getting to know you…sunshine blogger award

One of the things I’ve most enjoyed over my year in Cannes has been gradually building up a blog readership. I sat down one day full of ideas and wrote about how speaking a second language opened my eyes to the greater absurdities of life itself. Many of you seemed to relate, sharing humorous stories and memorable experiences from all around the world. This was the post that really kicked off a community.

Thank you, truly, for reading what I have to say and leaving your thoughts and ideas and encouragement.

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Today I’ll be answering some questions about me! (In case you’re interested in learning more about The Blogger). Thanks to My Library and other Mischief for nominating me for the Sunshine Blogger Award– given, doth say the Internet, to bloggers who are creative, positive, and inspiring. I appreciate it!

SUNSHINE BLOGGER AWARD RULES:
-Thank the blogger who nominated you.

-Answer the 11 questions asked.
-Nominate 11 other bloggers and ask them 11 new questions.
-List the rules and include the Sunshine Blogger Award logo in your post.

What inspired you to start blogging?

My mother. Before I left for France for the first year, Mom encouraged me to share my experiences in writing. I already had a blog, but it was a mishmash of music I liked, some free-verse, some trips I’d taken… My mom thought I should start a new one. Knowing what a perfectionist I can be, she emphasized that it didn’t always have to be something edited and profound. “Just so we can know what you’re up to!” Little did she know (I think) the hours I would toil away on this project, striving to produce pieces that are edited and are profound (or at the very least, thoughtful and true).

My blog has kept me afloat during some challenging times. When things are hard (or funny or ridiculous), thinking about the story I’ll be able to tell makes it better. And the fact that a few people might read it and respond is a bonus: very motivating for me.

What are you most proud of?

A friend gave me a cool compliment last year. She said I was more committed to self-improvement than anyone she knew. When she said that, I realized that it is a sort of skill. When I perceive a personal flaw or weakness, I work hard to change it. “That’s just the way I am” is never something you’ll hear from me. I am proud of transforming from a fearful, miserably self-conscious teenager into the person I am today. I worked for that; it didn’t happen by accident. I am proud of the (hundreds of) times I’ve challenged myself to do things that scared me. This used to mean approaching a stranger on campus (I was cripplingly shy). More recently, that means living abroad by myself, arranging job interviews in my second language, picking myself up after rejection.

If you could meet anyone from any time period who would it be?

I like to ask people “who’s your favorite Missourian?” (If I only had a dollar for every baffled “I don’t have a favorite Missourian…”) I then inform them they could choose T.S. Eliot or Josephine Baker or Walt Disney. But I mostly bring it up as a non-sequitur so I can talk about Mark Twain. Mark Twain had humor, style, soul and wit. He toured Europe and wrote a diatribe about how bad the food was. He wrote a novel that changed the course of American literature. He provided withering and hilarious social commentary, spoke out against slavery, and had this to say about travel: “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth.”

Here is a hardcore Missourian who did anything but vegetate in his little corner of the earth. He saw the world, he unlearned the racist views he’d been brought up with in a slave state, and he used his skill with the written word for good.

(Other answers would probably skew literary as well! I would love to talk to Virginia Woolf regarding “A Room of One’s Own,” just for starters. Or artistic weirdos like Salvador Dalí).

What would you like your older self to remember when you look back on this period of your life?

I would like to remember the actual and emotional challenges of being in one’s early twenties so I am able to provide empathy and encouragement to others in the future. I am helped enormously by older women that remember what it is to be 22 or 24, adrift. Wanting everything, sure of nothing. In a few years, the problems I have now might seem laughable to me. I hope they won’t, though. Each age has its burdens, all of them valid.

Where is the last place you travelled to? Would you like to revisit it in the future?

Venice. And yes, very much so. Venice captured my imagination and won’t let it go. A city of music and water and color and drama.

What is the silliest thing you have ever seen or heard on public transport?

