Last Saturday night, I got the opportunity to see one of my favorite musicians in concert here in Paris. I miraculously got tickets to the sold out Bon Iver show at 5:30 pm. They went on stage at 8:30. After one of the most incredible two hour intervals of my life, I began the trek back across town to fall blissfully into my bed (where I continue to get bug bites every night despite the fact that it’s November and not humid). While walking to my first metro transfer from the boonies, I heard a good amount of English being spoken around me. There were quite a few Brits, and a good number of Americans, too. Surrounded by my native language, I realized that it was the same as it always had been. Something felt different, nonetheless. It was me. I was different. Alone in crowds of people I should have been able to identify with, I felt surprisingly alienated. It’s odd when people look at you as they’re trying to figure out if you understand them or not. I realized that they probably thought I was French. There’s no certainty in nationality unless one opens his or her mouth. After living here for such a short amount of time, I am beginning to feel the formation of a distance between myself and my American upbringing. I still have those moments (every day) where I laugh and comment on how American I am (when I roll my eyes at people kissing, yell in libraries, laugh uncontrollably, or crave 20 oz. cups of coffee). I will never escape these good old-fashioned, americana tendencies. They are a part of me. It’s interesting to feel myself change into the new tendencies, as well. France is becoming a part of me.
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