Ciao Italia, Bonjour Paris!

I'd been living in Italy for almost five months when I left Florence for Paris. I've spent a lot of time in Italy in years past, so living there comes naturally. I speak Italian well, if not with perfect fluency, and even holding long conversations about topics like politics or philosophy no longer fills me with dread. I know where to go in an Italian city to find what I need, and that isn't as straightforward as it sounds. For example, it took me several months to figure out that contact solution is purchased at the optometrist's shop, not at the grocery store or pharmacy.

Despite the fact that I've gotten very comfortable living in Italy, it didn't occur to me that I would experience culture shock coming to France. It didn't occur to me when I got off the plane, either. On my short bus ride into town, I started looking for things that were different. The architecture had changed, but that didn't immediately make me think "culture shock." Many of the differences I observed were even more superficial: advertisements for San Pellegrino got replaced by advertisements for Perrier. And some sights, like the big Pfizer building on the outskirts of town, reminded me not just of "home, Italy" but of "home, America."

The surprise really hit me when I got off the bus and set off with my luggage to try to find my apartment. My inclination was to stop someone and ask "dov'e Rue Daguerre?" but I realized with a start that I couldn't do that. This was Paris. People spoke French, not Italian. And suddenly the shock set in. I wasn't a local anymore. I didn't fit in. I didn't know how to do this. I didn't know where anything was. And worst of all, I had only English and the kindness (and thorough linguistic training) of others to rely on.

I did manage to find and enter my apartment, but I was an embarrassed mess by the time I did. It felt so.... so... American to expect people in a foreign country to speak my language. Many times I accidentally started speaking Italian, which felt even dumber and more embarrassing than speaking English. By the time I dropped my bags on the floor of my new home I was flustered and distressed. I had gotten so used to being able to navigate easily in a foreign country that I had actually forgotten what it felt like to be foreign.

If I thought back, though, I remembered this feeling. I remembered what it was like to arrive in Athens, for example, and how proud I was when I started being able to order food and ask for directions in Greek. I remembered when I first went to live in Italy and the simplest customs were mysterious sources of anxiety. And I remembered that I loved that feeling in a weird sort of way. I loved the discomfort and the challenge of having to learn how to do everything over again, starting at square one. There is a difference between traveling and living abroad, and I had been living abroad for so long that I had forgotten what it was like to travel. Maybe it was good for me to once again feel pushed outside my comfort zone.

So I braved the rain (it was pouring), bought a phrasebook, and began.

Copyright 2010 Sara Harding