After two years in France, I am begrudgingly well-practiced in the art of public transit. I have occasionally been the silliest thing on public transport, I’m afraid. There is a story involving a very large, very obtrusive swan-shaped pool float on a regional train.

What book do you think everyone should read?

It’s tough to choose a single book. I’ll go with genre. I think everyone should read dystopian novels. The Handmaid’s TaleThe RoadThe Girl with All the Gifts, Fahrenheit 451… Besides being impressive and entertaining works of imagination, these books are warnings. They remind us to ask questions and retain a healthy dose of skepticism. They are parables about greed, power, ignorance, fear.

What film would you recommend watching on a rainy day?

My Best Friend’s Wedding. It is no secret I have a massive girl-crush on Julia Roberts. Since I don’t expect to run into her anytime soon, unfortunately, I have to console myself with the thought that perhaps one day I will be as cool. As charming and funny and real, even and especially when things aren’t going my way. In My Best Friend’s Wedding, our dear Julia is a hot mess, a food writer pining after the one who got away. She’ll do anything to get him back. However, her happy ending doesn’t exactly come to pass. In the world of romantic comedies, this is almost revolutionary. A story that’s funny and true, a balm for anyone who has ever been unlucky in love. Laughter helps.

What is your beverage of choice when writing?

It has to be hot. My preference is a cappuccino or really good black coffee.

Have you ever studied a foreign language? If yes which one and what are your study tips?

French, clearly. And much more recently, Italian! What works well for me: creating a personal immersion environment to foster creativity and motivation. I read books about Italy (culture, language, food). I watch Italian movies. I use Duolingo to learn new vocabulary. I listen to opera. I have speaking lessons 2-3 times a week. I have been able to take a few trips to Italy and thus have a real reason to speak the language. All of this keeps my motivation strong.

I guess my advice, condensed, is to make the language/culture a real hobby. If you sit down thinking just, “hooray. Prepositions,” there’s a good chance you’ll let it fall by the wayside. Instead, let it capture your imagination. Learn about (or meet) the people. Taste the food (recreate it at home). Dream of the places you could go and enjoy if you keep studying.

Do you prefer large or small marshmallows in your hot chocolate? 😉

This brings back sweet memories of snow days spent playing outside. Any marshmallows are just fine by me.


Now, here are my 11 questions for some other bloggers/generally cool people. (I hope this could inspire a post if you’re feeling stumped!)

What inspired you to start blogging?

What do you hope to accomplish with your blog/writing?

Have you ever experienced culture shock? 

Describe the most memorable meal you’ve ever had OR the worst date. Or both.

What is something you wish you were better at? 

What cities/countries have you lived in, and do you have a favorite? 

Where do you find inspiration? 

What is your travel philosophy?

What is something you think is completely overrated? 

What’s your drink? 

Describe a piece of art (in any medium) that changed the way you saw the world. 


Heide at HeideBlog

Haley at A World Full of Scribbles

Anne at Present Perfect

Ruth at Talk Foreign to Me

Boomer’s Baby Steps

Girls on a Train

Bola at Flâner

Arielle at Whiskey Sour Wayfarer

Diane at Oui in France

Jess at Ordinary Girl, Extraordinary Dreamer

Persephonetically

the proof is in the profiteroles: on “dieting” in france

Dieting is not an especially French activity. Nor does it feel particularly patriotic to live down the street from a small market and ignore the siren song of its milky white goat cheeses and fresh baguettes.

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But that’s what I did (or tried to) for a whole month.

All in the name of health, I did my best to follow the Whole 30 program, an eating regimen designed to “push the reset button with your health, habits, and relationship with food, and the downstream physical and psychological effects of the food choices you’ve been making.”

The simplicity appealed to me. This is a diet where the Yes is simple: eat real food.

The No, well that’s a little more complicated. No foods containing added sugar, alcohol, grains, legumes, dairy, or sulfites. At first I wondered what harm there could be in foods like chickpeas and brown rice, but Whole 30 has you eliminate the foods that commonly cause problems and could be negatively affecting you. For example, you may have a low-grade allergy to peanuts or an intolerance to dairy and not even realize it (a lot of people do). In doing so, it helps teach you a new way of thinking about eating.

