Here we are, folks. The fateful night! I arrived to the airport and my travel buddy, Caroline, is beside me; we’re shoving mixed nuts into our mouths to avoid dancing through the terminal like two Fred Astaires in some kind of sad YouTube version of Funny Face. She and I are doing the Sciences Po exchange program and will soon be living together in an apartment with two other NU girls (both in the Critical Studies program).
Still at the gate in New York, I can already hear French tittering and intermingling with those familiar ambient airport sounds. You know, the melodic tones that tinkle before a muffled, heavily accented voice barks a half-intelligible announcement over the loudspeaker. Those strange indoor golf carts inefficiently groaning by. The chaotic rumble of the crowd: a mother shrieking after her child as he wanders out of sight, a couple arguing about their hotel reservations, and a pair of hyper college kids (who could both use a brush through their hair) looking like the kitties that got the cream. Amidst all the hullaballoo, I’ve been trying to pick out what I can from the hurried conversations of the French families to my left and right. One thing is becoming abundantly clear: I’m rusty. It’s making my heart beat faster and my hand start to inch reluctantly towards the copy of L’amant that I brought along as a last-ditch attempt to sweep the summer cobwebs out of the corner where my brain stores all the French.
Frankly, I’ve had nearly eight years of language class and at this level, with my impatience to become a competent speaker, the Sciences Po exchange was the ideal fit. Of course as an RTVF student, I am both nervous and excited to see the community that awaits me at a school that has educated the past three presidents of France—no doubt beyond the culture and language, there’ll be some ideological differences as well. It’s all going to be new and exciting…and I’m paralyzed with fear. But that general feeling of “yay” kind of overshadows everything and allows me some movement in my fingers for typing.
I try not to take big steps like this with rigid expectations, because I know from past experience and the human narrative that nothing pans out as you picture it. It’d be easy for me to say now, as a flippant aside to Caroline between cashews, “I’ll be fluent in French the next time I set foot on American soil!” Let’s say instead for now, so that I’m not embarrassed when I get back and run into an old French teacher, that I’d really like to converse in French confidently, and with some amount of elegance, by the time I’m back at Northwestern.
Alright, transitioning: I’d like to take this extra moment at the end of my entry to address any prospective students reading this. The Visa acquisition process was some adventure for me, so here’s a pro tip: make your appointment at the consulate as early as possible. Spots fill up very quickly and are limited, so learn from my mistakes. IPD provides incredibly helpful and detailed instructions, so I’m really just plugging them here—follow IPD gospel to the letter and it’ll all go fine!
Anyway, sorry to end on a paperwork note but it’s all very important. Signing off until next time!
Your lucky duck,
Savannah