our international students at our schools.  They come over with varying degrees of academic and social English, based on our admissions criteria and the level of ESL support our individual schools can offer them.  But without a friend who is also from Germany or Korea or Spain or Brazil, how lonely their life might be.  I’m here for only two weeks; they’re with us for nine months.  That’s a long time to possibly go without a significant, deep, substantial, authentic exchange with another human being.  No wonder they sit together by country over dinner and speak in their own language.  I got it before.  I really get it now.   

Surely, not all are so lonely.  But surely not none.  These last five days have entirely changed my perspective on them.

Je m’apelle Andrew.