When people hear “diet” they so often think of weight loss, but there are of course many other reasons to reform the way you eat. Mine were largely mental and psychological. I tend to eat when I’m sad, snack when I’m stressed, go without meals when I’m busy.

I thought of myself as healthy because I counted kale as one of my favorite foods. But when I took an honest look at my habits, I wasn’t impressed. All that kale and tahini sauce was drowned by the way I had no command of moderation. I would have a perfect eating day, and then someone would open a can of Pringles. Half an hour later, oops. The can is nearly empty and I’m fighting nausea.

In the morning before school, I spent more time putting on mascara than consuming protein and fat (both elements more likely to contribute to the success of my day than would the length of my eyelashes).

And like most people, I had my own array of little health annoyances: debilitating headaches, bouts of fatigue, and other things that might hold a connection to my eating habits. It was worth a try.

Whole 30 focuses on good fats, protein, fruit, and as many vegetables as possible. I started the program on a Sunday, rummaging through the cabinets at my friend Rémi’s house. He was going to move back to Bordeaux for over a month to finish his studies, and I would occupy his home in the time being.

“Nope, this has to go,” I tossed him boxes of cereal, a jar of Nutella, a bag of sourdough rolls. By the end of the morning he was ready to lug home ketchup and mayonnaise (because they had added sugar), a bottle of wine, a package of tortillas, several wheels of cheese, tiny cartons of cream, and a can of chantilly.

Rémi was devouring a hunk of Brie. He looked at me and for the third time, said, “You really can’t have cheese?”

“C’est qu’un mois !” I kept saying. It’s only a month.  acs_0514

His wide-eyed doubt was making me nervous, so I set off for Grand Frais, my favorite grocery store, to wander the wide rows of colorfully abundant produce. Those first-week post-paycheck groceries were a sight. Salmon and chicken and pork sausage and tuna. Mushrooms, peppers, eggplant, kale. A fresh basil plant. A huge bowl of blood oranges. Eggs, coconut milk, coconut yogurt, sweet potatoes. A papaya. acs_0270

Even Rémi could admit it didn’t look like the prison diet he’d been envisioning.

We hugged goodbye and without the devil on my shoulder, I respected the rules flawlessly for two weeks. The first breach of my new programme alimentaire happened on an innocuous Friday. That evening was a soirée entre collègues. I was looking forward to it, but as the event drew closer I had a comic moment of shock: I had agreed to eat in a restaurant–a French restaurant–during a Whole 30. What had I done? What was I going to do? The drama was real.

One “cheat” meal probably doesn’t sound like a big issue, but for two reasons, it is. The first is that Whole 30 strongly discourages bending the rules in any way, stating you can’t expect to reap the rewards of the challenge if you so much as consume a grain of sugar (for example). The second is that I have a bit of a self-control issue. “Just one episode” and I’m up half the night. “Just a little cheese” and the whole block disappears.

I wanted to respect the limitations of this “diet” so I could learn more control and thoughtfulness over what I consumed. It was all or nothing, and I wanted it to be all. Somewhere in the middle, “just doing my best,” is not a safe choice for my particular personality type. I’m either committed, you can count on it, or I’m not doing anything.

I didn’t want to give in because I was sure that meant I would just keep giving in, day after day, until there were no healthy changes left to speak of.

I thought of possible plats I could consume without derailing my progress.

On a scrap of paper I scrawled: moules frites, steak frites, confit de canard. All delicious options that should contain a minimum of wheat, dairy, sugar.

There was still the wine and bread to consider. But I would cross that bridge when I came to it. C’est parti. 

That evening the teachers carpooled to Pégomas, a little town 10km from Cannes where small farms produce roses and jasmine for Chanel. We stopped at a cozy country restaurant in an old wine cave. On était quinze, fifteen ladies decompressing after a day at school. Thursday had seen a big national strike on the part of government workers, including teachers, and the recent shooting in Carcassonne was fresh in the collective mind. This recent stress meant that the suggestion of wine from the restaurant’s propriétaire was met with actual applause.

