Visit from the parents

My parents came to visit me!

They were here for five or so days and we went to Paris and did a bunch of tourist stuff. We were in Paris the day of a gilet jaune protest, because it’s impossible not to be nowadays, and mom really didn’t like that but I think dad wanted to stop and interview them. We were actually on the sidewalk as about five hundred of them marched by, followed and surrounded by thirty gendarme armored trucks. Fun times!

We visited the Eiffel Tower, which gave my mom vertigo, and the Notre Dame, which I think dad could have stayed and examined for days. We walked eleven miles every day. I ordered food for them, or at least I tried to until the waiter inevitably realized we were American and refused to speak French to me. I drank a glass of wine at an after-dinner aperitif, in from of them, and mom kept muttering “this is so bizarre” under her breath. See, alcohol has never been a “thing” in the Flanary household. Neither of my parents ever, like ever, drink. But I’m in France and nowadays I have a glass with dinner every now and again. So that happened.

I picked out their hotel for them in Aix. It’s a tiny place called the Quatre Dauphins, or the Four Dolphins, so named because of an ancient fountain just outside it’s courtyard that is carved into the shape of, you guessed it, four dolphins. It’s on a quiet street, very close to centre-ville, and it also happened to be the street some of my friends live on, so I could get them to help in case of emergencies. None arose, thankfully.

I had class on the Monday and Tuesday they were here, so during the day (so they told me) they wandered through the narrow streets of the old city and sipped coffee from tiny cups. That part really got to my dad. He was really perturbed by how small the coffee cups are here. He asked me every time to tell the waiter he needed a large cup, and every time they brought him a teacup (their largest cup). He often grumbled that the first thing he would do upon returning to America would be to order a liter of coffee from Hardee’s.

My mom was a good sport about all the culture differences. She remembered and used all the words of propriety I taught the two of them (Dad just kept using Italian). She merci’d and au revoir’d everywhere we went, which is something I really recommend everyone do in France, even if those are the only two words you know.

They were intrigued and bemused by the Monoprix store, which is France’s pitiful answer to Walmart. My dad bought a stylish jacket and a stylish scarf, and my mom marveled at how cramped the place is. Which it really really is.

The first time I really got to flex my French in front of my parents was just as we exited Gare de Lyon in Paris. Two Turkish-looking fellows came up to me and asked me for directions to a train station across town, and though I don’t know much about Paris navigation, I was at least able to talk to them. When those two finally walked off, my mom slapped me on the upper arm so hard that it hurt for two blocks, and gave me a huge, proud smile. Both of them couldn’t stop talking about the brief little conversation I had offhand with some strangers. I loved it.

It was really great to see my parents. My roommate’s family visited a couple weeks before, and she told me to watch out for how homesick I would feel when they left, but I’m actually fine. It’s only a couple more weeks til I go home, and honestly I’ve gone longer in Knoxville without seeing my parents than that.

There is one lasting problem: my accent. It go so, so thick from talking to my parents in Appalachian English, and now that’s the only kind of English I can use. My French doesn’t seem too affected, but I’ve caught myself saying stuff like “see y’all Mondee!”

Related to that, one instance really stands out to me. Mom and Dad wanted to meet Malvina, and vice versa, and even wanted to take her out to dinner. I outright refused to facilitate that, because I have neither the capacity nor the patience to cross-translate entire conversations for two hours. It became clear how very much I could NOT handle doing that when they all did finally meet.

Malvina would say something in French; I would translate for parents; parents say something in English; I translate for Malvina; I try to say something to parents, accidentally use French; Malvina would say something in French, I respond to her in English, and then translate it to French for my parents; on and on this would go until I was speaking English to my hostmom and French to my parents and not making any sense to anybody.

So that’s a side effect of language acquisition: you really gotta be careful to keep everyone straight in your head, and what languages they speak, otherwise you’re going to through gibberish at people.

Anyway, finals are this week, and I really need to hunker down and study. It’s all coming to a close so fast.

Cordialement,

Allison

P.S.: You have never known true fear until you run out of toilet paper and your host mom has guests and none of them speak English and also you’re in a foreign country where they don’t keep bathroom supplies in the same place as the toilet. Speaking from experience.