Santé ! I raised my chilled water with gusto and escaped notice.

The restaurant was high quality, offering just a few seasonal choices scribbled on large chalkboards on the wall. I was pleased to see some options that weren’t too crazily indulgent. Comme entrée, I ordered bulgur with a poached egg, asparagus, prosciutto, and vinaigrette. For the plat, I ordered sea bream royale, a typically Provençal fish, with silky mashed potatoes and a sauce sweetened with shrimp. acs_0512

The food and conversation were both lovely. As I ate my dorade royale, I remembered our last dinner together in December and thought about how much had changed since.

Then: still a little unsure, doing my best at work but not entirely convinced, didn’t really know anyone at the school.

Now: feeling fully integrated as part of the team, proud of the job I’ve done, able to follow rapid-fire French at a big group dinner.

It came time for dessert. Slowly the propriétaire worked his way down the table, recounting the evening’s offerings in a drowsy rhythm. Tarte tatincharlotte aux poires, profiteroles. Tarte tatin, charlotte aux poires, profiteroles. 

But it stopped with my rien pour moi, merci. 

This was unacceptable.

I hoped this man would keep it discreet but no such luck. He paused, like maybe I was joking. The teachers caught on, and suddenly there were five women urging me to order dessert. “Oh, it’s just that– j’ai assez mangé,” I tried. I’m full.

Bah c’est pas grave ! Came the response. “You’ll take a bite, and if you don’t like it or are too full, you’ll leave it to share with the rest of the table! We’ll help you!”

The school’s directrice who I often see in classes at the gym, said “vas-y, Jess-i-cah. You can go to Fitlane tomorrow!” She waved her hand.

“It’s not that”– I started to protest.

“You’ll get some profiteroles, won’t you?”

“I’d say she should get the profiteroles. Bien sûr.

C’est le week-end, Jessica ! 

The man was waiting. And how could I say no? I got the sense that abstaining would be an abject rejection of team spirit.

Alors, I said slowly. “I guess I’ll be having the profiteroles.”

The order was met with cheers. acs_0513

I kind of had to thank them for the peer pressure, because these profiteroles were really good. The deep chocolate sauce was still piping hot. With the cold chantilly, it tasted like a luxury.

Later, my friend saw the picture and said “that looks like high fashion on a plate.”

At least I went out with some style.

The evening led to the development of a new plan I respected, one of my own. Chez moi, the Whole 30 rules stood.

But in public, I decided to prize social connection over maintaining a perfect diet plan. Because I think that would be missing the point.

I went on dates and had wine or cider. You can’t really agree to go out for drinks and then have a glass of water.

I had Italian aperitivo, eating a little bit of cheese with the prosciutto. I ate a pizza and relished every single bite.

But at home, I ate like a person transformed. Or transforming. And I still do, continuing my humble and nourishing meals featuring sweet potatoes, fish, steamed kale, baked chicken, and colorful vegetable soups.

Breakfast is not optional. I get healthy fat from coconut milk throughout the day. My protein intake has gone way up, powering my workouts. I drink double the water I did before. My snacks have changed from too much cheese and sugar-loaded Lindt bars to kiwis, blood oranges, dried plums, and cashews. And I actually crave and love eating all these things.

I’ve noticed a higher level of energy and a stabler mood. I don’t eat because I’m bored. I don’t overeat. Simply put, I’m a lot healthier.

In technical terms, I failed the Whole 30. Miserably. But I did find balance and learned something important: moderation is possible, even for me.

attention abeilles: hiking the massif de l’esterel

img_1742The best thing about waking up in the morning–or returning to my petit chez moi at any time of day–is the view from my balcony: the brilliant bay outlined by mountains.

I come from the part of Missouri that’s just barely not-Kansas. Deprived of elevation for so long, any hint of it makes me giddy.

Mountains comfort in their grandeur: a constant illustration of perspective. When you can see more than the neighbor’s front lawn, it’s easier to feel loosed from quotidian cares.

These particular mountains sit stoic, wrapped in a fine layer of gauzy fog. They look their best at sunset, as the dying light tinges them a deep purple. When night falls, the streetlights click on and trace a route around the base of the mountains in sparkling orange light.

These are my personal fairytale mountains. But like a shy classmate with a crush, I was content to stay a safe distance away. I didn’t even have a name for the object of my affections. All this time I’ve been here and my description stopped at: “those pretty mountains in the distance. To the right. With the red rocks.”

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It turns out I have a view of the Esterel Massif, a coastal mountain range of volcanic rock tinted brick-red by porphyry. On Sunday I asked Cécile, friend and native Cannoise, what I needed to do to get over there. Whenever I’ve hopped on a train to explore, I’ve always headed direction Ventimiglia, towards Italy. Never towards Marseille. I had developed a mistaken idea that the trains didn’t really run that way. Left unchallenged, this idea kept the mountains mysterious– and inaccessible. I’m glad I asked, because Cécile assured me that they do. She looked at the map of destinations and suggested a few. I wrote them down. I’m well-versed in the string of sparkling towns surrounding Nice, but didn’t even have names for the much more rural areas that neighbor Cannes.

It was a beautiful afternoon and I was itching to go somewhere, but the tiny train station right across the street didn’t offer rides for several hours. Fearing the sunset and the resulting chill (I was ill-dressed for a 15-degree temperature drop), I went to Villefranche-sur-Mer.

The next day, the sun again shone bright and my student canceled. It was as good a sign as any to get on the train. I picked Agay and bought a round-trip ticket for 7 euros. The next thirty minutes I was shuttled through the coast, surrounded by rocky red mountains and the deep blue sea (a preview of the hiking scenery to come).

The train spit me out in front of a tiny station and sputtered away. The station, bright red and boxy like a toy house, was dwarfed by the red rocks in the background. AGAY.

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Because I always like to spend a lot of time in adequate preparation, I picked a direction at random and started walking, googling hiking trails and train times as I did so. I was also wearing Birkenstock slides, which proved their name by causing me to slip all over the mountain. (There’s a reason I do not position myself as the Expert Traveler, source of wisdom for all practical matters).

Within five minutes I was away from the main road and headed down a promising path. It involved wooden and stone stairs and much of it felt like I was cutting through people’s backyards.

acs_0361acs_0351acs_0362acs_0363 Within twenty minutes, I had gained a lot of elevation and a panoramic view of the sea and hills. I hadn’t passed anyone else until I saw a red pickup truck parked in a field near a sign that warned ATTENTION ABEILLES. Watch out for bees. 

acs_0358An old man walked around to the truck.

Bonjour! I called out. Excuse me, but what bees? It seemed wise to inform myself in case there were giant attack bees further down the trail, or something of the sort.

It was nothing so adrenaline-inducing.

The man pointed behind the truck to a collection of beehives. I crept a bit closer and could hear the signature angry hum. Vaut mieux pas s’en approcher ! He warned. Vous risquez de vous faire piquer ! 

acs_0352 Noted. Getting stung a dozen times over wasn’t really on the day’s agenda, so I gave the bees a wide berth. Bees soon became a theme, though, buzzing shrilly about each patch of wildflowers I approached.

Ten minutes later, I came to a bench on an overlook. I stopped and read for about an hour, stopping occasionally just to fling my head back and breathe. I also furiously brainstormed picnics, my mind organizing grocery lists. If ever I found a place to have un pique-nique, this was it. acs_0330 acs_0353 acs_0329 acs_0332 The trail widened into a a red-dirt path big enough for several lanes of traffic. Tiny pebbles lay like scattered marbles on the ground, a sort of Home-Alone-style trap. In my sandals, the footwear of the hopeful and foolish, I was struggling to stay upright (much to the amusement of my fellow hikers). I wound my way up the red rock layers until I came to the point de vue at the very top of this particular mountain. acs_0356acs_0360acs_0359 acs_0350acs_0354acs_0344img_1717acs_0334 Gravity propelled my descent and I arrived where I had started in half the time. I still had 45 minutes before my train came, so I took the opportunity to visit Agay’s stretch of coastline. img_1742acs_0333 I found a rocky beach with clear water and patches of electric-green moss. Next to the bay was a campground complete with RVs, grills, and families having apéro. A man in waders headed out in the water with a bucket and a pole, surely hunting for some kind of snack from the sea.

It was a notably different crowd than on the Cannes beaches, with the luxury restaurants on the sand offering 20 euro cocktails. This felt normal, rural, a bit like a lake in Missouri. (But give me a Mediterranean bay any day.)acs_0337acs_0349acs_0346 acs_0331acs_0366acs_0365acs_0367acs_0364 It was a day well-worth 7 euros, I’ll say that much. Good things can happen when you jump on a train.

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no shortcuts: on making friends in France

One thing that makes the experience of short-term teaching in France complicated is the simple fact that it’s short-term. And the French are not.

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As an American, I’m accustomed to a sense of easy, immediate friendship. When I look back at my college years, sometimes I ache for the simplicity. How easy it was, the way I knew the rules. Like-minded, friendly students at every turn. The comfort of hanging out at Kaldi’s coffee shop over a book. I’d spend entire afternoons there, lingering over a latte. I was familiar with every other person who came in the door, enjoying a dozen little impromptu conversations a day. I made friends at my jobs, through my internship, at church groups and in classes and during study abroad.

“I love your shoes! “Want to study together next week?” “Want to get coffee?” “Want to go out with us?”

That was all it took. And you were off, headed towards friendship or at least a pleasant acquaintanceship.

In France, it might take weeks, or months, or a deep conversation for the formal vous address to melt into the warmer tu. I know the rules of the language, but what are the guidelines to becoming socially adept? It might well take even longer to master, and is decidedly less clear then studying verb tenses.

The French are loyal, adults often maintaining friendships with primary school classmates. Bonds take longer to form. But once they do, in my experience, they’re solid. People are sincere and mean what they say. I guard the occasional “I’m so happy to see you” or thoughtful compliment like something precious, a rare glimpse into the mind of a people more discreet than I will ever be by nature.

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It takes time to get to the bonding stage. In my experience, there are no shortcuts. And as I have only 7-9 months to spend in a place (twice now), the politesse and gentility, at first charming, can start to feel cold. But there are some things you can do to maximize your friendship potential.

I’m certainly no expert, and am not writing this because I have a large, thriving group of French friends my age. But I have learned a few things and cultivated a few treasured relationships. When I get a warm, thoughtful, three-paragraph text message from someone in Montluçon who I thought had forgotten me, or am offered a ride to the airport from someone I last saw two months ago, I realized I haven’t failed. I’m just learning. Here are a few lessons I’ve picked up along the way.

Don’t take it personally

It’s easy for me to feel at times like I’ve lost all my friend-making ability. Or my luck has run out. Or no one in the entire country likes me. Of course, none of that is true. It’s simply a matter of expectations. This isn’t a cozy college town filled with chatty Americans and if I expect that culture I’ll just be disappointed.

Remember where you came from

When I came back to France for my first round of teaching, I was nervous. Berating myself for every mistake. My host dad from my time in Lyon told me something so subtly wise, I haven’t forgotten it. Jess-ee-cah, you are not a French girl. You are an American girl in France. In other words, don’t be so freaking hard on yourself. Whether it’s your accent or your lack of social savoir-faire, you don’t need to be ashamed of evidence that you are different. What do you need to apologize for? Not being born into the same culture? You’re not stupid or clumsy or obtuse. You’re just foreign. And that’s really cool.

Make it a regular thing to FaceTime with friends and family. Spend an afternoon writing letters. Presumably you have a home, so don’t forget that!

Don’t mistake discretion for disinterest

As the one who is new in town, I often expect that people I meet will reach out to me. The thing is, often they tend not to. It seems strange to me, but I understand it as a form of extreme social courtesy and discretion: they don’t want to put me in the position of having to say yes when I don’t really want to. This is crazy to me. I’d love to have dinner with you! I’d love to have dinner or a coffee with just about anybody. But I’ve learned that as the open-minded, more casual American, I often have to be the one to suggest it. But if you are asked…

Say yes

Even if you’re unsure, even if you’re shy. Say yes to every opportunity (barring anything dangerous). Every dinner, every concert, every coffee, every invitation.

Create a routine

Go to the same cafe, the same vendor at the market, the same bar, the same boulangerie. Even if you don’t make friends per se, your French world will start to feel a whole lot cozier. I frequent the same few coffee shops and have made friends with a few of the baristas. One recently got me a job giving extra English lessons on the side!

Have your smartphone at the ready

Tinder, Couchsurfing, OVS (if you dare). There are a lot of ways to find interesting strangers to meet up with. Generally, I like to challenge myself to one sortie a week.

Stay busy

I joined a gym. Such a simple thing but it made a huge difference in my outlook. I love leaving school at the end of the day to go decompress with some yoga or get out of my head with a challenging dance class. If you don’t have tons of social engagements, make your own plans and keep a schedule.

Practice language exchange

Giving lessons and taking lessons is a great way to cultivate close relationships, sometimes with entire families. I give English lessons and I study Italian. It’s a bright point in my day, plus I’m practicing valuable skills.

Look for other travelers

I find the most success meeting people who also like to travel or who have lived abroad. They let you vent and ask the kinds of questions you couldn’t pose to just any local. They’re understanding and sympathetic when you accidentally “break the rules.”

Make sure your manners are up to par

Study French culture, all the tiny details. Movies are great for this. Sometimes you might realize you’ve been unintentionally causing offense! For example: I learned it can be construed as quite rude to see someone beginning to eat and not saying bon appétit. It made for quite the awkward moment when someone I knew thought I didn’t like her because I never said bon appétitShe confronted me about it, and I was completely taken aback, startled that she saw rudeness where I had definitely not intended it.

Persevere

It has taken about four months for me to be really comfortable at the school where I work. There were days where I wanted to quit, but I kept showing up and now I consider my colleagues friends, and I really enjoy my job. I speak Italian with Gabi, chat with Amandine in English, see Carole at the gym. It kinda felt like I had to prove myself–my seriousness and commitment to my job and to the school–and now that I have, I feel integrated as a member of the team.

Be open-minded

Good friends need not be exactly like you. They might be your parents’ age or your grandparents’ age or be found somewhere you wouldn’t expect. Keep an open mind!

group date on the DL: adventures in digital friendship, pt ii

When making a questionable decision, it is always reassuring to have an innocent friend to drag along with you. After several days of glumly searching On Va Sortir (a French website for platonic meet-ups), I decided it was time to act.

Over dinner one evening, I showed the website to my friend Rémi. Like me, he was immediately skeptical.

“It gets worse,” I said. I read him an article from a French dating and “séduction” website where a young reporter decided to see if love could be found via OVS meet-ups. Over a year in Paris, she went on dozens of outings.

She never found love, but she did meet a lot of strange people, and could even sort them into types. In any group, she said, there was sure to be the Divorcée, who would monopolize the evening with tales of lost love, recounting the innumerable ways her ex had wronged her. There was always the Shy One, the Weirdo, and the person who was new in town and knew not a soul.

The writer did not mince words with her OVS roast. After we finished cringing, I thought I should tell him.

“By the way, I reserved two spots for an event Friday night.”

T’es sérieuse là ? He laughed nervously.

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Ben oui, I said, cucumber cool. I knew Rémi would never do something like this alone, and I was confident that while he would complain, he would ultimately be a good sport about it. Plus, I had found an event that I thought sounded pretty fun (bowling with Bob just didn’t make the cut).

I had signed us up for a photography expedition. Participants were instructed to bring their camera and “eye.” We’d embark on a walk around the city with the objective of taking themed photos: “winter in Cannes.” Afterwards, we would get a drink and discuss everyone’s shots. There were ten spots to fill.

I teased Rémi about it for the next week. “Can’t wait for Friday when we’ll meet our new best friends!” Really, though, I was looking forward to it. If nothing else, I’d get some good photos.

The day came and I double-checked the event details. Luckily. It turned out the soirée was intended as a discussion of the photos that people had taken at the last event, several weeks ago. No need to bring my camera, in other words. And no night stroll around Cannes. We were meeting directly at the wine bar. Oops.

Somewhat predictably, Rémi tried to beg off, citing post-work exhaustion.

“Ahh, you cannot do this to me,” I said on the phone. I was straightening my hair and applying lipstick. “Pokemon” and “Dave” would be there and I needed to make a good impression.

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He groaned and sounded positively miserable, but I had come to understand, through scrolling OVS, that not showing up to an event at the last minute was an unforgivable sin. It seemed these people had ways of finding you out and getting you back. Like the Mafia.

An hour later, we stood shivering in the dark outside the wine bar, peering in the windows. Inside it was bright and cozy, but we were both buzzing with first-date nerves.

Après toi, Rémi said, holding the door. “You got us into this.”

“But…” I looked for an excuse. “You’re French! It’s less awkward for you.”

He wasn’t convinced.

The place was packed, but I didn’t see any signs advertising “group of people who just met over the internet.”

I leaned towards a bartender with gray hair and hipster glasses and said under my breath, “Um, we’re with a groupe d’OVS ?”

“A what?”

“On Va Sortir.”

“Huh?”

I wasn’t at all sure how this kind of thing was perceived in France, but it felt like a secret. My instinct was to keep it on the DL.

I cleared my throat. C’est un site de rencontre. He then proceeded to ask every group in the place if they were awaiting two strangers who just might be Rémi and I.

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We found them, a small and friendly group of five people, and exchanged cheek kisses. A pretty woman in her late 30s, Rebecca, had organized the event. An expat, she spoke with a Spanish accent and seemed completely enamored by photography. She talked like a professor, discussing the philosophical and aesthetic values that make good photos. For her, it was all about the story. I felt like taking notes.

We procured glasses of Merlot and a charcuterie plate, and then everyone took turns showing off their work via USBs and Rebecca’s Macbook.

Apart from the man sitting next to me, who showed me his collection of professional portraits, everyone was an amateur. So I was stunned to see that these photos were good.

In the series, all five of them, each person had captured Cannes in a different way, though they had all taken the same walk. The professional photographer focused on people on the street–musicians playing for euros, little kids–as well as his fellow photographers, capturing them in the midst of shooting pictures of other things.

A quiet older woman had put together a black-and-white series of what she described as Cannes ‘behind the scenes.’ She showed photographs of construction near the beach, litter, the jagged wood of a boat in need of repair. She had taken extreme close-ups of a single feather, a length of rope coiled on the sand, pigeon droppings. And they were beautiful.

I was perfectly content to sip wine, munch on salami, and admire everyone’s work. At the end, Rebecca gave her opinion on each series, explaining if she thought it worked as a cohesive set.

I was surprised and pleased by all the consideration given, this frank feedback. I’ll take passion over small-talk any day.

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I had halfway hoped for a funny horror story to share.

But there was a bigger surprise in store: I had a perfectly pleasant evening. (So did Rémi).

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I don’t think, though, that this marks the beginning of a thriving OVS-sponsored social life. I might be motivated to try again, if only the website wasn’t so clunky, archaic, and frustrating.

It’s not you, OVS, it’s me and my reluctance to spend hours clicking myself back to the late 90’s.

Better sometimes, anyway, to quit while you’re ahead.